“I’ve never met you nor do I know when and why you broke up,” my father told Isabella. “But I’m glad you’re back together.”
Her smile carved dimples in her cheeks. “Thank you.”
Since it was so late in Shanghai, I didn’t drag out the conversation. I promised not to tell Abigail about my parents until my mother spoke with her and hung up.
Relief loosened the fist around my heart. Perhaps it was her vacation, my victory, or a combination of both, but my mother’s reaction to our relationship was surprisingly muted. Other than a few sighs and disapproving frowns, she’d refrained from her usual barbs. She must’ve realized her objections would fall on deaf ears, and Leonora Young was smart enough not to waste her time fighting a losing battle.
“That went way better than expected,” Isabella said as we started a new round of Scrabble. “It’s amazing how much sex can loosen someone up.”
I nearly spat out my drink. “Are you trying to traumatize me?” I asked, appalled. “That’s my mother you’re talking about.”
“Sorry, I thought you were already traumatized from seeing your parents in bed—” She broke off with a squeal of laughter when I pulled her toward me and pinned her to the ground.
“Finish that sentence, and I’ll hide all your thrillers until you read every word of The Divine Comedy,” I threatened. “The Latin translated version.”
Her laughter vanished. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
“If you do that…” She hooked her legs around my waist, her eyes glinting with challenge. Heat raced straight to my groin. “I’ll withhold sex until you put the books back.”
“Darling, we both know you would cave before I did.”
Isabella arched one brow. “Wanna bet?”
We never resumed our board game that day.
I was normally a stickler for finishing what I started, but hours later, when we lay sweaty and satiated in my bed, I didn’t care that we’d left dirty plates and a half-finished game of Scrabble in the living room.
After all, we had the rest of our lives to finish it.
Epilogue
ISABELLA
Two years later
“Oh my God. It’s here.” I stared at the shelf. “It’s here.”
“Of course it is. That’s why we came.” Vivian nudged me toward the bookcase. “Go! This is your moment.”
I didn’t move. I couldn’t quite process the sight in front of me.
The red spine. The name printed in white. The years of work and editing, all bound up in one paperback.
My debut novel Mistress in Waiting, sitting right there in the middle of my favorite bookstore’s thriller section.
A warm hand touched my back. “Congratulations,” Kai said. “You’re officially a published author.”
“I’m a published author,” I repeated. The words tasted ephemeral at first, but then they solidified, taking on the earthy flavor of reality. “That’s my book. Oh my God.” My heart rate accelerated. “I did it. I did it! ”
My stupor snapped, and I threw my arms around him as the weight of my accomplishment sank in.
He laughed, his face wreathed with pride as I squealed and did a little happy dance.
I didn’t care how stupid I looked because after all the agonizing, the failures, and the setbacks, I was finally a published author.
Jill Sherman had loved the revised manuscript and officially offered me representation two years ago. She shopped the book around, and after a couple of nibbles but no bites from the big houses, I signed with a small but well-respected publisher who was building out their thriller imprint. Now, after endless edits and revisions, it was out in the world.
I wasn’t going to turn into Nora Roberts or Dan Brown overnight, but I didn’t care. I finished my story, I loved it, and that was all that mattered.
I was already in the middle of drafting the sequel. Kai read it in chunks as I wrote it, which made the process much smoother than the original. It was hard to get lost in my own head when he was always there to pull me out.
But even if he weren’t there, I’d have an easier time. I’d developed a routine that worked for me, and I put less pressure on myself to write a perfect first draft. Everything got edited and revised to hell before it went to the printers anyway.
Once I released my need for perfection, the words flowed. There were still days when I wanted to tear my hair out over sentences that wouldn’t form or a scene that wouldn’t crystallize, but for the most part, I was really fucking excited to work on the story.
After years of drifting, I’d finally found my purpose—to create, both for myself and others.
“Let’s take a picture,” Alessandra suggested. “We need to commemorate the moment.” She, Vivian, and Sloane had accompanied me for moral support.
I was no longer working at Floria Designs, but it was always supposed to be a temporary job.
Alessandra had built a great team since I left, and the small business was thriving. The same couldn’t be said of her relationship with Dominic, but that was a whole other story.
I plucked one of the copies off the shelf and posed with it. It was probably the cheesiest picture I’d ever taken; I couldn’t wait to print and frame it.
“Turn two inches to your left,” Sloane ordered. “Now lift your chin, smile…smile some more…
perfect.”
She was such a perfectionist that her photos took forever, but they came out so good that no one complained.
I held onto the book after the picture, reveling in its weight and texture. I’d received advance copies from my publisher, but until that moment, it didn’t feel real.
This was mine, from concept to execution. I’d taken an idea and created a whole world, one that other people could enter and get lost in. Every book was a footprint in history, and I’d made my mark.
A lump formed in my throat as my tiny seed of pride blossomed into a full-grown tree, roots and all.
My phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime call. Felix’s face filled half the screen when I answered. Behind him, Miguel and Romero poked their heads above his so they could see too.
“Well?” he said, skipping his usual greeting. “Is it there? Show us!”
“It is.” I grinned, swinging the camera around to show the paperbacks of Mistress in Waiting sitting pretty on the shelf. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll autograph one for you.”
“We don’t get a family exception? That’s cold.” Miguel shook his head. “Just published and you’re already forgetting about us.”
“It’s a natural progression,” Romero said. “The cost of celebrity.”
“Oh, be quiet, you two. Stop teasing your sister.” My mother’s voice appeared before she did.