Even After This

Chapter 1

The elevator doors slide open to the exquisite Penrose Room, and for the first time in four years, I question if I’m some kind of masochist widow. My colossal baby step out of hiding no longer seems like a good idea.

Mustering shaky confidence as a party of one, I press my shoulders back and enter one of the most romantic restaurants in the country. My smile threatens to falter at the sight of couples adorned in sparkling cocktail attire swinging around the parquet dance floor, their faces radiating delight.

“Hello,” I say to the ma?tre d’. “My name is Meredith Harper, and my reservation is for seven o’clock.”

“Hello, Ms. Harper.” The kind smile complements the grandfatherly appeal of the stout older gentleman.

He types into his workstation and stares at the screen.

For a moment he appears puzzled, then masks his reaction and pulls on the cuff of his tuxedo.

He shoots a compassionate glance at me, pauses, and returns his focus to his monitor.

While eating alone in the Colorado Springs AAA Five Diamond restaurant must be rare, I can’t imagine I’m the first. Confusion joins my jittery nerves, and I shift from my left foot to my right.

“Let me check on your table,” he finally says.

Just as he turns to leave his stand, a woman bursts into the lobby from the kitchen, bringing with her the sound of clanging pots and the piquant aroma of gourmet cuisine.

“Will you please check to see if the Wilsons have arrived?” she asks the ma?tre d’.

The second her gaze hits mine, she halts midstep.

The navy pantsuit tells me she doesn’t work for the Broadmoor Hotel, but her clipboard and sharp hand gestures show she’s a woman of authority. Who is she?

The ma?tre d’ shifts so his back is to me, blocking my view of the fierce woman. My proximity only allows me to decipher pieces of their discussion.

I hear the words “VIP” and “special circumstance” in his low voice.

“That will not work” is her reply. She darts an icy glance in my direction.

Are they talking about me?

My aching feet match my insecurity in uncomfortableness.

I lift my right foot out of its shoe to relieve the pressure on my toes.

These new heels are supposed to be part of tonight’s leap off the comfort zone of my couch.

Now I want to throw on my running shoes and hightail it back to Texas to sink into the safety of my pedestrian life.

A tall, well-built man saunters in from the dining room and steps close to the woman. “Penelope, I found Drew Wilson and got him squared away with tonight’s schedule. Everything else okay?”

Decked out in a fitted charcoal suit and an azure dress shirt with two buttons undone and no tie, he oozes masculinity. No skinny pants for this guy. The tousled dark toffee hair and matching rich eyes are entirely too mesmerizing.

Why does he look so familiar?

I comb through the Rolodex in my brain while the three talk in hushed tones. Every so often, one of them peeks over at me.

Despite my irritation that I geared up for tonight’s emotional challenge, I should tell them I can reschedule.

My wobbly ankles make walking with mettle in these trendy shoes difficult, but I make an approach. “Excuse me. Is everything all right?”

The group’s full attention is intimidating. The ma?tre d’ offers a pity-filled smile. Blue Suit Lady squints at me. I don’t dare look at Handsome Man.

“My apologies, Ms. Harper.” The ma?tre d’ bows his head. “The hotel made an unfortunate error. The restaurant is booked for a private event this evening. At the same time, my computer also shows your VIP reservation.”

“VIP?” I ask.

Blue Suit Lady taps a fingernail on her clipboard. “A memo—”

“Everyone at the Broadmoor is a VIP.” The ma?tre d’ raises his voice the appropriate amount to regain command of the conversation. But I want to know what she was going to say.

What is she talking about, a memo? Something’s not adding up here. I glance at each person in the group. This crew could be cousins of the Seven Dwarfs. Regretful, Seething, and Charming all wait for my reply.

“I’m sorry. I made the reservation a while ago, but I can come back another time. I’m here for five days.” Bracing for tonight was difficult enough. Please don’t make me come back.

“Thank you for the offer.” Blue Suit Lady dismisses me with a sharp nod.

Handsome Man places his hand on her arm. “Penelope, it’s fine.”

He must possess superpowers because the vein in her forehead disappears and her face transitions to resignation.

Handsome Man shifts to me. “Penelope did an excellent job planning our event for this weekend. The good news is we can spare a table for you tonight.” He sweeps his arm toward the room. “Please stay and enjoy dinner.”

“Really? Oh, goodness. Thank you.” My sigh of relief is louder than I intend. If I stay, I get this social experiment over with now. If I go, I’ll have to do all of this over again.

Worse, I’ll have to find another outfit.

“Thank you so much. I promise, you won’t even notice I’m here.”

Penelope returns my peace offering with a blank face.

Once the ma?tre d’ settles me into my high-backed booth, I gaze over the Penrose Room.

My view of the live band and dance floor is unhindered.

The open semicircle seats allow guests to sit next to their dining partners instead of across from them.

But my solitary status places me at the center of the plush leather cushion.

I recall previous trips to this historic hotel and the familiar burgundy, royal blue, and golden hues that cover the room in luxury.

As if it remembers I’m returning to the restaurant, this time without my husband, the opulent booth welcomes me back into the safety of its cove.

But sitting alone isn’t for sissies. I can almost feel curious stares aimed in my direction.

When I lean forward to unravel my swan napkin, I catch someone approaching the table in my peripheral vision.

“I owe you an apology.” Handsome Man, wearing a sheepish smile, moves to stand in front of my table.

“You didn’t need to accommodate me. My schedule is flexible this week. I could have come back.” I try to hold his stare, but it feels like I could drown in those beautiful deep brown eyes, and I’m not sure I want to go swimming yet.

“Our group is a little high-maintenance.” Handsome Man shrugs, but instead of making him appear boyish, the gesture exudes calm confidence. “I didn’t want to ask the hotel to make one more exception for us.”

“Yeah, but double-booking is their mistake.”

“Agreed. However, I’m confident you can behave yourself.”

I ignore the gleam in his eye and nod to where Penelope stands, her clipboard hugged to her chest as she surveys the room. “Your friend might not agree with you.”

Handsome Man glances over his shoulder. “Penelope? Her heart’s in the right place. She’s my assistant, and the details for tonight kind of fell in her lap. I told her a bad joke and made her laugh, so that should help.”

“A bad joke?” My tone feigns offense, but I add with a smile, “Is that how you always deal with women?”

What am I doing? My attempt at flirting was not only rusty but a complete surprise to me. I want to disappear.

The man’s eyes flash, and he breaks out a roguish grin. “No. Sometimes I ask them to dance.”

Wait. What?

Does he mean me?

“I’m sorry.” I tilt my head. “I didn’t catch your name?”

He studies me for a beat, and his grin shifts into a blinding smile. “I’m Harlan Holcombe.”

Oh no. I cover my face with my hands and start rocking back and forth, shaking my head. Invisibility seems impossible at this point. Can I will myself into spontaneous combustion? “No, no, no.”

“You’re going to be fine.” His playful tone belies the seriousness of the situation.

I rub my temples. “You’re Hercules.”

“No, I’m not.” His words break through a chuckle.

“Yes, you are.” I snap my head up. “I saw it.” Hyperventilating is a real threat at this moment. Of course he looked familiar.

Harlan Holcombe, the Hercules of Hollywood’s silver screen.

Which is bad enough.

But he’s also Harlan Holcombe, the Hercules of hometown heroes.

Two weeks ago, he saved a teenage girl from drowning in a river. A bystander posted the event on YouTube, and it went viral within two hours. His celebrity status took on a superpower of its own and skyrocketed through Social Media Bizarro World and straight to Planet Infamy.

My teenybopper niece wore her “Vote for Hercules” shirt the last time we were together. I’ve done my best to avoid Harlan’s rescue video, but it’s impossible to go to the grocery store without seeing this man’s face plastered across the magazine aisle.

I place my elbows on the table and rest my forehead on my fingertips. My brow is sweating.

Is thirty-six too young to get the vapors?

He puts his weight on his hands and leans into the table. “Are you okay?”

Cringing, I look to him and whisper, “I’m not allowed to talk to famous people.”

The confession earns me a deep, barking laugh. “I’m not that famous.”

“Really?” I rub my sweaty palms on my dress. “Various social media outlets continue to spread a nationwide petition for you to be People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive.”

“Magazines get recycled to line the bottom of cat litter boxes.” He flashes the same grin I saw splashed across the airport bookstore stands earlier today. “And why aren’t you allowed to talk to famous people?”

My shoulders slump as scenes of my most embarrassing moment flash through my mind. “It’s a long story involving a book-signing event.”

He shakes his head and chuckles. “Meredith? Is that right?”

“Yes.” I exhale.

“I tell you what, Meredith. I’m going to order you a drink. All right?”

Dabbing my forehead with my napkin, I peek up at him. “Can you make it a double, but nonalcoholic? Sugar is my preferred coping mechanism.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He raps his knuckles on the table twice. “Then get ready for that dance.”

I blink. “What?”

But Harlan Holcombe is already walking toward the bar.