22. Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Paige slid into the Uber, the door clicking shut as Ethan closed it for her.
She managed a smile—although her heart wasn’t in it and he could probably see that—and gave him a finger wave.
He nodded and waved back before turning and escaping into the crowd on the sidewalk.
As he disappeared, she noticed him clutching the worn journal in his hand like something sacred.
And it was. He was, too. Which was exactly why she’d said “Yeah. Sure. Okay.” Even though her heart was screaming No.
Each word had been like glass in her throat.
Why couldn’t she sum up and spit out what she really felt?
Fears, feelings, wants—they were all dammed up inside her.
Paige sighed, slumping back against the seat.
Why could she gorge her feelings on the page, but choke on every syllable when it mattered most?
She could’ve said so many things.
I want more.
You’re not just a friend.
None of this is fake for me . . . not anymore.
Take me in your arms, RIGHT NOW!
Even a laugh—light and awkward—might’ve broken the moment open enough for her to speak the truth. But she’d stood there, paralyzed.
The Uber merged into traffic, and Paige leaned forward, dropping her face into her hands. She had her father’s birthday dinner this weekend. Ethan was supposed to come as her boyfriend. As part of the act.
She groaned into her palms. She couldn’t do it.
Not now. Not when the pretending felt more painful than the truth. She wasn’t strong enough to fake being the thing she actually wanted to be. His .
She’d rather face the wrath of questions from her family than torture herself like that.
Reluctantly, Paige pulled out her phone, her chest tight as she opened her message thread with Ethan. Her fingers hovered over the screen. She had to let him off the hook. Dinner wasn’t about a clue or the book. It wasn’t part of the deal. And Ethan had made it clear where he stood.
But the ache in her heart whispered something else entirely.
The next day, Paige sat in the Yachty Café.
She shifted in her seat for the hundredth time, tapping her fingers on her laptop and glaring at the foam heart on the latte the waitress had just delivered, as if the drink had personally offended her.
Yacht Rock blared overhead. Someone was crooning about lost love, which felt aggressively on the nose.
The café buzzed around her with the clatter of mugs, the screech of milk steamers, and half a dozen people talking far too loudly on Bluetooth calls. Usually, the chaos at this café worked for her. The noise short-circuited the overthinking part of her brain and let the creative part run wild.
But today?
Today, every lyric was a taunt. Every sip of chai tasted like cardboard.
Every single word she tried to type came out wrong.
She’d reworked the same paragraph three different ways and hated them all.
With a groan, she slumped against the back of the booth and stared up at the anchor-shaped light that dangled over the table.
Suddenly, she wondered what it would be like to sink to the bottom of the ocean, where it was silent and dark.
Oh, to be a big hunk of heavy metal that couldn’t feel the disarray of emotions streaking through her chest.
She needed a break from her own brain, because it was a traffic jam of thoughts and emotions.
When she wasn’t thinking about Ethan—how she’d pulled away at the rink, how she’d pushed him away after—she was obsessing over the riddle.
The last clue. Because if nothing else, she wanted to help Ethan finish what his grandfather had started.
She wanted him to find the necklace. She wanted to give him something that mattered.
Sitting up, Paige dragged her notebook closer and jotted down another theory.
The riddle referenced time, so she’d made a short list of landmark clocks around Chicago.
The Marshall Field’s clock at Macy’s. The Tiffany dome and clock at the Cultural Center.
And Union Station’s Great Hall. She circled the last one.
That massive, bustling train station. That gorgeous, sentimental clock.
She could practically picture Ethan’s grandparents there, sharing a long goodbye, or running into each other’s arms after too much time apart.
That line in the clue: “ Where my love still dares to keep.”
Staring at her notes, she had an intense urge to call Ethan, to race to Union Station, to meet him under the clock, where they could find the clue together and then hug and kiss and make everything right again.
I want him there for everything.
The thought slipped in, uninvited but true. She slumped forward, resting her forehead on her notebook, hoping the fresh ink didn’t transfer to her face. But also, not caring if it did.
What was she doing?
Yesterday, in a moment of panic and self-preservation, she’d sent him that stupid text—letting him off the hook for dinner with her parents. She’d told herself it was the right thing to do. That she was protecting her heart and his. But if she was being honest . . .
It just made her feel worse.
With a huff, she straightened and pulled her laptop close. Get it together, Moon. You have a book to write and a contract to fulfill. If nothing else, she could lose herself in edits for a while. Even if her heart and mind were in complete turmoil.
Paige opened the shared Google Doc, determined to accomplish something. She could dive into edits for the scene where Aldean and Mary Anne confront the jewel thieves. There was action. Suspense. A total lack of romantic vulnerability—which was exactly what she needed.
But as she scrolled through that chapter and the next, her attention was caught by Ethan’s comments.
They were peppered throughout like little digital ghosts coming back to haunt her.
The first time she read them, she might’ve laughed, rolled her eyes, or even grumbled out loud.
But now, reading them again, knowing what she knew and feeling what she felt, they landed differently.
And she picked up on a pattern in Ethan’s comments.
Ethan : Can we push Mary Anne to open up a little more here? She’s still guarded, and the hero’s trying.
Ethan : Let her be raw here. It’ll make the next beat land harder.
Ethan: This is good, but I think she’s still holding something back. What’s she afraid he’ll see?
At the time, Paige thought Ethan was being a perfectionist. Over-editing. Nitpicking. But now . . .? She saw something else.
He hadn’t just been editing her writing or her character. He was asking her to dig deeper. To be honest. And she had. Slowly. Grudgingly. With pecking fingers and a racing heart. He’d pushed her character to be vulnerable, to stop hiding her true self.
Paige gasped. She sat back, her shoulders pressing against the leather booth. Her pulse was unsteady, and her gaze flicked across the chapter on her glowing screen. The story she and Ethan had written together. The banter, tension, and emotional beats felt . . easy and real. Honest.
She’d poured so much of herself into Mary Anne’s character. The walls. The sass. The way she used sarcasm as a buffer. How she wanted to be loved, but never quite trusted that it would last.
You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
And she’d said nothing. She’d panicked and pulled away.
Then, like a coward, she’d given him an out. Told him he didn’t have to come to dinner. She’d tried to make it easier for him to walk away. Even though she wanted nothing more than for him to stay.
Paige clicked into the comment tool, her hands trembling. She scrolled back to Chapter Eleven—the scene where their characters almost kissed—and typed.
Paige: This part hit me hard today. You were right to push me. I didn’t want to let the heroine be vulnerable because . . . I was scared to be vulnerable too.
She moved to the next chapter—one of Ethan’s favorites—and left another note.
Paige: The way you wrote the hero here . . . it gutted me. I wish I’d told you that the first time I read it. So here it is now: I loved it. I love the way you write emotional truth.
Then she scrolled to the final chapter they’d just finished. Paige stared at the blinking cursor for a long moment, her breath shaky. And then she typed.
Paige: What are you doing later tonight? I’ll be at my parents’ until dinner wraps up, but . . . I’d really like to see you after. I want to talk. Really talk. I’ve got stuff I need to get off my chest.
She hit “comment” before she could chicken out.
Then she leaned back in the booth, heart thundering like a train rattling down the tracks.
She wasn’t sure what Ethan would say. But for the first time in days, she wasn’t stuck. She wasn’t hiding. She’d finally opened the door.
Now she hoped he still wanted to walk through it.