Staci stood sipping a virgin margarita at the top of the Sears tower, or whatever name it was going by now, trying to pretend enjoyment in Flame’s Christmas party. So far the evening had progressed exactly as she thought it would: festive cocktail dresses and drinks aplenty, and people trying to one-up each other, even as they pretended to be humble. Funny. It didn’t seem to bother her so much now. She had nothing to prove to this crowd, no desire to impress those who felt they needed to be impressed. The night had gone surprisingly smoothly, but that may have been because she was yet to have The Talk with Bronwyn and Max. She silently exhaled, committing it to God again, and tried to look interested as a newbie author gushed about working with Max and receiving an endorsement from Davis Scott.
“Staci.”
She tensed. Turned. Sure enough the Great One himself. “Max.”
He air-kissed her cheek—new company policy, perhaps?—acknowledging his acolytes with a nod. They were probably too young even for him. “Stace, I feel we really should talk.” He steered her into an alcove.
“Let me guess,” she said. “It’s about my latest book.”
He frowned. “I’ll confess it took me by surprise.”
“Yes, I was surprised I got it finished and sent off before the due date, especially given the circumstances.” She lifted her cast-bound wrist.
“Yes, well.” He glanced away. “Let’s just say it certainly had a very different feel to what I’m used to seeing from you.”
“I thought it was time for a change.”
“Well, the thing is, I’m not entirely certain this will be a change your readers will respond positively to. Where was the romance? Where was the drama?”
“Oh, there was plenty of romance, just the innocent kind. And as for drama,” she said, with another none-too-subtle glance at her cast-bound wrist.
“I understand it’s been a trying time for you—”
“Do you, Max?” Staci interrupted. “Do you really? See, I’m not convinced that you do. I met your deadline—was actually ahead of your deadline by several days—and produced a book I’m actually quite proud of, despite you showing next to no compassion for my situation.”
“I thought I explained—”
“Is this really how you think you should treat one of your longstanding authors, Max? Someone who has been loyal to you, despite other publishers offering better deals, and you ignore the fact she was taking care of her grandmother, the only family member she has left”—gosh, she hated talking about herself in third person, but it seemed to be the language Max understood—“a family member who at one time it was thought might likely die, and then she was incapacitated herself, thus making this author’s submission of a book ahead of time all the more remarkable!”
Staci drew in a breath, conscious her voice had risen, and that they had a small audience. She forced a smile she hoped appeared sweet. “I understand that you’re following instructions, but I don’t understand how you can treat your authors so badly when you claim cost-cutting as a reason.” She gestured—with her left hand—to the expensive surroundings. “I don’t understand how you can claim to need cost-cutting measures when Flame hires a place like this.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or is this some sort of farewell party for us all?”
He paled, but before anything more could be said, she felt her wrist being grabbed, and she was spun around to meet the irate gaze of Bryan Flanagan.
“I’d appreciate it if you could keep your voice down.”
“I’d appreciate it if you removed your hand,” he did so, “and were honest and upfront for once. Have you read Fiona’s story yet?”
“There hasn’t been time, but I know from what Max has said it’s not up to your usual standard.”
“That’s because it’s better,” she declared, tossing her head.
“That’s exactly right,” another voice came. Bronwyn’s voice. Her agent stepped forward. “I need to speak with you and Max immediately.”
“This is a party, Bronwyn. We don’t talk shop here.”
“Except it seems we do. This is important, Bryan, and if you don’t wish to talk privately, then fine, let’s talk here.”
Staci stared at her agent. Why did Bronwyn look so grim? She’d assured Staci that her work was excellent, even more so than usual. What was wrong?
“Have it your way, then,” Bronwyn said, when Bryan refused to budge. “I’m not sure if you’ve caught the latest in the Twitterverse, but it seems there is some question over the authenticity of your golden boy’s work.”
“What? Davis? You’re mistaken.”
“Am I? Maybe you’ve missed the side-by-side comparisons as readers note the similarities between that and an obscure 1960s book set in England.”
“Like anybody cares.”
“Apparently somebody does.” She mentioned the name of a Big Five publisher. “Apparently they’re very interested in how someone could write something using the exact same phraseology. Their legal teams are looking into things, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they sue.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he sputtered.
“I’m sure you soon will.” She smiled, a glint in her eye, as she surveyed the hushed room which now sprang into whispers and hastily drawn phones from bags and pockets. “Now, getting back to my client here. I feel it best to inform you that after Staci’s Fiona book we shall be seeking publication elsewhere.”
“What?”
“Of course, that is subject to your agreeing to publish this book, as is, without substantial changes. If you can’t recognize true talent then we’ll be more than happy to return the advance and go with another publisher immediately. In fact,” she turned to Staci, “I think that is what we should do. Your book is not of the standard Flame is known for, that is true, being of much higher quality. I really don’t think we want our names associated with such circles once the true extent of this debacle becomes known.”
Staci eyed her agent, striving to keep the panic at bay. “Bronwyn?”
“Walk with me,” she instructed, guiding Staci to a column near the door. “I’m sorry for the theatrics in there, but it’s true. Davis Scott has been discovered as a fraud, which means this ship is gonna sink, baby, so we need to jump off quick.”
“But my story—”
“We’ll break the contract, don’t you worry. I spoke to some other publishing heavyweights this afternoon, getting my ducks lined up in a row. You can give back the advance and we’ll get your story back pronto. You do have the money, don’t you?”
She would once her apartment was rented. “I’ll get it to you.”
“Good. Then we’ll shop you to someone else.” She mentioned the name of another Big Five publisher. “I was speaking to one of their editors the other day, and I’ve a feeling they’ll be more receptive to your story for a new line they’re establishing, something called Sweet and Wholesome.”
“You don’t think my back catalog will be held against me?”
“I think they’ll see you as a versatile author, someone who can write to spec, and on time. I should think they would be thrilled to have you.”
“Really?”
“Really. Staci, your writing just keeps improving, and now, adding this subtle faith element? Genius. Your work will appeal to your usual readership plus hold the possibility of attracting new, faith-based readers. Fifty Shades is over. Readers want clean reads.”
“You really think so?”
Bronwyn cleared her throat. “Staci, I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I used to attend Sunday school. That last story was something even my Sunday school teacher couldn’t object to. It’s got heart, hope, and such an inspiring message of forgiveness. If people can’t respond to that then they must be dead inside.”
“You liked it?”
“Loved it. Now stop fishing for compliments. I see another client of mine I’m going to have to free from Max’s snare.”
Staci watched her march purposefully across the room to speak to a now visibly upset Davis Scott-endorsed newbie author. Lord, help her.
“Staci.”
At the sound of that voice she closed her eyes. No. It couldn’t be. It had to be a dream.
“Staci, please.”
She swallowed, refusing to spin around. Not that she could even if she wanted to, as her ankle had apparently decided this very moment to give her grief. She waited until he moved in front of her. Raised her brows at the tall, curly-haired man with the gold-specked green eyes.
James held out his hands.
She restrained hers and put them on her hips. Well, put one hand on her hip, as the other remained in its cast. “Hello.” Why was he here? Why was her heart racing? Oh, why couldn’t she see a chair—her ankle was killing her.
“I, uh, hope you don’t mind my being here. I—”
“Why are you here?” she interrupted. Tonight was not the night for weak and helpless damsels.
“Your grandmother, Rose, told me where you were.”
“Did she now?”
“Please.” He moved to grasp her elbow, but she edged it away. His hand dropped, his face fell. “I think you think I’ve been a bit of an idiot.”
“No,” she said. “I know you’ve been a bit of an idiot.”
He stared at her, before giving a wry chuckle, a sound that broke past her defenses and scraped amusement from her too. “Can we talk?”
“Only if we sit down. My ankle is killing me.”
“May I?” He gestured to her long gown, and she nodded, and he swept her up once more to the surprised enjoyment of those nearby. “Where shall I take you?”
“Gretna Green,” she said promptly.
He laughed, and she basked in the sound, in the vibration of his chest. “I have a confession to make,” he murmured.
“What’s that?”
“Rose let me read Fiona’s story.”
“Did she now?”
He placed her on a seat—something that appeared more like a golden throne—and sat beside her carefully. “You don’t seem too concerned.”
“Why should I be?” she said, smoothing the folds of her green skirt. “Not when I told her she could.”
“How did you know I’d ask to read it?”
“I hoped. I prayed. I trusted God that you’d see reason. And judging from the Gretna Green comment, it seems you have.”
“Did people really run away to get married there?”
“Don’t you trust historical authors to deal honestly with the facts?”
“I don’t know too many authors. Only you.” His eyes darkened, he grasped her hand. “You made me your hero.”
“I used your first name for my hero,” she corrected softly.
“But you didn’t change it. You could have, but you didn’t. It made me hope you might forgive me.” He glanced down, gently squeezed her hand, then looked up. “I’m really sorry for how I treated you before. I don’t have any excuses.”
She caressed his fingers. “I’m sorry for being ungracious.”
“You weren’t ungracious. Just confused, and rightly so. I was pretty confused myself.”
“But you’re not now?” Hope trembled within.
“I…” His gaze fused with hers. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry for getting carried away. It was Dr. Hollis and his insistence that your previous books might taint the reputation of the hospital that confused me.”
“I’m sorry my previous books embarrassed you.”
“You’ve done nothing to embarrass me. I should have remembered that God is into second chances.” He gestured to the twinkling lights and Christmas decorations. “Especially at this time of year. Please, say you’ll forgive me.”
“Of course, I forgive you.”
Relief lit his features then he drew her close in a bergamot-scented hug.
Oh, how sweet was forgiveness! Her smile threatened to burst her cheeks as she nestled closer. “So you have your job back?”
“Only if you say yes.”
Breath suspended. “Say yes to what?”
“Say yes to loving me, for I, dear Anastacia Everton, love you.”
Her heart filled with astonished joy. He loved her? “You do?”
“I love you most ardently,” he whispered, quoting her own words, his breath dancing along her cheek.
She closed her eyes, savoring this dream-come-true, speaking the words from the depth of her heart. “I love you, too, James Wells.”
“We make a good team,” he whispered.
“The best,” she murmured. “I think we should keep this team going for a while longer.”
“Me too.”
He turned his head, and once again her lips met the fire of his. Oh, how easy he was to kiss! How wonderful it was to be restored to a proper relationship again.
“I missed you so much,” he murmured against her cheek. “I don’t know what got into me before.”
That made two of them.
“You know, it wasn’t until I read your new book that I realized just how powerful a piece of fiction could be. Who knew that fiction could speak truth to me?”
“So it wasn’t too boring for you?”
“Not at all. I have to admit, I did like the bits with the scorching kisses.”
“Did you now?”
“I did.” And he backed it up with a scorching kiss of his own.
“Well, well, well! So the good girl’s going bad.” Bronwyn stood, arms crossed, a smile tweaking her lips.
“Not bad,” Staci insisted. “This is all good.”
“Really?” Bronwyn held out her hand to James. “Hi. Bronwyn Matthieson, Staci’s agent. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“James Wells. Staci’s boyfriend,” he said, with just the slightest intonation at the end that made it a question.
His hooked eyebrow and pleading eyes made her smile and press her lips against his cheek for reassurance. “Indeed he is.” She turned to Bronwyn. “James is a doctor who works in Tanzania.”
“Worked,” he corrected softly.
Staci’s gaze swung to him. “What are you saying?”
“I’ve decided to stay in North America.”
“Really?” Hope lit her heart.
“Really.”
She threw herself at him and hugged him fiercely, murmuring against his shirt, “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
She closed her eyes, gratitude filling her chest. She knew there was more involved in his decision than her, but she was so thankful. To God. And to James. And to God for James.
Bronwyn cleared her throat. “Where did you say you were?”
“Tanzania,” James supplied.
“It’s a country on the east coast of Africa, between Kenya and Uganda and half a dozen others. He worked as a medical missionary there,” Staci explained, eyeing Bronwyn’s face for reaction.
“My uncle was a missionary,” Bronwyn said. “In Peru. He always brought back the strangest looking carved animals.”
“I don’t know about carved animals,” Staci continued, “but I do know James has excellent taste in fiction,” she said, snuggling up to him.
“Have you read her latest work?” Bronwyn demanded.
“It’s really good,” James said.
“Her best yet,” Bronwyn said, nodding. “I didn’t think I could care about a romance with barely any kissing, but that kiss after they were married, whew! What a doozy!”
“Yes, it was.”
Bronwyn eyed them. “It’s enough to make me wonder if Staci has been writing from experience.”
Staci stiffened, but James’s chuckle put paid to any fear, as he wrapped his arm around her. “Remember, Bronwyn, you can’t believe everything you read.”
“Hmph! Well, that didn’t look like fiction to me,” she said, before wandering off.
“Is this fiction?” Staci asked.
“It feels rather real to me.”
And to prove it, he once more captured her lips with his own.
“Come back to Muskoka Shores for Christmas,” he whispered.
“For Christmas?”
“For me.” His eyes were tender. “And for forever.”
Happiness bloomed within her, and she nodded.
He kissed her sweetly. “Happy Christmas, Staci.”
“Happy Christmas, James.”
And she snuggled into his arms, thanking God for Christmas miracles, and knowing this would be the happiest of Christmases, indeed.
THE END
If you enjoyed this book, then make sure you read the next in the Muskoka Romance series, Muskoka Hearts