Chapter 2
Hailey
Internally, I am having a breakdown.
And for multiple reasons.
One: I have spent weeks—weeks—scouring the depths of the internet to plan the perfect bachelorette party for the woman I have been best friends with since we were kids, because she has chosen me as her maid of honor, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do my role justice.
I have read countless articles and blogs on different activities on offer in Las Vegas; I’ve carefully scrutinized reviews of restaurants and bars; I’ve typed up a very cute, very aesthetic itinerary and printed a copy for each of us girls.
Hell, I spent an entire afternoon alone just booking this fifteen-minute limo ride to our hotel—and I’m only now finding out that my efforts were in vain, because Adelaide’s fiancé is bringing his own bachelor party to Vegas, and that means all of my plans now need to be altered.
And I don’t handle change of plans well.
So, I am already freaking out as things are, catastrophizing inside my head, second-guessing every possible outcome for the weekend, when my phone vibrates in my purse and gives me a second reason to spiral into a complete and utter meltdown.
As we climb out of the limo at the drop-off entrance to the Cosmopolitan and our chauffeur gathers our luggage, I totally zone out.
My attention is laser-focused on my phone in my hand as I read the email.
Again, and again, and again, until my eyes glaze over in disbelief and my heart skips every second beat.
This very email is the email I have dreamed of receiving for years.
Most of my life, in fact. So of course—of course—I finally receive it at the worst possible time, and I want to scream.
But not a terror-stricken scream (although I’m borderline close), but a high-pitched screech of joy as I dance on my tiptoes and twirl in circles.
Is this really happening? After so many years of hoping and praying and hitting roadblock after roadblock, is this finally it?
One more time, I scan the email.
Dear Hailey,
I know you’re out of town this weekend, but I have some incredible news that just can’t wait until next week. I need action on your part, so please give me a call when you read this!
The team at Hutchison Press got back to me first thing this morning, and they loved the manuscript.
LOVED IT. But—and I am so sorry to do this to you!
—they have requested an alternative ending from you before they’re prepared to consider an offer.
They have been transparent and told me they have a very similar project from another debut author on the table with them at the moment, too, so unfortunately we have a bit of competition on our hands now.
They will make a final decision on Monday and have asked if we can get a rewritten ending over to them ASAP.
As I said, I know you’re out of town, but this is huge, Hailey, and I really hope you can pull it off. You’re a superstar, so I have every faith in you.
Call me!
Best wishes,
Samantha
I toss my phone into my purse and swallow the bulging lump of despair in my throat.
Thank goodness I brought my laptop with me—I was worried my phone would somehow get stolen and I’d lose access to all of the booking confirmation emails for the events I have planned—because I would be absolutely screwed if I had no access to my manuscript right now.
“Hailey!” Adelaide calls, and when I snap out of my paralyzed state of panic, I realize the rest of the bachelorette party have already set off inside.
“Coming!”
I dash after them to catch up, and as we cross the huge registration lobby of the Cosmopolitan, its sophisticated glamor distracts me enough to extinguish the burning flames inside my brain.
In awe, we weave our way around artistic digital displays on huge pillars, over the sparkling tiled floor and into the long check-in line.
The Cosmopolitan is chic and contemporary and luxurious and I could legitimately cry just recalling the price we paid for our rooms, but it’s known for its youthful crowds and prime location in the center of the strip.
It’s also the only hotel on Las Vegas Boulevard with balconies, and as Adelaide is getting married, I am obviously pulling out all the stops for my best friend.
“I know we haven’t even seen our rooms yet,” Melissa says, “but I have a seriously good feeling that they’re going to be amazing. Just smell this place.” She enthusiastically inhales the crisp, intoxicating fragrance of the hotel.
“This is taking forever,” Evie complains as she rests a hand on her hip and impatiently scans the line at the check-in desk. “The slot machines are calling. I have a strong gut feeling there’s a huge win in store for me. I just . . . feel it.”
Addy skeptically cocks a brow at her sister.
I’ve grown up with Addy, which means I’ve also grown up with Evie, and they are like chalk and cheese.
Not in their looks, though—they are both natural blondes with contrasting dark, thick eyebrows and sharp jawlines and perfect noses, and to top off their supermodel features, they have the height too.
God was feeling gracious the day he created the Sinclair siblings, because their genetics are insane, and they belong on the runway.
Their personalities, however, couldn’t be more different.
Addy has all the traits of the first-born daughter—she’s almost too responsible, thrives on perfectionism, and always puts others before herself.
Evie, on the other hand, has all the traits of the youngest sibling.
She’s extroverted and loves attention, pushes boundaries and takes more risks, and dare I say it—she’s spoiled.
But she’s also intelligent, has incredible wit, and was very generous with her hugs when my high-school boyfriend who I was convinced was the love of my life unceremoniously dumped me in junior year.
So, knowing Evie the way I do, I share Addy’s hesitations when it comes to letting her run wild in Las Vegas.
She’s only just turned twenty-one. She’s a baby.
But I also no longer have the mental capacity to take care of the weekend’s schedule or Evie, because I have my own priorities now, and I have to be a little bit selfish if I am to stand any chance at all of making my dreams come true.
After Addy’s bombshell news, how the hell do I now casually drop it into conversation that I need to work?
I don’t want Addy to question just how much I value our friendship, and I can’t bear to have Evie scoff at me for being boring, and I just know Melissa will claim that if she’s capable of leaving behind her husband and young daughter for a few days, then surely I’m capable of putting the laptop away for one weekend.
I fear they won’t understand the magnitude of my predicament.
And I am dying to call Samantha to discuss.
“Looks like this line isn’t moving fast anytime soon,” I say, wondering who will be the first to catch my eye. Of course, it’s Addy, so I focus on her. “I need to make a super quick call. I’ll be right back, okay?”
When she nods, I seize my opportunity and duck out of the growing line for check-in.
It’s my first time in Vegas, but I have been forewarned by several of my coworkers back at the dental office that the hotel resorts out here are insurmountably huge and sprawling, and I very quickly realize just how much truth there is to such statements when I spend five minutes trekking through the hotel in search of a quiet spot.
It’s like a freaking mall in here. I can’t believe how many restaurants and stores and bars there are in this one hotel, and I must be nearing the casino floor, because I can hear the jingle of slot machines and the cheers of delight over winning bets.
I find a secluded corner away from the main thoroughfare and dial Samantha’s number.
As I wait for her to pick up the call, I nervously chew on the polished French manicure I had done for the weekend.
Sam is my literary agent, and working with her was a dream in itself.
I don’t even want to think about how many slush piles my work ended up in before Sam saw the potential in my writing, and I sobbed—sobbed—the day she offered to represent me and saved me from the querying trenches of hell.
That was eight months ago, and we have sent my work out on submission to many, many editors at different publishing houses since then without much luck. Until now.
“Hailey!” Sam says. “How was the flight to Vegas? Have you had a chance to check your emails?”
“Samantha,” I say abruptly, “please tell me you’re kidding. Please tell me this isn’t actually happening right now. Please, before I suffer a cardiac arrest.”
“It’s happening!” Sam confirms, and I brace myself against the wall in disbelief.
“I’m absolutely confident that Hutchison Press will jump on this, Hailey, if we can just rework the last two chapters.
The editorial team have nothing but praise for your writing voice, and believe you display all of the hallmarks for becoming a household name in the romance genre.
But—and we always knew this was a possibility—they believe the ending is too great a risk for a debut author.
A romance debut without the happily ever after is always going to be controversial.
If you want to stick to your guns, we absolutely will and I’ll back you all the way, but if you’re willing to work on some of the alternative endings we’ve discussed previously, I think you’re in with a real good shot here. ”
Samantha is based in New York City, like so many literary agents and publishing houses are, and I fantasize of one day hitting The New York Times’ bestseller list, quitting my job as a dental hygienist, buying a cozy apartment in Manhattan, and spending my afternoons in coffee shops listening to my curated playlists while I work on my latest romance.
That’s rather unattainable, though, and is a one in a million kind of thing—but locking down a publishing deal, having my work on the shelves of Barnes & Noble, selling a modest amount of copies and having a handful of people show up to my signing events is within the realms of achievable.
If, and only if, I can somehow find a way to fit rewriting two chapters into an already jam-packed weekend.
“I’ll do it,” I splutter in between all of the thoughts racing through my mind. “I’ll shelve the original ending for now and rework it. I’ll get the new manuscript over to you by Sunday evening. Monday morning at the absolute latest. I promise.”
“You’ve got this, Hailey. Your mind works in brilliant ways,” Sam says, and a lump of emotion catches in my throat. “Call me any time you wish to talk things through, okay? I’ll be available all weekend.”
“Thanks, Sam,” I say, swallowing hard. “Mostly thank you for believing in me.”
“You sound like you’re about to cry, and you can’t cry in Vegas. Try and have some fun in between the writing, okay?”
I manage a laugh and then nod as though she can see me. “Okay, I’ll try.”
Hanging up the call, I blink slowly at the floor and tune out the relentless soundtrack of the casino a few feet away.
I’m here in Vegas for the next three days, but I know I can do this.
If there is one thing I’m good at, it’s getting things done.
When I am focused on something, it becomes a hyper fixation, and I don’t rest until I’ve achieved whatever it is that I’ve set my mind to.
I just need zero distractions, and that may prove difficult on a bachelorette party in Las Vegas—and a bachelorette party I’m in charge of, no less.
There will be some serious multi-tasking required from me for the next few days, but as long as nothing too far out of my control crops up, I’m pretty sure I can handle it.
I can do this.