Chapter 1
ONE
PRESENT DAY
Melody stared at her reflection in the mirror, wondering if she could pull off this whole "successful author" charade for one more night.
It had taken her forty-one years of living, but she thought she had finally done it.
Her auburn hair was behaving for once, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves.
The streaks of silver in it were growing by the day, and the extra pounds her body was holding onto these last few years meant that her emerald cocktail dress was hugging her frame even tighter than it used to.
Despite her earlier decision to ditch the Spanx, she actually looked pretty damn good. Good enough to belong at a swanky publishing event like the annual Seattle BookLovers' Gala.
But the woman staring back at her looked about as comfortable as an Edward Cullen-type at a garlic bread baking competition.
“Get it together, Melody,” she said to herself. She took one last look in the mirror, adjusting her glasses. The "sexy librarian" look was working for her tonight, though she might regret these heels tomorrow.
The year she turned 35, the choice between arch support and sex appeal became a battlefield, and her orthopedist would definitely not approve of these three-inch weapons of foot destruction.
But some battles were worth fighting, even if it meant doubling up on the joint supplements tomorrow.
Or so she hoped.
"It's just one night of schmoozing,” she said to her reflection. “How bad could it be?" The universe, ever the comedian, didn't bother to answer. She grabbed her clutch and headed out the door of her cozy Capitol Hill Seattle apartment, ready to face the lions' den of the publishing world.
The taxi ride to the event was a blur of neon lights and rain-slicked streets.
Despite the early January chill, Seattle's nightlife pulsed around her, oblivious to her impending doom.
As they pulled up to the glittering Cascadian Hotel, she took a deep breath and channeled her inner romantic heroine.
If Elizabeth Bennet could face down Lady Catherine de Bourgh, she could handle a few hours of corporate small talk.
She stepped out of the taxi, narrowly avoiding a puddle that would have ruined her new heels. The doorman gave her a sympathetic smile as she fumbled with her invitation. "Good luck in there, miss," he said, holding the door open.
"Thanks," she replied. "I'm going to need it."
The ballroom was a sea of designer suits and cocktail dresses, all swirling around islands of champagne and hors d'oeuvres.
The chatter was a constant hum, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.
She felt like she had stepped into a Jane Austen novel, if Jane Austen had written about cutthroat publishing executives instead of landed gentry.
She made her way to the bar, desperately in need of liquid courage. The bartender, a kind-faced man in his fifties, took one look at her and slid over a glass of white wine without her having to ask.
"First time at the Gala?” he asked, a knowing twinkle in his eye.
She nodded, taking a grateful sip. "Is it that obvious?"
He chuckled. "Don't worry, honey. They're all just as nervous as you are. They're just better at hiding it."
Armed with her wine and the bartender's sage advice, she ventured into the crowd. She spotted a group of women who looked vaguely familiar from author headshots and decided to introduce herself.
"Hi, I'm Mel," she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "I write-"
"Oh, we know who you are!" one of the women interrupted, her smile as sharp as a paper cut. "You're the one who's been making waves with those... unconventional romances."
The way she said "unconventional" made it sound like a communicable disease. Melody took another sip of wine to hide her grimace.
"That's me," she replied. "I like to think of them as romances for the real world. You know, where people have actual flaws and don't always get their happily ever after on the first try."
The women exchanged looks that could curdle milk. She braced herself for more passive-aggressive comments, but before they could respond, a deep voice cut through the tension.
"Sounds intriguing. I'd love to hear more about your approach to romance."
She turned to find herself face-to-face with a man who looked like he just stepped out of one of her novels.
Tall, with dark hair that was just starting to gray at the temples, and eyes so blue they should be illegal.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent, but there was something in his smile that put her at ease.
"And you are?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
He extended a hand. "Nate. I'm new to certain parts of the publishing world, so I'm always eager to learn from successful authors."
She shook his hand, trying not to notice how perfectly it enveloped hers. "Well, Nate, prepare to have your illusions shattered. The glamorous life of an author mostly involves a lot of coffee, sweatpants, and existential crises."
He laughed, a rich sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "Sounds like my kind of party. Care to give me the insider's tour of this event?"
She glanced at the group of women, who were now pretending to be deeply engrossed in a conversation about font choices. "Lead the way," she said to Nate. "I could use a friendly face in this shark tank."
As they made their way through the crowd, Nate kept up a steady stream of witty commentary that had her stifling giggles.
He pointed out a portly man in an ill-fitting tuxedo, whispering, "That's Gerald Huffington.
He's convinced he's the next Stephen King, but his idea of horror is a world without golf courses. "
She snorted into her wine glass. "Oh yeah? Well, see that woman over there in the red dress? That's Vivian Graham. She writes bodice-rippers set in Victorian England, but I'm pretty sure she thinks the internet is powered by hamsters on wheels."
Nate's eyes crinkled with amusement. "And what about you? Mel, was it?" She nodded, and he kept going. "What's your secret shame?"
She leaned in conspiratorially. "Promise not to tell? Sometimes, when I'm stuck on a particularly tricky plot point, I act out scenes with my collection of stuffed animals."
He threw his head back and laughed, drawing curious glances from nearby guests. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."
As the night wore on, Nate and Melody fell into an easy rhythm of conversation.
They traded stories about their worst writing experiences (hers involved a disastrous book signing where she accidentally signed a baby), their favorite books (he had surprisingly good taste for someone who claimed to be new to the industry), and their secret dreams (she confessed her desire to write a romance novel set entirely in a cheese shop).
After some time, Nate signaled the bartender for fresh drinks. “So," he started, extending a glass to her, "successful author, sharp wit, and a stuffed animal theater troupe. There has to be a family somewhere wondering where they went wrong."
She laughed, accepting the fresh glass of wine. "Only child, actually. My mother always said she got it perfect the first time, no need for encores."
"You too? And here I thought I was the only one who had to bear the crushing weight of being the sole focus of parental expectations."
"Oh God, the expectations. Did you get the 'when are you giving us grandchildren' guilt trips too?"
"Only at every family dinner until-" He caught himself, something flickering across his face. "Well, until I made it clear my career came first."
She studied him over the rim of her glass. "Funny how that works, isn't it? Everyone expects you to have this perfect timeline - career, marriage, kids. But sometimes life has other plans."
"Or sometimes you're too busy building a life to create new ones," Nate added softly. "My mother eventually stopped asking. I think she figured out that publishing empires and parenthood don't always mix."
"Tell me about it," she said, thinking of all the manuscripts that became her babies instead. “My mother was the one who understood that.”
“Sounds like a very cool woman.”
She nodded, throat tightening. “She was.”
Nate’s gaze lowered, his jaw tightening. He cleared his throat. “Seems like the kind of woman I would have liked to have met.” He straightened. “And your dad?”
“Pretty MIA since I popped out on planet Earth. He lives on a boat in the south of Spain, last time I heard. Or maybe it was France…? I dunno. Either way, my mother’s side of the family has more than made up for his absence.
Try telling your distant but very nosy aunts that your characters are the only children you have time for.
My Aunt Reba still sends me articles about freezing my eggs. "
Nate nearly choked on his drink. "Please tell me you're joking."
"I wish. Last Christmas she gave me a fertility calendar. A fertility calendar. I used it to plot my next book's timeline out of spite."
He threw his head back laughing, and she couldn't help but join in. There was something freeing about finding someone who got it - the choices, the trade-offs, the way life sometimes took you down unexpected paths.
"You know what the worst part is?" he said, folding his much taller body towards her. "The pitying looks when you say you're single and childless. Like you're some sort of tragic cautionary tale."
"Right? Heaven forbid we're actually satisfied with our choices. Though I have to admit, some days my stuffed animal theater troupe does feel a bit like a daycare."
"At least stuffed animals don't need college funds.”
"Or throw tantrums about eating their vegetables."
"Or need you to explain why the publishing industry is slowly crushing their soul."
They shared a knowing look, and she felt that spark of connection grow stronger.
It was rare to find someone who understood, who didn't try to explain away her child-free choice or convince her that she was missing out.
Or that she was selfish. Or that she was defective.
No. She was simply a person who made a choice to wake up every morning the way that felt best for her… as her mother would have said.
It was only when she glanced at her watch that she realized they had been talking for hours. The crowd had thinned considerably, and the bartender was giving them pointed looks.
"I can't believe it's so late," she said, feeling a pang of disappointment. "I should probably head home."
Nate nodded, but there was a glint in his eye that made her heart race. "Or," he said, his voice low and inviting, "we could continue this conversation somewhere a bit more... private."
She knew she should say no. She had a manuscript due in ninety days, and her agent would have her head if she missed another deadline. But there was something about Nate that made her want to push her own already-shaky boundaries.
"What did you have in mind?" she asked, surprised by her own boldness.
He grinned, offering her his arm. "I hear the hotel bar makes an excellent martini. And I'm dying to hear more about this cheese shop romance."
As they walked out of the ballroom, arm in arm, she couldn't help but feel like she was living in one of her own novels. The mysterious stranger, the spark of attraction, the promise of adventure... It was all there, wrapped up in a package of blue eyes, broad shoulders, and charm.
But as they stepped into the elevator, a nagging voice in the back of her mind reminded her that in her books, these kinds of encounters rarely ended well. There was always a catch, a secret, a complication waiting to rear its ugly head.
Her mother's voice floated through her memory, clear as if she were standing beside her: "Life isn't a Hallmark movie, sweetheart. The best stories - and the best moments - come with complications and risks. That's what makes them worth writing about."
She smiled at the memory, feeling that familiar bittersweet ache.
Mom would have loved this scene - her practical, planning-obsessed daughter throwing caution to the wind for one wild night.
"Sometimes you need to live the stories you write," she'd told her once, her eyes brimming with her usual brand of trouble, even from her hospital bed.
"How else will you know what your characters are feeling? "
She pushed her doubts away as Nate's hand brushed against hers. Tonight, she decided, she was going to live in the moment. Tomorrow could take care of itself.