Chapter 20 #2
"I am absolutely not doing that," I cut her off quickly, though I can feel my curiosity getting the better of me despite my better judgment. After a brief pause, I add, "Why exactly do you have a French maid costume, anyway?"
"I have my reasons," Maya says mysteriously, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
The bell above the door chimes with its familiar brass melody, and a rush of cold air sweeps into the shop behind Mac's large frame.
He's wearing his usual winter uniform of dark jeans and a thick wool sweater that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad, and there are snowflakes melting in his dark hair from the light dusting that's been falling all afternoon.
"Speaking of the devil..." Maya greets him with a not-so-subtle smirk, slamming her notebook shut with enough force to make both Mac and me jump.
"You two were talking about me?" Mac asks, his steel-blue eyes flicking between us with wariness. He's learned to be suspicious of our conspiratorial conversations. His gaze lingers on Maya's hastily hidden notes and my probably guilty expression.
"Just conspiring about your romantic future," Maya says with completely shameless honesty as she slides off her stool and reaches for her puffy winter jacket. "Nothing too scandalous, I promise."
She shrugs into the coat with practiced efficiency, then heads toward the door with the kind of purposeful stride that suggests she's been planning this exit strategy.
"I'll leave you two lovebirds alone to discuss the details.
I have some very important work to do on our budget projections for next quarter, and this conversation is above my pay grade anyway. "
With one last glance over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling with barely contained laughter, she adds, "But Delaney, don't completely write off the maid costume idea. I think Mac might surprise you with his enthusiasm for role-playing."
The door closes behind her with a decisive click, leaving Mac and me alone in the suddenly too-quiet bookshop with the weight of whatever she meant hanging in the air between us.
The morning sun streams through my apartment windows four days later, casting long golden rectangles across the hardwood floor as I zip up my leather duffel bag.
Excitement buzzes through my veins, making my fingers tremble slightly as I fold my conference materials into neat stacks.
After considerable convincing—and maybe some strategic kisses—I finally got Mac to agree to Date Nine: fish-out-of-water.
For the next two days, I get to show him my professional world at the New England Booksellers Conference.
"You sure you packed enough business cards?
" Maya asks from my kitchen doorway, steam curling up from the coffee mug cradled in her hands.
Her dark hair is still mussed from sleep since she rushed over this morning to see us off, and there's a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her mouth that makes me immediately suspicious.
"Only three hundred," I reply, tucking another stack into my bag's side pocket with perhaps more force than necessary.
The cards are crisp and new, printed specially for this conference with the bookshop's updated logo.
"What? This is huge for Rosewood Books. Having Mac as my plus-one is going to open doors I never dreamed of. "
Maya's eyebrow arches skeptically as she takes a slow sip of her coffee. "Uh-huh. And it has nothing to do with the fact that you get to play his girlfriend for two days in a fancy hotel."
Heat creeps up my neck, probably turning my cheeks the same shade as my burgundy blazer.
I was up half the night, my mind churning with a toxic mix of excitement and anxiety about whether bringing Mac is the right call.
The publicity aspect is undeniably amazing.
Our bet has become national news since the memorial, trending on social media platforms I don't even understand.
Everyone seems eager to catch a glimpse of us together, to make their own judgments about our unlikely pairing.
It's been genuinely life-changing for Millbrook Falls, bringing in even more tourists and attention that our struggling town desperately needed.
Which is exactly what I wanted when I made this crazy bet.
But Mac stopped being just a ticket to fame and recognition.
He's come to mean so much more to me in these past few weeks—as a friend, as a lover, as someone who sees straight through my carefully constructed optimism to the vulnerable woman underneath.
The idea of parading him around for views and book sales, the way Maya and his agent keep suggesting, makes my stomach twist with something that feels uncomfortably like shame.
It makes what we have feel cheap and orchestrated, like a performance rather than something real and precious.
"It's for the bet, Maya," I say, but my voice lacks conviction even to my own ears.
"Sure it is." Her grin widens, revealing the gap between her front teeth that she's always been self-conscious about. "Just remember to actually attend some panels instead of spending the entire weekend staring at his arms."
I grab the throw pillow from my reading chair and launch it at her head. She ducks with practiced ease, her laughter echoing off the apartment's slanted ceiling.
"He's picking me up in ten minutes," I warn, smoothing down my pencil skirt with nervous hands. "So unless you want to explain to a professional athlete why you're discussing his arms in detail–"
A car horn honks outside, sharp and impatient in the morning quiet. My stomach does flips.
Mac moved his things back to his cabin after the repairs were finished, but he's been spending every night in my bed anyway, his large frame somehow fitting perfectly into my too-small space.
The hardest part has become timing his departure each morning before anyone in town is awake enough to gossip about it.
The whole sneaking around thing feels silly and childish, like we're teenagers afraid of getting caught by our parents.
Mac has invited me back to his cabin dozens of times so we can have actual privacy, but sneaking into my own bookshop feels worse than trying to sneak him out.
Not when we're still on such fresh, unsteady ground and the media is dying for a story.
"That's him." I grab my bag and weekend suitcase, then pause at the antique mirror by my door to check my lipstick one final time. The deep red looks professional but approachable—perfect for making connections and memorable first impressions.
"Delaney." Maya's voice turns serious, losing all traces of her earlier teasing. She sets her coffee mug down on the counter with deliberate care.
I meet her eyes in the mirror's reflection. "What?"
She studies my face for a long moment, her expression uncharacteristically somber. "Be careful, okay? I know this whole thing started as a bet, but..."
"But what?" I turn to face her directly, something cold settling in my chest at her tone.
Her dark eyes are filled with concern and something that looks suspiciously like pity. "Just... be careful with your heart. I've seen how you look at him now, and I don't think this is just about proving romance exists anymore."
Before I can ask what she means and demand she explain that look on her face, the horn honks again, longer and more insistent. I kiss her cheek quickly, breathing in her familiar lavender perfume, then rush downstairs with my heels clicking against the wooden steps like an urgent drumbeat.
Mac leans against his sleek black car, and the sight of him stops me dead in my tracks halfway down the stairs.
He's wearing dark jeans that hug his legs in all the right places and a navy button-down shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders in a way that should probably be illegal.
When he sees me descending the steps, something shifts in his expression—his casual pose straightening, his blue eyes darkening as they travel slowly from my face down to my professional blazer and pencil skirt, then back up to my painted lips.
"You look..." He clears his throat, the sound rough in the morning air. "Very professional."
"That's the idea," I reply, smoothing my skirt self-consciously as I reach the sidewalk. The compliment in his voice makes my skin warm despite the chilly air. "Ready to be my devastatingly handsome accessory for the weekend?"
"Devastatingly handsome accessory?" One dark eyebrow arches in amusement, transforming his serious expression into something playful. "I like the sound of that better than 'arm candy.'"
I laugh despite the nervous flutter in my chest, the sound bright in the quiet morning. "Don't let it go to your head, Sullivan."
He opens the passenger door with an exaggerated bow that's so perfectly him—teasing but genuine, confident but not arrogant. "Your chariot awaits, Ms. Caldwell."
The gesture sends my heart into that stupid little skip it's been doing whenever he does something unexpectedly sweet. I slide into the buttery leather seat, breathing in his cologne mixed with the new car smell and something indefinably Mac that makes me want to curl up against his side.
"So, what's the game plan?" He asks as we pull away from Main Street, his large hands sure and steady on the steering wheel.
"Do I need to pretend I understand the difference between literary fiction and commercial fiction?
Because I have to warn you, I'm still figuring out the difference between romance subgenres. "
"Please don't pretend," I say quickly, pulling out my carefully organized conference schedule.
"I'd rather you just be yourself. That's the whole point of this trope—showing you something completely outside your world.
" I scan my notes, trying to ignore how good he looks in profile.
"Panel on independent bookstore marketing at ten, then lunch with some regional buyers, followed by a workshop on social media engagement, and tonight there's a cocktail reception where–"
"Delaney."
Something in his tone—lower, more serious—makes me look up from my papers. His hands grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles white against the black leather, and there's tension in his jaw that wasn't there a moment ago.
"What's wrong?" I ask, folding the schedule in half.
He glances at me briefly before focusing back on the road, his profile sharp against the morning light streaming through the windshield.
"It's just… I'm not going to remember half of that.
I'll probably say the wrong thing or look confused when someone talks about market trends or whatever. But I want to be there anyway."
The sincerity in his voice catches me completely off guard, making my chest tight with something that might be affection or might be something much more dangerous. "That's okay."
"Thanks for letting me tag along," he continues, his voice softer now. "I know this is important to you, and I know having me there might complicate things. But I want to see this part of your life."
The confession hangs between us, vulnerable and honest in a way that makes me forget how to breathe properly.
I want to tell him that he's not just tagging along, that having him there means more to me than any networking opportunity or publicity boost. I want to say that at some point, he stopped being a means to an end and started being… everything.
Instead, I reach over and cover his hand with mine, feeling his fingers relax slightly under my touch. "You're not going to say the wrong thing. And even if you do, I don't care. I just want you there with me."
His sharp inhale is barely audible, but I catch it. The air in the car shifts, becoming charged with the tension that's been crackling between us for weeks now—this magnetic pull that makes it hard to be in the same room without gravitating toward each other.
"Look, Delaney–" he starts, his voice rougher now.
But he never gets to finish the sentence.
The truck runs the red light at what must be fifty miles per hour, a massive wall of steel and momentum that appears in our intersection like something out of a nightmare.
One second, I'm looking at Mac's profile, thinking about how his eyes crinkle when he almost-smiles and how much I love the sound of my name in his voice. The next, the world explodes in a symphony of crushing metal and shattering glass that drowns out every other sound in the universe.
Time fractures into a series of disconnected moments:
Mac shouting my name, his voice raw with terror.
The sickening crunch of impact as tons of metal collide.
My body thrown against the passenger door like a ragdoll, my head snapping sideways hard enough to make stars burst behind my eyelids.
Glass everywhere, glittering like deadly snow as it rains down around us.
The acrid smell of smoke and something burning.
Mac's hand reaching for me across the wreckage, blood streaming down his face from a cut above his eye.
Then darkness swallows everything whole.