Chapter Thirty-One

Chelle

Chelle left the dogs at home this time as she trudged through the fresh-fallen snow along the dog path across St. George’s Park to Grounded Coffee for a meeting she wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready to have. Some things a grown-ass adult couldn’t skip out on, though, and that included firing the agent she’d never hired in the first place.

As soon as she entered the coffee shop, Macon waved at her from a table in front of the glass wall looking into the kitchen, where the chefs were making mouthwateringly good chocolate croissants, hazelnut puffs, and other pastries.

Clearing her throat still raw from a night spent crying, she walked over and sat down across from him. The waitress lingering nearby sending Macon not-so-covert glances was at their table a second later. After taking their order, she hurried to the kitchen, and Macon launched into a cheerful congratulations and deep dive into his expectations for her book and the pros and cons of taking the deal that would be offered, as opposed to putting the book up for auction so several publishing houses could fight over it.

It was amazing and overwhelming and not the conversation she needed to be having with him right now.

“Look,” she said when he finally took a breath and she pushed past the awkward humiliation of the moment burning a hole in her gut. “I know you did all of this as a favor to your brother, but you don’t have to worry about it. I’m not interested in publishing the book.”

Macon just stared at her for a second, his jaw hanging open. Then he planted his forearms on the table and leaned forward.

“Please tell me you’re kidding.” Concern formed a deep V on his forehead. “I mean, I understand if you want to go with another agent, the whole brother-in-law as your agent thing could get messy, but you did me the favor by writing this book. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

It had to be bullshit. He was just setting her up for the sandwich method of real compliment, passive-aggressive shiv to the heart, followed by an insincere compliment. Her father had perfected the move and she’d learned to guard against it even if it still always managed to cut her deep. However, Macon didn’t follow up with anything else. He just sat back and drank the coffee the waitress had delivered.

“You mean the offer wasn’t just put out there as a favor to you or Nash?” Chelle asked, trying to process what was happening.

“Publishing doesn’t work that way.” Macon snort-laughed and adjusted his glasses. “Okay, celebrities and politicians get massive book deals that no one expects to ever earn out, but a debut author doesn’t get that kind of deal no matter who they might be married to.”

A hot flash of excitement mixed with terror and a hefty dose of denial rushed through her, making her hands shake, so she wrapped them around her vanilla latte but didn’t lift it, because she didn’t trust herself at the moment not to drop the whole thing in her lap. “I’m sure you’re just being nice.”

He narrowed his eyes at her as he tucked his shoulder-length hair behind his ears, the move revealing colorful tattoos peeking out from beneath the cuffs of his shirt. “Chelle, have you read your book? The publisher knows what I know. You’re the next big thing, something even a guy like Nash, who usually only reads business books, could see. Please tell me there are more books in the works.”

“I have two more finished, and the fourth book is almost done,” she said almost too quietly to be heard over the din of the coffee house chatter.

Her lack of volume didn’t faze Macon, who looked like she’d just given him the Christmas present he’d been wanting for his entire life. “Are you ready to do this? Because I am.”

“I’d never really thought about being a writer for real.” Embarrassment set her cheeks on fire. Even the idea of being vulnerable with someone enough to tell them about her books would have been too ridiculous to consider a few months ago, but then she met Nash and everything changed. Still, it was hard for her to wrap her brain around. “It’s just something I do for fun. I can’t leave the foundation to be a writer.”

“No one’s asking you to,” Macon said, calm confidence wafting off of him like Axe body spray on a teenage boy. “Nothing needs to change on your end of things. Continue on as the foundation’s executive director and write the books on the side. You get the best of both worlds.” He paused and grinned at her. “All you have to do is say yes.”

Chelle walked home in a haze. It was like she’d left the coffee shop, blinked, and was back home with Groucho and Mary happy yapping at her ankles while Sir Hiss watched from his spot at the top of the bookshelf. Her mouth was open to call out to Nash when she remembered he wasn’t here anymore. She’d kicked him out, and he’d gone, which was exactly what both of them had needed to happen. Their partnership had reached its logical conclusion, and she was damned if she’d let another man make life decisions for her.

Fine. He may have done her a solid by sharing her book with Macon, but she wasn’t ready to actually agree to that. He had done it without her permission. She’d thought he’d changed his take-charge mansplaining ways, but he obviously hadn’t.

Yet, a stubborn voice inside her head whispered.

God, why was everything so confusing, and why did she miss him wandering through the house as he held conference calls, his voice booming down the hall and interrupting the flow of her writing? Why did she keep standing in the doorway to his room, staring at his bed? Why had she picked up her phone at least half a dozen times in the past day, ready to call him but chickening out at the last minute?

The whole marriage thing had just been a means to an end. Sure, she’d fucked up and gotten close to Nash—maybe even thinking she’d fallen for him, but that couldn’t be real. Pacing through the living room, trying to get ahold of herself as her thoughts spun out, she automatically veered a few inches to the left to avoid the coffee table. But the table wasn’t in that spot anymore. Nash had realized she’d bumped her shin on it on a near-hour basis and had moved it over.

Staring at the coffee table now six inches to the right of where it had been, her throat clogged up with emotion again. Damn it, she would not start crying again. What she needed was a massive distraction, an escape, a hole to open up in the middle of her living room and suck her into another world.

Wait.

She actually could go somewhere else and get lost without ever leaving her apartment. Her book! Chelle was almost done with book four, and getting back to it as her nymph assassin heroine took out the evil wizard would be the perfect escape for the mix of happy and sad sloshing through her.

She gave Groucho and Mary each a chew bone while Sir Hiss got a new catnip-stuffed plush carrot, and then she went to work. Everything at her desk was how it was supposed to be. Journals—half of which were blank because they were too pretty to write in—and pens on her right. Coffeemaker and pods on her left. Laptop dead center with her manuscript pulled up to the big climactic fight scene.

Yes. This was what she needed to get out of whatever funk was starting to descend whenever she realized something else that felt off because Nash wasn’t there. Writing had gotten her through the pain of growing up a Finch. It would definitely dull the ache of missing Nash.

It had to.

Three hours later, with enough caffeine in her system to superpower a dragon, Chelle reread her sixth attempt at the battle to end all battles. Then she let out a groan of defeat and let her head fall to her desk, her forehead landing on her keyboard and probably doing a better job of writing this book than she was.

Where there should have been swords clanging in an epic fight between good and evil, her main characters just ended up kissing. Heavily. And then getting naked. That was definitely not good battle etiquette.

When her heroine was supposed to deliver a rousing speech to her troops, she ended up declaring her love for the satyr who was her sworn nemesis, right up until they decided that their shared enemy, the wizard, was worse and they had to join forces to defeat him. That was not supposed to happen until at least book five.

And then, when everything was supposed to go sideways and it would look like all was lost, instead of coming together for one last underdog attempt at winning, the nymph and satyr sacrificed themselves for the other, leaving them both mortally wounded on the battlefield, holding hands as their troops seized victory.

There was only one explanation for it. Her brain was broken.

“Fuck me and the horse I rode in on,” she groaned.

“Well, that sounds exciting, but I’m just here for our catch-up before my car for Paris gets here, so time for a writing break.”

Chelle let out a scream and jumped out of her chair.

Karmel chuckled and held up a bottle of Bottle Rocket rosé, the extra set of keys to Chelle’s apartment jingling in her hand. After lowering her oversize black sunglasses, she looked down the hall toward the other bedroom. “Where’s Nash?”

“Gone.” She sank back into her chair, too deflated to stay standing.

“Gone?” Karmel asked, both of her eyebrows going high enough to get lost behind her cheaper-than-a-facelift bangs.

Chelle nodded, her gut twisting. “Gone.”

“Tell me everything before my car gets here.” She glanced down at her phone. “We have half an hour.”

Yeah, that was more time than it would take to tell her best friend that her fake marriage had gone to shit. Still, she led Karmel into the kitchen, where Chelle opened up the wine, filled each of their glasses with more than enough to match the need of the circumstances, and spilled her guts, managing—somehow—not to go all sniffly, even though she could feel her nose start to tingle and had to do a bunch of blinking to keep the tears away.

“So you said yes about the book deal, right?” Karmel asked after topping off her rosé.

Chelle shook her head.

Her friend gasped. “You said no?”

“I said I needed to think about it.” And then she’d all but run out of the coffee shop, not that she planned on admitting that out loud to anyone any time soon.

“Hardball. I like it.” Karmel clinked her wineglass against Chelle’s. “So, what do you really want?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh, then drained the rest of her glass.

Karmel scooped up Mary Puppins and put her in her lap, then stroked her head with just the right amount of pressure to make the pug’s bulgy eyes close with delight. Of course, while Mary was basking under Karmel’s touch, her friend’s clear-eyed and determined focus was centered on Chelle. Her stomach did a flip-flop thing, and she knew that whatever was about to come next, she probably wasn’t going to like it.

“Is that why Nash isn’t here anymore?” Karmel asked.

“No.” Her chest became uncomfortably tight as she tried to find the words to make her friend understand that she hadn’t had any choice. She’d done what she’d had to do. “He totally crossed the line by giving Macon my book even though he knew it was for his eyes only.”

“And that was wrong.” Karmel pursed her lips together as though trying to figure out what to say next. “But is it unforgivable?”

Yes. No. She didn’t have a fucking clue.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said finally, the tip of her nose starting to tingle again. “This marriage was never meant to be real.”

“Uh-huh.” Karmel took a sip of wine. “It sure looked real from the outside. Did it feel real?”

“No.” Chelle’s hands shook as she poured herself another glass of rosé, giving her an excuse to keep her gaze focused on the task at hand, as opposed to her bestie who would most definitely know she was full of shit.

“Lie to me if you have to, but don’t lie to yourself.”

What was the point in trying to fib to either of them? They both knew the truth of it. Despite it all, she’d fallen for her fake husband.

“He just would have done it again, ignoring what I wanted or needed because he thought he knew better,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, not only would he share my book, but he’d think he knew what was best for me better than I did.”

Karmel sat Mary Puppins back on the floor and reached across the table to cover Chelle’s hand with her own. “Just like your dad?”

“Exactly,” she said, all the raw feelings coming to the surface and making her want to put as much distance between herself and anyone who could hurt her like that. “I can spot all the signs from a million miles.”

“Is it that, or are you just expecting to see them and so you do?”

“That’s not fair,” Chelle huffed.

“Some would say you aren’t being fair, either.” Karmel squeezed her hand and shot her a sympathetic smile. “Look, I love you like my own sister, and you may not want to hear it, but it needs to be said. All of that bullshit your family inflicted on you? It was awful and you were right to get yourself out of that toxic mess, but don’t you think that your trauma scared you so that you are afraid to be vulnerable with anyone because that equates to losing all control over your own life? Letting someone else in doesn’t mean shutting yourself out. There can be a happy medium there.”

It was exactly the advice one of her characters would give another in her book. So why was it so hard to hear in real life? “How did you get to be so smart?”

“Honey,” Karmel said with a world-weary chuckle. “I’ve kissed more than enough frogs in my life to know when there’s a real prince in my immediate surroundings.”

A prince with rough edges and sharp corners? Yeah, Nash had those. But he also had the heart of someone who wanted to help care for the people he loved so badly he couldn’t stop himself from doing the wrong thing for the right reason. Logically, Chelle could see that. But in her heart, she was as scared as she’d ever been, and it made her entire body tense up. The instinct to cut herself off like she’d done with her family was so strong it made her palms sweaty. But Karmel was right.

Nash wasn’t like the Finches.

“So, what do I do?” she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Karmel finished her wine and stood up, lifting the thick strap of her airport tote over one shoulder. “Take the book deal.”

“And Nash?” Chelle asked, her voice trembling.

“Honey, only you can figure that out.” Karmel’s phone vibrated in her hand. “My ride to the airport is here. Give me a hug and know I’ve got my fingers and toes crossed for you.”

“Thank you,” Chelle said as she wrapped her arms around her best friend and squeezed.

“Thank me by not ruining my record of one hundred percent of couples I’ve married still being together and madly in love,” Karmel shot back as she strode out the door.

Yeah, if only Chelle knew how to do that. Instead, she was stuck here in her apartment where even the dogs were giving her the side-eye since Nash had left. From his favorite spot on the top of the bookcase to get stuck and yell angrily for help, Sir Hiss made pissed-off hissing noises.

“What, you can get up there but you can’t get down?” She grumbled as she strode across the living room. “You know there’s being stubborn and then there’s just being obstinate. If you—”

The wisdom she was about to impart to the annoyed cat left her the moment she walked right into the corner of the coffee table, whacking her knee hard enough that she was pretty sure she could feel the pain in her right back molar. In that moment of absolute agony, everything came into focus. She looked at her living room—really looked at the placement of her furniture that she’d insisted Nash put back even though his arrangement had been better.

There was stubborn and there was obstinate, she’d been telling the cat. Maybe she should have been telling herself that—no, she definitely should have been talking to herself.

And in that millisecond, everything made sense, and she knew exactly what she needed to do and how she was going to make this right. All she had to do was make it through this afternoon’s Christmas party and then she’d take the drive out to Gable House, brave the attack goose, and tell Nash—she had no fucking clue what she’d say, but she’d figure it out. She had to.

Of course, first, she needed to move some furniture.