Chapter 7

“I’ll send positive vibes your way,” I said to Nicholas over the phone. His boss had asked him to stay late and Nicholas assumed it was related to his future with the company. “I love you more.” I ended the call and stretched the length of the love seat in our bedroom. Nicholas designated it my “lady couch” because it was pink and too small to fit both of us unless I sat on his lap.

I flipped to the first page of the brochure of wedding invitations we’d obtained from a well-regarded printer on the Upper East Side. I was excited about being ahead of the game on at least one aspect of wedding planning—or at least on time.

I knew from previous research I was partial to white and gold invitations and figured it would be easy to narrow it down. As I continued to scroll through the binder, I saw more and more variations of the same theme and my pulse raced in the beginning signs of panic. Which font should we choose? Should we limit the gold to the lettering or did we want something more ornate? Were we modern or traditional? I bit back a sob of frustration and shut my eyes. Couldn’t anything be easy? Behind closed lids, I decided it was time for a break. A check of my email would do nicely. I opened my eyes and pulled up my Gmail account. There was an unread note from Melina. I chewed on a nail and opened the email.

  

Hi Kim,

I read your synopsis and additional pages of Love on Stone Street. Parts of it are very promising. I like your idea for the competing restaurants and the Romeo and Juliet inspired love story. Unfortunately, the serial killer subplot doesn’t work for me. I’m sure you can come up with something more enticing. I’d be happy to look at your next attempt.

Melina

  

My mouth went dry. Pia was right—I’d gone too far and now I’d blown my first chance to impress Melina. She probably hated me. But what now? Did I come up with something slightly less dark than murder but still grim enough to placate those desiring more than “mindless reading” or was it better to stick to what I did best—warm and fuzzy sprinkled with comical conflict? When I was a teenager, scribbling stories in my looseleaf binders during class, I’d assumed my favorite authors, like Sarah Dessen and Meg Cabot, held all the power. The truth was, unless you were a huge name, authors were at the mercy of agents and editors to tell them when their words were worthy of being read by the public. My editor had given me a flashing red light.

I was in no condition to do any writing tonight—not with my thoughts all jumbled like items in a kitchen junk drawer. My deadline was almost seven months away, but it was looming out of my comfort zone. I had a full-time job. I had a wedding to plan! And now I had to re-plot my book almost from scratch. I had no idea how I got myself into this mess or how to get out.

I curled in the fetal position, tempted to put my thumb in my mouth and rock like a baby. Then an idea came to me. Maybe Melina would give me an extension on my deadline. Publishers granted extensions to authors all the time. There was no reason why I’d be an exception.

I sat up and emailed Melina back, expressing thanks for her comments and promising to work on my draft. Then I asked if I could get a brief extension—even just a month or two—in light of my competing personal issues.

Feeling better, I closed out of my email and shut the lid of my computer. On the plus side, I was now eager to return my attention to shopping. Picking out invitations had to be less stressful than choosing a direction for my novel. I resumed my comfy position on the couch and placed the binder of sample invitations on my chest. It was time to focus on my wedding.

“Kimmie.”

“No,” I said, brushing away the hand stroking my face. I wasn’t ready to come out of my comfy place.

“Kimmie.”

I continued to ignore the sound of my name until I felt myself being lifted off the couch. My eyes fluttered open. “Nicholas,” I said against his neck. I inhaled the delicious scent of him. My mind slowly waking up, I said, “Your boss. What did he say?” It took effort to get the words out.

“Shh.” He placed me on our bed and kissed my forehead. “It’s all good, but we’ll talk tomorrow. Go back to sleep.”

I wanted to press him for details, but it could wait. Vowing to obey your husband was way sexist, but I’d concede just this once. I closed my eyes and let myself fall.

As I walked to where Nicholas stood with the rest of the bridal party, my eyes welled up. He sure knew how to wear a tuxedo. He was the most beautiful man, inside and out, and he’d chosen me to be his bride. Butterflies danced from the tips of my Badgley Mischka ankle strap shoes to the top of my—I looked down and froze in place. Oh my God, where was my dress? I snatched my elbow out from under my dad’s grip and used my right hand to cover the exposed area between my thighs. Thankfully, my bouquet of peonies was large and lush enough to cover my ample and equally uncovered breasts. I was grateful the bridal party was ahead of me in the precession and not staring at my bare ass, but I couldn’t say the same for our guests. I whipped my head from side to side. The breeze from the movement tickled the back of my neck and I fought the urge to touch it with one of my otherwise-occupied hands. I hadn’t planned on wearing my hair up. I braced myself for the gaping mouths and expressions of horror on the faces of my friends and family, but the seats were all empty. Where was everyone? I kept walking toward Nicholas, my skin flushed with shame at my nudity on such a momentous occasion.

When I stood before him, he laughed. “It’s all right, Kimmie. No one’s here. We never sent out the invitations. Remember?”

My eyes flew open and I sat up in bed. My breathing was ragged and my kelly-green tank top was drenched in sweat. It was a nightmare of the highest caliber, but at least flower shopping should be easier now. I opened the notes on my iPhone and, before I forgot, jotted down a description of the bouquet I’d used to cover my boobs in my dream. The shoes were fabulous and comfortable too. I hoped a pair just like them existed in real life.

After I showered and got dressed, I joined Nicholas in the kitchen. “Morning.” I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table.

Nicholas was facing the sink with his back to me but turned around with a grin. “Sleep well, Kimmie?”

A vision of him carrying me to bed flashed before my eyes. “I did. Sorry you had to physically remove me from the lady couch.”

“Yeah, my arms are killing me today,” he said with a smirk.

I ignored this. “What did your boss want to talk about?”

Nicholas leaned against the refrigerator. “Remember when my dad pushed me to become general counsel of the company?”

Nicholas’s father’s relentless pressure on Nicholas to devote his life to work left a caustic taste in my mouth even almost a year later. “How could I forget?” I snarled and quickly brought my hand to my mouth. I’d never fully forgiven Warren, but I didn’t want Nicholas to know I was holding a grudge. “Is the general counsel leaving?” I refilled my coffee.

“No, but they’re creating a position for executive general counsel. It’s a step above assistant general counsel and comes with a significant increase in pay and stock options. My boss wants me to apply.”

“Do you want it?” I held my breath. I fully supported Nicholas’s ambition, but we’d worked so hard to get to a place where our devotion to our careers didn’t come at the expense of our relationship and I was terrified of losing him to his job again.

He nodded. “According to Gideon, the promotion won’t necessarily result in more work; just different. I’ll also have more ability to delegate. Best of all, if we combine my raise with your salary and book royalties, we should be able to afford a two-bedroom apartment without needing to move out of the city.”

My eyebrows lifted. “You want to move?”

“Not tomorrow, but someday. We can’t raise a kid in this place,” he said, making a sweeping motion across our small apartment.

His words made me think of Bridget and her secret. I wondered if she and Jonathan would stay in their one-bedroom apartment or if they’d move after they had the baby.

I feared the kid would be five before Jonathan even knew he was a father.

“What do you think?”

I returned my attention to Nicholas before I accidentally mentioned Bridget’s condition. “It sounds great. What happens next?”

Nicholas explained the position would be posted internally and anyone eligible could apply. There would be several rounds of interviews and presentations before the position was filled.

He said his boss, Gideon, would throw all his support Nicholas’s way, but there was no guarantee.

“They’d be crazy not to pick you.”

He walked over to me and rubbed my arm. “You’re slightly biased, but thank you all the same. Anyway, enough about me. How was your night?”

I sighed. “My editor hated my synopsis and pages. I have to start over.” My insides quivered with anxiety.

Nicholas sighed deeply. “Oh, no. What did she say?”

Collapsing onto a chair, I said, “My attempt at plotting a ‘mindful’ read was a failure.”

Nicholas frowned. “What are you going to do?”

“The only thing I can do—keep writing. But I asked for an extension.”

“You’ve got this,” Nicholas said, sounding way more confident than he should based on the facts.

I downed my coffee and glanced at my watch. “Crap. I need to get to work.”

“Me too. By the way, after I carried you to bed last night like the prince I am, I went through the binder of invitations and marked the ones I liked the best. I remembered your preference for white and gold. I’ll let you choose your favorite, but at least it’s narrowed down now.”

“You did that for me?” As a wave of relief washed over me, I stood from the table and beamed at him.

Nicholas scrunched his forehead. “I did it for us. No reason you have to plan this wedding all by yourself. You have a book to write.”

I lowered my gaze and mumbled, “Thanks for reminding me.”

He lifted my chin with his finger and kissed me gently on the lips. “You did it once. There’s no reason you can’t do it again.”

I nodded agreeably even as the names of famous one-hit-wonder authors, like Sylvia Plath, Margaret Mitchell, and J.D. Salinger, flashed before my eyes. At least if I only had one book in me, I’d be in good company.