Chapter 42
FORTY-TWO
Nate had spent forty-three years being heir to the Carlisle Publishing legacy, twenty-one years earning that very right…and the last two months utterly destroying it.
The lights of Seattle's skyline blurred through the conference room windows as Nate stared at the contracts spread before him.
There were six. Six rival publishing offers.
Each promising more money, more control, more prestige than the last. Six chances to prove he was more than just Liam Carlisle's son who'd crashed and burned trying to revolutionize the family business.
Six ways to forget Melody Archer had walked away.
His phone buzzed—another message from Alex asking if he needed company or liquid therapy. Nate ignored it, just like he'd ignored the previous fifteen texts. He didn't need company. He needed to focus on salvaging what was left of his career after—
The conference room door burst open.
He half-expected Alex to burst through, carrying a dish of lasagna that weighed more than his own body weight. Or even his father.
Lately, his Dead Old Dad had been tucking his tail between his Armani-covered legs, thanks to Nate’s pushback and his mother’s threats of a “certain celibacy” should the elder Carlisle not stay in the place Nate had put him.
But instead of those options, Nate found himself looking at Mystery Option #3.
The woman he loved. Auburn hair loose. Hazel eyes blazing.
Melody stood in the doorway, windblown and beautiful, clutching what appeared to be a container of sauce. And even the scent of garlic that came with it couldn’t wipe out the aroma of heartbreak he knew was coming off him in waves.
He stood—his voice quiet, the syllables strangled. “Mel, what the—What are you doing here?"
She blinked, stepping into the room. “I don’t know…Maybe making sure you don’t do something that either or both of us will regret Like accepting one of those offers."
Nate didn't respond, just watched her with careful eyes as she set the container on the conference table, right on top of the most lucrative offer.
"This isn't about the imprint," she said softly. "Or publishing. Or anything except us."
"Us?" The word barely carried across the room. "I didn't realize there was an 'us' to discuss."
"I was wrong," Melody said, the words hanging in the charged air between them. "I was scared and stupid and so, so wrong."
Nate stayed silent, his hands loose on the armrests of his chair. Waiting.
"I've spent four days thinking about why I walked away," she continued, taking a careful step forward. "About why I always walk away when things get real. And I realized something."
She moved closer to the table, her fingers trailing along its polished surface. "We're not so different, you and I. You've been hiding behind being the perfect heir. I've been hiding behind my career. Both of us thinking that success is safer than love."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't deny it.
"The thing is," she gestured to the array of contracts, "you're not taking any of these offers. Even though they'd prove to everyone that you're more than your father's son. Even though they'd give you everything you've worked for."
"Your point?" His voice was rough with unshed emotion.
"My point is, you're choosing to stay. To build something here, even though it's harder. Even though it's scarier." She opened the container, releasing the rich aroma of freshly made sauce. "Just like I finally learned to make my own recipe instead of using the safe, store-bought version."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Are you comparing our relationship to pasta sauce?"
"Maybe." She moved around the table, closer to him. "But here's the thing—I'm done playing it safe. I'm done hiding behind my career because I'm scared of losing something real."
She pulled out her phone, fingers steady now as she pulled up an email. "That's why I'm turning down the Hollywood deal."
"Melody, you can't—"
"I can. And I am. Because I finally understand something. Success doesn't mean anything if you're too scared to live while achieving it."
She placed her phone on the table, the Hollywood contract rejection email clearly visible. "I don't want a watered-down version of my story anymore. Just like I don't want a watered-down version of love."
Nate's hands gripped the armrests, knuckles white. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I love you." Her voice trembled but held strong.
"I love how you challenge me to be better.
How you see the heart of my stories, not just their commercial potential.
How you were brave enough to risk everything for what you believe in.
" She took another step closer. "I'm saying I want to build something real with you.
Something that might terrify us both, but God, Nate—" Her voice caught.
"Isn't that what we write about? Isn't that what makes a story worth telling? "
He started to rise, but she shook her head.
"Wait. Let me finish. Because this isn't just about the Hollywood deal, or the imprint, or even the sauce I spent all evening making because I was finally ready to create something of my own instead of hiding behind old fears.
" She moved until she stood directly in front of him.
"This is about us. About how I walked away when you were brave enough to stay.
About how I've been writing love stories for years but was too scared to live one. "
Something shifted in Nate's expression—hope blooming through the cracks of his careful control. "You know this won't be easy. The industry, my father, the board—"
"Good."
He hesitated. “You sure you ready for that? Even if it means risking everything? Even if we fail?"
“Even then.” She stepped fully into his space. "I'd rather fail spectacularly at something real than succeed at playing it safe. I'd rather write one honest love story with you than a hundred commercially successful ones without you."
He pulled her closer, until there was barely space between them. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in her throat.
For a split second, she just stared at him, unblinking, as if waiting for him to respond. He was waiting, too. He felt incapable of words.
His throat was dry, his chest tight. Then his expression shifted, his lips curving into the kind of smile he’d forgotten, over the last few days, that he was capable of giving.
He rested his forehead against Melody’s, breathing her in.
"You have no idea how badly I needed to hear that," he murmured.
She nodded. “I think I have some idea.”
"I love you too, by the way. In case that wasn't clear from my very public declaration that sent my father into an apoplectic fit."
Melody laughed, the sound warm. Familiar. Hers. "Sorry about that. Though I hear Elizabeth handled him pretty well."
"She did. Turns out my mother's been waiting years for someone to shake things up." His hands tightened on her waist. "But enough about my parents. Tell me more about this sauce you made."
"Well," she tilted her head up to look at him, "I figured if I'm going to write my own story, I should start by creating my own traditions. No more hiding behind other people's recipes."
"No more hiding at all. Now, if you don’t mind spoiling it…I want to know. What happens next in this story of ours?"
"Well," Melody pretended to consider, "traditionally, this would be where the hero and heroine ride off into the sunset. But since we're all about breaking conventions..." She glanced at the conference table. "How about we start by having dinner? I hear the sauce is pretty good."
“Not as good as this…”
He tugged her closer, drawing her flush against him.
The time, when his head dipped, Melody rose on her tip-toes to meet him, and for this go-round, their kiss was anything but tender—it was desperate, hungry, raw.
Nate's hands tangled in Melody's hair, pulling her closer as if he couldn’t get enough.
She moaned into his mouth, her fingers gripping the front of his shirt, tugging it free from his dark slacks.
She broke away, gasping for air, and his lips immediately found her neck, nipping and sucking, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
"God, Melody," Nate growled, his voice like a bout of thunder through the air. "Do you have any idea how many nights I’ve stayed up thinking about this? About you?"
She gasped, her hands roaming under his shirt, feeling the hard lines of his stomach. "Probably about as many as I have," she admitted. "Now, make me yours, Carlisle."
The corner of his mouth quirked up in a wicked grin. "Yes, ma’am." His hands slid down to grip her thighs, lifting her effortlessly onto one of the tables. The wood beneath her body was cool, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her body.
His mouth was on her again, devouring her as her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling in her haste until it fell open, revealing the broad expanse of his chest. She ran her nails down his skin, and he reveled in the way his muscles flexed under her touch.
"You're driving me insane," he murmured, his voice thick with lust as his hands pushed up her skirt, his fingers grazing over the lace of her underwear. She shivered, and he could feel the warmth of her skin.
“Good," she managed to say, her voice shaky but teasing. "Now do something about it."
In one swift motion, he tore the fabric away, the sound of ripping lace sending a thrill through him. His fingers slid between her thighs, and she gasped, throwing her head back as he stroked her.
"You're so amazing,” he murmured, his voice filled with equal parts awe and hunger. “Jesus, Melody..."
"Nate," she pleaded, her body arching into him, needing more, needing everything.
He stepped between her legs, his slacks hitting the floor in a blur of movement, and then he was there, pressing into her, filling her in a way that made fireworks explode beneath his skin.
She clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as he moved, each thrust deliberate, commanding—raw.
The table creaked beneath them, but he was beyond caring.
The conference room faded away. And there was only her, only them, their bodies moving together in a rhythm that felt both frantic and perfect.
His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as he drove into her, his breath hot against her ear as he murmured her name like a prayer, a curse, a promise.
"Melody," he groaned, his voice breaking, and it was the sound of her, the sheer need in it, that sent him over the edge. She cried out, her body trembling as her own orgasm ripped through her, and he followed moments later.
Moments later, his movements slowed, his forehead resting against hers as they both caught their breath.
For a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the office A/C and their ragged breathing. Then Nate lifted his head, his eyes locking onto hers, full of something he couldn’t quite name but felt all the way to his core.
“I didn’t mean to do that without a condom,” he laughed low. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” She licked her lips. “I like you in the flesh.”
“Jesus, woman, you trying to kill me?”
“Thought about it a few times, but no.”
He grabbed her, kissing her—rough and tender, both at once.
“Mel, I swear, you," he said, his voice low and rough, "are everything I didn’t know I needed."
She laughed, her fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. "And you," she whispered, "are completely insane for thinking we’d never get here."
He grinned, leaning down to kiss her again, slower this time but no less consuming. As they untangled themselves and started gathering their discarded clothes, he couldn’t help but glance around the cafe and laugh.
"What’s so funny?" she asked, pulling his shirt back on, his hair a mess from her hands.
He gestured to the table they had just thoroughly christened.
"This. Us. Doing this in the conference room. It’s like something out of that Olivia-Jack novel we made.
Though, I hadn’t planned for us to…finish like this.
” He glanced over at the container a few feet away from the table.
“And speaking of ‘finishing’…you hungry, by any chance?”
She grinned, nipping his shoulder. “Starving.”
As they settled at the conference table, contracts pushed aside to make room for two plates and Melody's sauce, neither of them could stop smiling. Nate watched as she served the pasta, the simple act somehow more intimate than even the last thirty minutes.
“You know," he said, half-dressed, tendrils of pasta on his fork, "Alex is never going to let me live this down. He's been texting all night about how I should be chasing after you instead of brooding in my office."
"Funny. Hannah, Zoe, and Carmen staged an intervention at cooking class to make me chase after you. Though I think they were more interested in the drama than the actual cooking."
"Wait—Carmen was at your cooking class?"
"Apparently she knows the instructor from yoga. And may have bribed him with expensive wine." She watched as he took his first bite. "So? How is it?"
"This is incredible.” The blush on her face at his words made his heart skip.You really created this recipe yourself?"
"I did." She reached for his free hand. "Turns out I'm pretty good at creating things when I'm not too scared to try."
"Well then," he squeezed her fingers, "here's to creating something new.”
Later, they would deal with Hollywood, and the board, and all the complications that came with revolutionizing an industry while falling in love.
But for now, they simply sat in the quiet of the conference room, sharing a meal and trading soft smiles, two people who'd finally learned that the scariest stories were often the ones most worth living.
Now, if they could just figure out how to explain to Cassie's cleaning staff why there were manuscripts scattered all over the floor and half-dressed authors everywhere...
Nate would just have to remind himself to add "cleaning up their own messes" to their to-do list before the official imprint picnic…