Chapter 38
Hailey
One Year Later
Every single evening at three minutes past seven, Theodore Sinclair clangs his head against the metal bar that sits too low above the door of our condo. I hear him curse expletives under his breath, like he does every night, and roll my eyes from the couch.
As the door opens and he steps inside, he rubs a hand over his forehead. His gaze finds mine from across the room and he instantly cracks into laughter.
“I can’t believe maintenance still haven’t fixed that yet,” he says. “I’m going to call them again.”
“Okay, but first,” I say, patting the spot on the couch next to me, “come here.”
Theo moves across the condo and sinks down next to me, slouching back against the cushions, legs stretched out in front of him.
Even though he was recently promoted to project manager and is less hands-on with the physical labor these days, I still take his hand and work my fingers over his palm, massaging away the long, grueling day of construction like I’m all too used to doing.
There are specks of dirt along his muscular arms, dust on his nose.
He smells like musk, earth and sunscreen—my favorite scent in the world after missing him all day.
“That feels nice,” he hums, closing his eyes and resting his head back on a cushion.
“I have some amazing news, Theo.”
I sit next to him, cross-legged, vibrating with excitement.
This morning, I received the most unbelievable phone call from Samantha.
I had to survive an entire day at work, keeping the mouths of Boca Raton’s locals pearly white and clean, without screaming my news to everyone I encountered.
Since I got off work two hours ago, I have patiently counted down the minutes until Theo joined me.
“Oh?” he says, cranking one eye open.
I stop massaging his hand, squeezing it hard instead. “Sam just sold the French translation rights,” I tell him with an air of disbelief in my own voice, “and as part of the deal, the French publishing house are flying me out to Paris in the spring for publicity upon the book’s release.”
Theo’s other eye pops open and he jolts upright, lips parted in amazement. “You’re going to fucking Paris?”
“No,” I say, manic grin stretching. “We are going to Paris. We’re going to see the real Eiffel Tower, eat snails, and try to convince the French public that my book is worth reading.”
“This is incredible, Hails!” he says, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me in close, kissing the crown of my head. “And your book is worth reading! Especially the sex scenes!”
I’d have been lost without Theo this past year.
As I worked late into the night on my editorial rounds, he kept me fueled with cups of coffee.
When I wasn’t convinced the cover Hutchison Press first proposed fully captured the essence of my book, Theo helped me see it from a different perspective.
When I was overwhelmed and burnt out, Theo called Samantha on my behalf and asked for a deadline extension.
Next week, my book finally debuts here in the US.
Sam is flying into Boca for the launch party—a low-key event with family and friends at an artisan cafe down by the beach.
I definitely won’t be abandoning the day job anytime soon or begging Theo to move to New York with me (yet), but an all-expenses-paid business trip to Paris is more than I could have ever dreamed of.
Wrapped up in Theo’s arms, I glance over at the refrigerator. Printed, laminated and stuck to the fridge with a magnet is his mugshot from Vegas. He’s such a grump in that photo, with a bruised, swollen cheek and ruffled hair. It’s my favorite picture of him to ever exist.
With a teasing smile, I ask, “Hey, do you think France will even let a criminal like you in?”
Theo scoffs, then whacks me in the face with a cushion, smothering my laughter.