Take a Chance on Me

Chapter Twenty-Eight



Three months later, Maddie stood in the doorway of the bathroom, resting her shoulder against the wood molding, now gleaming, beautiful, and polished. Mitch fixed the knot of his tie, adjusting it in the mirror.

Their eyes met in the reflection and Maddie smiled. “You look very handsome, Counselor.”

It was an understatement. He looked downright gorgeous in his custom-made charcoal-gray suit, crisp white dress shirt, and blue patterned tie. They’d gone shopping downtown a couple of weeks ago when they’d gone back to visit her family and his mom.

They’d talked about moving back to Chicago, but in the end the decision had been easy. Revival was home now.

For both of them.

They visited a lot, spending time with her family and friends, who’d adopted him as one of their own the night he’d come to claim her. Maddie had met the senator and Mitch’s sister just once. It had been a strained affair, full of polite conversation and undercurrents of tension.

At least things had slowly improved between Mitch and his mom. Last week, they’d even called each other without using Maddie as an excuse to talk. It wasn’t perfect, but this was real life, and sometimes perfect was too much to ask for.

“Thanks, Princess.” Mitch flashed the crooked grin that had stolen her heart the first night she’d walked into the bar.

It was Sam’s bar now.

“How do you feel?” Maddie asked, taking a sip from the coffee mug she was holding.

“Strange,” he said, shrugging.

Maddie figured that was as much an admission of nerves as she was going to get. “You’ll be great.”

He gave another shrug as he once again started working at the knot of his tie. “It’s not a complicated hearing.”

Maddie said nothing and took another sip of coffee. The hearing might not require a lot of technical challenge, but she knew exactly how big a deal it was to Mitch. He’d attacked Luke’s case with a vengeance. The man had taken to sitting on the couch and reading law books, for God’s sake. How boring was that?

The great thing was, once word had made its way around town, people had started coming to him for legal work and Maddie had been able to flaunt that she’d been right all along. The citizens of Revival didn’t care about some scandal in Chicago among a bunch of rich people.

Her cheeks flushed as she remembered all the deviant things he’d done to her last night in retribution for her gloating.

He chuckled, drawing Maddie’s attention back to his reflection in the mirror. He cocked a brow. “Is someone having impure thoughts?”

“Not me,” she said in a voice filled with feigned innocence. “I went to confession yesterday. I can’t ruin it already.”

“Princess, we’re living in sin. You ruin it the second you step out of the church.”

“Yeah, well.” She waved a hand in the air. “You can’t expect me to be perfect.”

She’d started going to church again, as well as to a therapist over in Shreveport, who was helping her through the rest of her guilt over her father’s death.

It was getting easier.

Slowly, she was figuring out what she wanted out of life. She’d started restoring the farmhouse. It was hard work, but she’d found she liked working with her hands, liked the sense of completion when the job was done exactly to her specifications. Completing the vision she’d dreamed up in her mind.

And she’d started painting again.

After the first stroke of a brush across canvas, she’d had no idea how she’d stayed away from it all these years. It had been like coming home.

She’d even received a commission for her first work of art, entirely by accident. The other day at Earl’s Diner, Maddie had struck up a conversation with a five-year-old girl named Jessica, who was obsessed with fairies. Delighted by her enthusiasm, Maddie had drawn her a picture on a napkin. That evening, Jessica’s mom, a longtime friend of Gracie’s, had called to say that her daughter loved the picture so much, and asked Maddie if she was willing to paint a mural in the little girl’s bedroom. Maddie had jumped at the chance and had already sketched a couple of design ideas to go over with the family.

“I’ve been thinking,” Mitch said, pulling her away from her thoughts of brightly colored fairy walls.

Maddie met his gaze in the reflection.

“I appreciate people asking me for help, but wills and divorces aren’t exactly a challenge. Maybe this is a long shot, but what if I switched sides and tried my hand at being a prosecutor?” He turned to face her, his expression guarded.


She walked to him, putting her coffee mug on the counter before running a finger over his jaw. “Sounds like an excellent idea.”

“They might not have me.” His tone was gruff. Unsure.

She stood up on tiptoes and pressed a kiss to the curve of his neck. “If they don’t, you’ll think of something else.”

“You’re not worried?”

“Not even a little bit.” And she wasn’t. The signs were clear now, and all roads pointed to Mitch and Revival and the life they were building together.

He wrapped his arms around her. “Have I told you today how happy I am that you gave up the good fight and moved back in with me?”

“Not today,” she said, sucking in his sex-and-sin scent.

“But last night you mentioned it quite a few times.”

She’d tried for six weeks to live by herself in the apartment over Gracie’s garage, thinking she needed to experience life on her own before living with Mitch.

She’d hated every minute of it.

When she’d taken to sneaking into the farmhouse and crawling into bed with him in the middle of the night, he’d finally put his foot down.

She sighed. Contentment had her curling deeper into his embrace. She didn’t care if it was wrong: Mitch and this farmhouse made her happy.

“Maddie,” he said, his voice catching in a way that had her lifting her chin. “You know I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

His fingers brushed a lock of hair behind her chin. “Come with me.”

He clasped her hand and led her into the bedroom before motioning her to the bed. She sat, and he walked over to the antique dresser and took a box out of the dresser. He walked back to the bed and sat down next to her. “I wanted to give this to you tonight, but then I saw you standing in the doorway and I knew I couldn’t wait.”

Maddie looked at the box, it was wooden, etched with an intricate fleur-de-lis design on it and words in another language. “What is it?”

“It was my grandmother’s. They bought it on their honeymoon. It’s French. It says, ‘There is only one happiness in life: to love and be loved.’”

“It’s beautiful.” That he would give her something so treasured brought the threat of tears to her eyes.

He handed it to her. “Open it.”

She took the box and suddenly her heart started to pound. She lifted the lid and gasped, blinking as her vision blurred.

Mitch grasped her left hand. “I know it’s only been three months, but in my family, meeting the night your car breaks down is a sign of a long, happy marriage.”

Maddie couldn’t take her eyes off the ring. It was a gorgeous, simple platinum band with two small emerald stones flanking what had to be a three-carat rectangular diamond.

She looked at Mitch.

“Maddie Donovan, will you please marry me?”

“Yes.” She kissed him, a soft, slow, drugging kiss filled with hope and promises. There was no hesitation. Not a seed of worry or shred of doubt. Her heart belonged to only one man, and he was right in front of her. “It would be my honor.”

He slipped the ring on her finger. “My grandma would be thrilled that you have her ring.”

“It’s hers?” It sparkled in the sunlight. It looked important on her hand.

“It’s been in the family vault since she died. My mom sent it a couple of weeks ago. She’s been a little pushy about the whole thing. I think she’s worried I’ll do something to screw it up and she’ll lose the best daughter-in-law ever.”

Maddie laughed. “I love her, too.”

He ran his finger over the platinum band. “I changed the side stones to emeralds because they match your eyes. Do you think I made the right choice?”

She put her hands on the sides of his face. “It is the most gorgeous ring I have ever laid eyes on. I love it. I love you. You know I’d take you with a plastic ring from Wal-Mart.”

“I know.”

She kissed him. “But I’m not going to lie: this is a kick-ass ring.”

He grinned. “You know, I think that’s what my grandma used to say.”

“She was obviously a smart woman.”

“For the record, don’t even think about running.” Mitch pushed her back on the bed and captured her beneath him. “I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth and bring you back where you belong.”

She reached for him, this man who’d been her salvation. “I will run down the aisle to meet you.”





Keep reading for

an excerpt from the

second book in

Jennifer Dawson’s

Something New series!





“We got the lead story.” Nathaniel Riley’s voice sounded over the car speaker.

The news didn’t surprise Cecilia. Reporters don’t shove a story about a senator recovering from a blackmail scandal to the back page.

Cecilia stabbed the speaker’s volume button until it lowered to a reasonable level. “Then everything is going according to plan.”

“I trust you’re happy.” Her father’s purring tone conveyed that he was one satisfied cat.

She clenched the leather steering wheel.

Happy. Now there’s a word. When was the last time she’d been happy? Stop. This was not the time to get philosophical. If she wanted a chance in hell at winning the congressional seat come election time this was what needed to be done.

It was the smart move.

And she needed to win.

She’d get over the distastefulness sitting in the back of her throat. She always did.

A green highway sign came into focus. Revival. Fifteen miles. Where everything was sunshine, laughter, and genuine happiness.

Her skull throbbed.

“Cecilia?” Her father’s voice fractured her thoughts. “What did you think of the article?”

She hadn’t read it. This morning, she’d thrown the unopened paper in the trash and deleted the Google Alert links sitting in her email. It was a fluff piece, carefully crafted by the senator’s finest. The first of many that would lead to a final press conference where she’d announce her bid for Congress. It was all part of a perfectly planned public relations strategy, designed by her.

A fine sheen of sweat spread down her back. She punched down the air-conditioner button in her understated Mercedes sedan and let the cool air wash over her face.

“Paul did an excellent job.” After years avoiding the small truths, the evasion was smooth as silk.

“Since you were unavailable, Miles and I had final approval,” Nathaniel Riley said, in his polished, politician’s voice.

“Of course.” While her tone rang with a practiced strength, her stomach rolled. What was wrong with her? She needed to get it together. This was the price her dream demanded. She wasn’t losing anything really important. Nothing that mattered.

Life in politics was all she’d ever wanted. When other little girls had been pretending to be princesses in faraway lands, she had played president in the Oval Office.

She’d been content putting her own career aside for her father’s aspirations, but that had ended when his scandal broke. She’d sat at her kitchen table reading that dreadful headline and seen her whole world crumbling under her feet.

The young woman who’d attempted to blackmail the senator had eventually been caught and her schemes exposed, but not without damage. Cecilia had managed the fallout to perfection, minimizing the whole sordid affair, publicizing how he’d been a victim of greed. It had worked—the senator was well on the road to political recovery. But she couldn’t shake the worry.


This wasn’t the first mess she’d helped him escape. At some point his bad decisions would have to come back and bite him. And where would that leave her?

It had been a slap in the face. A wakeup call delivered by a five-alarm fire truck.

“I’m proud of you, Cecilia,” Nathaniel said, and she could practically see him sitting there in his office in Washington, scotch in hand, smug in his oversized, leather chair.

Six months ago she would have lapped up his approval like a grateful puppy, but now she recognized the lie. He wasn’t proud of her. This plan helped him. How, she wasn’t sure and didn’t care, but it had nothing to do with her.

It never did.

The truth only made her more determined.

A speed-limit sign whipped past and she checked her speedometer to see the needle creeping past eighty-five. Easing her foot off the pedal, she started to say thank you for his sparse compliment but instead blurted, “Don’t you have any reservations?”

“We talked about this,” he said in a patient tone that grated on her last nerve. “This is your best shot.”

Clammy sweat broke out on her forehead, forcing her to turn the air down to arctic levels. Wasn’t thirty-three too young for a hot flash? She swallowed the taste of the bile clinging to the walls of her throat. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it?”

Because I’m your daughter? The truth pained her. That he hadn’t noticed made the cut that much deeper.

She shook her head. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting out from under his thumb. She squared her shoulders. “Never mind. Is there anything else?”

A moment of silence fell over the car, filled with nothing but dead air. She prayed for a dropped connection one would expect in farmland Illinois, but the squeak of Nathaniel’s desk chair quelled her hope.

“Are you almost there?”

Her jaw tightened and her ever-present headache beat at her temples. “I’m about fifteen minutes outside town.”

“And your mother?” The question was clipped.

Part of Cecilia still wanted to believe that under all his bluster and power trips he genuinely cared for his wife of forty years, but she had no more delusions. “She’s already there.”

The green mile marker sign came into view. Revival. Twelve miles.

She hadn’t been to the small town since her grandma’s funeral.

A sudden, unexpected tightness welled in Cecilia’s throat, and she swallowed hard.

“I see,” he said, and another silence descended.

She dreaded spending the next two weeks in a house filled with strangers, watching her brother fawn all over his bride-to-be. Not that she begrudged Mitch his happiness. She didn’t, but witnessing it caused a strange yearning she didn’t want to contemplate.

She gripped the steering wheel, tight enough her knuckles turned white. “I still think a couple of days before the wedding would have been plenty.”

“Cecilia,” Nathaniel said, in his patient tone. “Voters love a wedding and we need the family solidarity. This will help your image.”

The logic couldn’t be refuted, but she tried anyway. “And two or three days doesn’t accomplish that?”

“Under normal circumstances, yes, but with Shane Donovan already at his sister’s side and that football player on his way, it doesn’t look good if we’re not there.”

An image of Shane snapped through her mind like the lash of a whip. He was one of Chicago’s corporate giants, and his sister’s impending marriage to the senator’s notorious son had been a hot topic on a slow news day. If it weren’t for him, she’d be home where she belonged.

“So you get to stay in Washington, but I have to play nice,” Cecilia snapped.

“I’m in committee,” her father said.

The whole situation annoyed her, and she spoke without thinking. “And God forbid the voters find out your wife and son aren’t speaking to you.”

“That’s enough. I’m still your father.”

Something tightened in her chest. Was he? He didn’t feel like it. She straightened her shoulders and modulated her tone to neutral. “All I’m saying is that I’m not sure it’s necessary.”

“Trust me, it’s necessary.”

She laughed, a hard, brittle sound. “Trust you? You almost ruined your career.”

“But I didn’t,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “I’m doing what I need to do, and if you want to win, I suggest you do the same.”

She fought it—the pull that longed for his approval—but the habit was too old and her anger too new. She took a deep breath. “I understand.”

Sometimes it was best to concede the battle to win the war. Or at least that was the political spin she sold herself today.

“Good. Remember the plan.”

Ah yes, the plan. She ate, slept, and lived the plan.

Revival. Eight miles.

Two weeks with Shane. Two weeks with his sharp, disapproving gaze. Two weeks of playing the ice queen he expected, pretending he had no effect on her.

She was exhausted just thinking about it. “I remember.”

“And on that note,” Nathaniel said, his voice rich and pleased.

Her stomach dropped with dread.

“I spoke with Miles and Paul this morning, and we decided right after the wedding we’ll announce you’re running for office.”

She frowned. “What do you mean, right after?”

“At the reception. We’d call in a few reporters to cover the wedding. You could let it slip and have a press conference the next day.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. Was nothing sacred to him? “It’s Mitch’s day. Let him have it.”

“The timing—”

She cut him off. “No. This is my campaign, and I’m putting my foot down.”

She might not be close to Mitch, or have the slightest clue what to say to him, but she respected what he’d done and how he’d turned his life around after the senator had gone and f*cked it all up. She wasn’t about to ruin his wedding to gain a few points in the polls.

“Cecilia, let’s be frank. You’re a long shot.”

Yes, the factors working against her were endless, but she was sick of him pretending he wasn’t part of the problem. Venom filled her tone as she spit out, “Thanks to you and that little intern I told you not to hire.”

He scoffed. “That’s easy for you to believe, but we both know your image needs work.”

Nausea roiled in her belly. “I didn’t get blackmailed. You did.”

“The voters forgave me. After all, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Ha! You didn’t get caught, there’s a difference.”

“Perception is reality, my dear. You know that better than anyone.”

What did he mean by that? He sounded smug, as though he knew something she didn’t. “I’ll build my own perception.”

A long, put-upon sigh. “You can’t connect. You’re logical and pragmatic, which can be a benefit, but it doesn’t win votes. People don’t love you. You don’t inspire them to act, or empower them to believe that government is within their grasp. You have no voice. No vision.”

The truth. It was like a stab to the heart, but she refused, absolutely refused, to give in to the tears that pricked the corners of her eyes. She did not cry. Ever. Instead, she steeled her spine and said sweetly, “Awww, you always give the best pep talks.”


Never show weakness. Never break.

“It’s up to me to tell you the truth.”

A cocktail of riotous emotions threatened to bubble to the surface, but she pushed them back down. “I will not let you ruin Mitch’s wedding so you can play father of the year in front of a few reporters.” Her training had served her well because there wasn’t even a hint of a quaver in her voice. Her hurt was hidden down deep where it belonged.

And since he was so keen on truth, she’d dole out some of her own. “As your advisor, let me return the favor. If you want a chance in hell at winning your wife back before the next election, you’d better stop using your son to gain points in the opinion polls. You’re losing her. She’s starting to loathe you. Maybe that’s why you had sex with an intern younger than your daughter?”

“Watch your mouth.” His voice was filled with outrage. Unlike her, he’d never been a pro at hiding anything unless he had an audience. “I did not sleep with that woman.”

She laughed, the sound filled with rough, bitter edges. “Do you think I’m an idiot? You think I didn’t see how you fawned over her? How you preened at her ego stroking?”

Fifteen seconds must have ticked by before he spoke. “Have you told your mother this?”

She scoffed, shaking her head. This was so like him. All he cared about was covering his ass. Another mile marker sign flew by. “Good-bye, father.”

He hung up without a word.

She exhaled a slow, steady breath.

Well, that was ugly.

She’d held her own and scored her point, but the victory was hollow.

Revival. Next exit.

She slowed to fifty-five and changed into the right lane. She had to block out this noise—her family crisis, Shane Donovan, the wedding—everything and concentrate on what was important.

Winning the election.

It was the only dream she’d ever had, and she couldn’t let it die along with everything else.





Cecilia had been banging on the front door of her brother’s farmhouse for five minutes and still no one answered. She glanced around the front yard filled with the same large oaks and weeping willows, but where her grandma had had shrubs, her future sister-in-law had lush hydrangea bushes in vibrant pinks, lavenders, and greens.

It was like stepping into an alternate universe where time had stopped, but reality had been altered just enough to make the familiar, foreign.

The breeze blew, sending the old porch swing swaying, and a burst of nostalgia filled her chest. How many summer nights had she sat there as a little girl, smelling of Off and the river, curled next to her grandma’s side reading James and the Giant Peach?

She could still see her grandma sitting there in her housedress, looking like she was part of the earth. A tightness welled in her chest at the memory.

Would her grandma have even liked the woman she’d become?

She huffed out an exasperated sigh. Where was all this emotion coming from? She needed to shake it off and get it together. She turned away from the past and rang the bell, then rapped hard against the panes of glass.

Met with nothing but silence, she twisted the handle and found it unlocked. Since they expected her, she took a cautious step inside. Her heels clicked against the original hardwood floors, which gleamed with a richness that spoke of the care someone had put into restoring the wood.

“Hello?” she called out, peering around the empty foyer. The walls were different. The rose-patterned paper had been replaced with a soft, dark gray paint she’d never have picked because of the dark wood moldings, but it looked exactly right.

She called out again, “Hello?”

A distant, unrecognizable male voice yelled back, “In the kitchen.”

Why on earth hadn’t he answered the door? She tossed her bag on the bench and walked down the narrow hallway leading to the swinging kitchen door that had been in this house since its creation.

The kitchen told another story, thrusting her out of the past and into the future. It gleamed with newness. With gorgeous, industrial stainless steel appliances, distressed white cabinets, and polished granite countertops in various shades of cream, gold, and brown.

Under the extra-deep double sink, a man sprawled across the floor, his head under the cabinet. “Can you hand me that wrench?”

That voice. It never failed to send an irritating trail of tingles racing down her spine. She ground her back teeth until her temples gave a sharp stab of protest. Of course, Shane Donovan had to be the first person she ran into.

He bent one knee, pulling the worn fabric of his jeans across powerful thighs. Her throat went dry as her pulse sped.

Why him? Out of every man she’d ever encountered—and in her line of work, she encountered plenty—why did it have to be him? For heaven’s sake, he belonged to the wrong political party. She shuddered.

It was all so . . . embarrassing.

But her body didn’t care, hadn’t cared since the first time she’d met him at Mitch and Maddie’s engagement party. The second her palm had slid into his, a disconcerting jolt of electricity had traveled through her fingertips and up her arm. She’d had to force herself not to jerk away and keep her face impassive.

It was a good thing he didn’t like her. It was the one thing working in her favor. If she stuck to her current strategy of nurturing his disdain, he’d stay away, and her exposure would be minimal.

She walked over to the box of tools and stood over him.

Half hidden under the sink, Shane fiddled with her brother’s plumbing. Annoyed at his pure perfection, she wrinkled her nose.

At six-four, his frame stretched beautifully across the hardwood. His hips were lean. His stomach flat. Shoulders ridiculously broad. Most of the times she’d seen him, he’d been dressed in a suit, but today he wore a pair of beat-up construction boots, faded jeans, and a thin white T-shirt. It was a crime against nature that a man who spent most of his time in boardrooms had muscles like his.

She’d analyzed her attraction, and for the life of her, she couldn’t come up with a logical explanation. Sure, he was good looking, but so what? Good-looking men weren’t impossible to find. He was nothing like the men she dated. She preferred, well, men like her. Men who were more interested in politics and strategy then carnal pleasures. She enjoyed a relationship in which sex was secondary to their intellectual connection. Not that she had a problem with sex—she didn’t. Her past encounters had all been pleasant and civilized.

But nothing about Shane Donovan was civilized. And somehow she doubted sex with him was pleasant.

She shouldn’t be attracted to him. Period. End of story. Only her libido didn’t agree.

A loud clang sounded under the cabinet, followed by a grunted curse. He stretched out his hand. “The wrench.”

Without a word she reached down, grabbed the tool, and plopped it in his palm with far more force than necessary.

“Easy there, honey.” The warm tone of his voice was clearly not meant for her.

Who was honey? A moment of panic washed over her. Oh, no. Was she going to be tortured by watching him with another woman?

The thought bothered her so much, she blurted, “I’m not your honey.”

He stilled for a fraction of a second before sliding out from under the sink, like the teasing reveal in bad porn. His strong jaw tightened as his piercing green eyes met hers. “If it isn’t the ice queen herself.”

His favorite name for her. He’d never called her honey, not even once.


The fine hairs along her neck bristled as something she refused to name sat in the pit of her stomach. It didn’t matter. Even if he tried, she’d have to put him in his place on principle alone. Endearments were dismissive; every good feminist knew that.

She slipped into the role he expected, ignoring the jab to ask coolly, “Where’s the happy couple?”

He got up from the floor with much more grace than a man weighing at least two hundred pounds should, turned, and flicked on the faucet with the touch of his fingers. “Your brother’s out back.”

The muscles under his thin T-shirt flexed as he washed his hands.

She squared her shoulders. Good thing broad shoulders, muscular backs, and lean hips didn’t affect her. She was a sane, rational woman, not driven by hormones.

Her eyes locked on his ass.

Good thing she was above all that.

When the water ceased she jerked her eyes away and smoothed her expression into her most remote mask.

He turned around and gave her an assessing once-over. “I didn’t think you’d show until the rehearsal dinner.”

A muscle under her eye twitched. “I was invited. Mitch is my brother—why shouldn’t I be here?”

“You Rileys aren’t much for family support.” He assessed her with a shrewd gaze. “So there must be another motive.”

Her spine bristled, and she had the sudden urge to smack him across his smug face. Of course, she didn’t, because that would be revealing and out of character. “I’m sure I don’t know to what you’re referring.”

He scooped up a beer bottle and raised it to his lips, taking a long, slow drink while watching her in that predatory way he had.

How could someone’s eyes be that green? They were so sharp and clear, it felt as though they pierced right through her.

The continued scrutiny gave her the urge to tug at her navy suit jacket and smooth her knee-length skirt, but she refused to fidget. “Is my mother here?”

“She went to the store with Maddie.” He placed the bottle back on the counter and rested his palms on the ledge of the granite that had replaced the linoleum she remembered. “We’re out of Cheetos and Mountain Dew.”

She planted her hands on her hips and returned one of his long, disdainful once-overs. Her gaze settled meaningfully on his flat-as-a-board stomach. “Ah, that explains it. I’ve heard after thirty-five things go south rather quickly.”

His expression flashed with what looked like amusement. He straightened from the counter and took a step toward her.

The urge to retreat rose in her chest, but she didn’t dare step back.

Never show weakness. Never break.

His eyes narrowed. “How’d you know I turned thirty-five?”

Damn it. See, this was why she ignored his barbs—she always said something far too telling. She shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, I hear things.”

“Investigating my background? How sweet. I didn’t know you cared.”

Of course they’d investigated all the Donovans. Just like Shane had investigated all of them. That’s the way it worked. Everyone knew that. Maybe she’d spent a little too much time on the oldest Donovan brother, but only because he was the most dangerous.

So yes, she knew all about Shane. Had a list of stats she could rattle off in her head in her sleep.

Occupation: CEO and owner of The Donovan Corporation.

Last significant relationship: one year ago with some tech genius.

High school grade point average: an abysmal 1.65.

College degree: none.

Arrests: one for underage drinking at sixteen.

The list went on, and as many times as she went over the facts, the essence of him was missing. How had he beaten such impossible odds? Overcome such dire straits?

All by his thirty-fifth birthday.

Which she should not know was three months ago.

One week after hers to the day.

At the memory of her own birthday, she frowned. It hadn’t been a good day.

She’d spent her birthday in strategy meetings concentrating on repairing her father’s tattered image. Other than a small fifteen-minute work break, during which the interns shoved a cake under her nose, her mother had been the only person to call.

That night she’d sat alone in her Gold Coast townhouse overlooking the skyline eating Chinese takeout by herself. After a bottle of wine she’d contemplated her accomplishments, trying in vain to pat herself on her back.

Only to realize the things she’d listed had nothing to do with her.

She’d done nothing for her own life.

Not a single damn thing.





Peter Coombs Photography