Chapter 12 #3
I lean across the bed, snatch the envelope, and plop down on the edge of the bed. The envelope is heavier than I expected. Thick. Official. It makes a very crisp tearing noise when I slide my thumb under the flap.
The letter is printed on heavy cream-colored cardstock—the expensive kind that makes you feel important just holding it. Stratton Publishing logo embossed at the top.
Dear Ms. Chloe Dawson,
I am writing to personally extend an offer for your manuscript, Sparkle, the Dragon. Your voice is exactly what we’ve been searching for in our children’s literature line, and I believe your work has the potential to resonate deeply with both parents and children alike.
After careful consideration, Stratton Publishing would like to discuss the potential of a five-book deal with the following terms:
·Advance of $5,000 for the first book, payable upon contract signing
·$10,000 per book upon successful completion and acceptance
·Eight-month delivery schedule for the finished collection
·Standard royalty terms as outlined in the attached contract
·World English rights with subsidiary rights to be negotiated separately
We envision releasing your books in rapid succession to build momentum and establish your presence in the market. The first book would be scheduled next fall, with subsequent releases every four months.
While this is an aggressive timeline, we believe your talent and the commercial appeal of your writing style make this an achievable goal.
Please review the attached contract proposal and reach out to us with any concerns you may have. We would appreciate your response within the next two weeks, as we are hard at work acquiring titles for our upcoming publication year.
I look forward to welcoming you to the Stratton family.
Sincerely,
Milo Brooks
Chief Executive Publisher
Stratton Publishing
I blink. Hard. Read the letter again. This is…this isn’t real, is it? And it’s signed by Milo Brooks himself. The CEO.
That’s weird, right? You’d think an acceptance letter would come from an editor. Or an agent liaison. Someone whose job is actually dealing with aspiring authors. But no. CEO signature. In actual ink. Is that a good sign or a red flag?
I read it again, this time combing through for anything that could possibly hint that this is some sort of sick, terrible joke.
There’s none.
I let out a laugh. They want my book. They want more than that—they want five books! I laugh again. Pull out my phone to text Brody—and stop.
All that excitement rushing in my blood slows. Cools. Hardens to a pit in my stomach.
Here’s the thing. It took me two years to write and illustrate the first book. Two years of nights and weekends and lunch breaks, fitting it into the margins around jobs that barely paid enough to cover rent and student loans. To meet an eight-month deadline for five books? I’d need to quit my job.
Could I even do that?
Before the contract with Brody came along, absolutely not.
And now…? I don’t know. Can I write that fast when I know the money is dwindling? Oh, the pressure!
I tuck the letter back into the folder without looking at the official contract proposals. Stuff it back into the tote of doom.
I’ll deal with it later. After the wedding. When I can think clearly and not while sitting in a honeymoon suite that’s mocking my entire life.
My phone buzzes.
Brody
Just passed Elk River. Be there soon. Miss you.
Miss you.
Two words that shouldn’t mean as much as they do.
I type back.
Chloe
Drive safe. We’re meeting at the hotel restaurant at 7. See you there!
And my heart does that silly little flip when I hit Send.
But—complete transparency—I’m getting used to that feeling, because things have been different. Better. (So much better.) Since his game in Seattle.
We’ve been texting every day (real texts, not those one-word responses he was giving me before), talking about everything. His games. My new book idea. The crazy thing he overheard in the Starbucks line at the airport. Everything and nothing.
He’s playing better too. I’ve watched all three of his games this week (not obsessive at all), and there’s something different about him on the ice. Calmer. More focused. Like whatever was chasing him finally slowed down.
And after every game, he calls before bed. And we talk on the phone, filling in the gaps that we forgot to text about.
He’s the last person I want to talk to every day and the first person I want to talk to when I wake up. Which feels…really dangerous.
Because I can’t see the lines anymore, where fake-boyfriend Brody stops and Barcelona Brody begins.
And that’s—
Yeah.
I’m not going to think about that right now either.
I shove it into the mental drawer, right next to the Stratton Publishing letter, and start getting ready for dinner.
Le Papillon is exactly what you’d expect from a resort restaurant trying very hard to be fancy. Warm wood. Soft lighting. White tablecloths. Fresh flowers on every table. The smell of butter and herbs, garlic and rosemary, wafts in the air, mingling with the classical music playing overhead.
We’re all seated at a long table—wedding party at one end, family at the other.
It’s maybe twenty people total. Derek’s parents are at the head, speaking animatedly with my mom.
My brother is right at home, talking hockey with the boys.
And somehow, I got myself sandwiched in the middle of Maya’s bridesmaids, trying to look even remotely engaged in the conversation while my gaze keeps going back to the entrance.
The door opens.
And there he is.
Brody strolls into the restaurant wearing dark jeans, a blue polo, and a gray sports jacket that complements those gray-blue eyes I can’t seem to get enough of. His hair is slightly windswept, jaw dusted with stubble. He looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him in weeks.
His gaze finds mine immediately.
Something in his expression shifts. Softens.
He crosses the restaurant in long strides, weaving between tables. I stand without thinking about it, my chair scraping against the floor.
I’m only halfway to my feet when he pulls me into a hug.
His arms wrap around me, solid and warm. He smells like winter air and his woodsy cologne. His chin rests on top of my head for just a second.
“Hey,” he says quietly. Just for me.
“Hey.”
We pull apart. He looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, his gaze taking me in.
“You look beautiful.”
Heat instantly rises to my cheeks. “Thanks. You look”—I gesture vaguely at him—“surprisingly great. For someone who just drove three hours.”
He grins, and I just…melt. “High praise.”
Maya waves from down the table. “Brody! Come sit!”
There’s a newly empty chair next to me, and Brody takes it without hesitation. His knee bumps mine under the table. He doesn’t move it away.
A waiter appears with menus. Starts explaining the specials in accented English.
Brody listens, then responds in French.
Actual French.
This elicits a chorus of starstruck oohs and ahhs from around the table.
The waiter lights up, responding enthusiastically. They have a whole conversation—I catch maybe three words total—and the waiter practically floats away, promising to bring the chef’s recommendation.
I know I’m staring, but seriously, who just knows French?
“What?” he asks.
“You speak French?”
“You speak Spanish,” he counters.
“Not like that!”
Brody chuckles. “I took it in high school. Spent a summer in Quebec for hockey camp.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “It’s rusty but functional.”
“That was not rusty. That was fluent.”
“You’re easy to impress.”
“Apparently.”
We’re grinning at each other like idiots, oblivious to anyone else at the table.
The meal unfolds around us. Courses arrive—some kind of French onion soup that tastes like heaven, duck confit that melts off the bone, roasted veggies with pureed parsnips. Wine is poured, my dad stands to pray over the meal, and conversation quiets down as everyone digs in.
And through it all, Brody and I never stop talking.
I give him the lowdown on some of the family he’ll meet at the wedding. And he tells me the story of a time in high school when he forgot his hockey jersey on an away game day.
“My coach told me just to grab an extra one from the box in his office as we left.” He’s laughing before he even gets to the punch line. “I pulled from the wrong box. Wound up wearing a middle-school jersey to the game.”
I gasp, covering my mouth with a hand.
“I could hardly move my arms it was so tight!”
I can just see it—Brody squeezing himself into a jersey half his size, just so he can play. It’s funny. But also…a little sad. That was after his mom passed away. He was probably on his own as far as laundering his uniform and packing his equipment.
His hand finds mine under the table at some point. Intertwines our fingers.
I don’t pull away.
The contract feels very far away right now.
After dinner, and then dessert and coffee, we make our way back toward the main lodge. The group splinters off. The bridesmaids head toward their cottage, down by the lake, the groomsmen toward their lodge. Derek’s parents to their room.
Leaving Brody and me walking alone through the quiet resort.
The path is lit with lanterns, their warm glow reflecting off patches of snow. The air is cold but not brutal—a crisp February night. It smells like pine and wood smoke. Stars are starting to appear overhead—more than you can ever see in the city.
That’s one thing I miss about Maple Lake.
Ahead, the main building comes into view.
The main lodge is massive—dark wood and stone, built in that classic 1930s North Woods style, with steep rooflines and enormous windows.
Three stories, maybe four, with a wraparound porch dotted with Adirondack chairs and firepits.
Behind it, the lake stretches out, still partially frozen, the surface reflecting sunlight like shattered glass.
“I should check in,” Brody says as we reach the massive oak doors. “Get my key.”