by Beck, Jamie
She was alive, so she shouldn’t complain. That’s what everyone said, anyhow. This presumption—the forfeiting of the right to voice common complaints—was a side effect of survival that no one talked about for fear of sounding ungrateful.
“I get that this is hard, but you have courage. Focus on the money we’ll be donating to research. And the hope that your story might give other women in your shoes.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it, as if he could transfer his enthusiasm by mere touch. “You’re my hero, sis. I’ve never been prouder of you than while watching you go through treatment and work on this project.”
He’d stood by her always, even when she’d made terrible decisions, like when she hurt her childhood friend Claire over that idiot Todd, who’d made off like the Road Runner the minute she got sick. Logan had then moved Peyton into his home and taken months off work to be there, day and night, so that she wouldn’t be alone during chemo. And without him she would’ve been utterly alone.
Her parents had offered to hire all the best nurses and aides, but they hadn’t altered their work or philanthropic commitments to focus their attention on her. That had neither surprised nor troubled her. Life with unsentimental parents didn’t mean you weren’t loved; it merely meant you weren’t the center of anyone’s universe. That might explain why Todd’s initial pretense that she was the center of his world had captivated her. But in truth, her parents’ attitude had otherwise prepared her not to expect much genuine affection in the real world.
“Thank you.” She raised his hand to her cheek and held tight. For most of their lives, he’d been her hero. “But you need higher standards.”
Logan tugged at her earlobe. “Are you sure I can’t take you to JFK tomorrow?”
“No thanks.” She hugged the book to her stomach, which fluttered every time she thought of taking off on the weeks-long European promotional tour that seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. “Unlike you, an Uber driver gets paid for sitting in hours’ worth of traffic. Besides, I’ll need some downtime before I meet Mitchell and take off for Rome.”
She’d looked Mitchell up on LinkedIn and then banged her forehead on her desk a few times. Just her luck to be tethered to a guy who was not only great at his job but also good-looking. Like, wow-level handsome, with gobs of gorgeous hair, which was the first thing she noticed about other people ever since she’d lost all hers.
Her prechemo hair—the long, silky blonde curtain that she’d used to flirt or hide or distract—had gone the way of the dinosaurs. Baldness had been a special kind of hell and, in some ways, made her a stranger to herself. Vanity was another of her flaws; she knew this. But having been born with her father’s cheekbones and blue eyes and her mother’s lean figure, she’d been turning heads since puberty. These days, not so much.
A few unwanted pounds of postchemo bloat remained, and her still-too-short, wavy baby-fine hair didn’t fit her, somehow. It wasn’t terrible, just wrong. And there was no hiding . . . or flirting. But, hey, she was still breathing.
On the other hand, Mitchell’s hair fit him perfectly. A rich chestnut mane that had to have a natural wave or cowlick in order to achieve that kind of high flow in his bangs. And those deep-set, beautiful hazel eyes with their disconcerting alertness. They looked as if they could see right through her, and that was from a mere photograph. She couldn’t imagine how she’d avoid their scrutiny in person.
His brows were thick like his hair; his lips, full yet firm-looking. The serious expression in his profile photo matched her all-business impression of him, which she’d based on what little email communication they’d had to date.
Hallelujah for that, though. The absence of friendly banter was what made her willing to take this trip with him. At this point in her recovery, she couldn’t cope with, much less encourage, the tingly feelings of desire.
Chemo hair aside, even if she were ready to dip her toes back in the dating world, Mitchell Mathis would have far better options than someone with her particular scars and attic full of baggage. After reading her memoir—which showcased her erratic mental state and graphic images of her double mastectomy, ulcers, and more—he couldn’t possibly find her attractive.
“If I weren’t going to Peru next week for that National Geographic piece on Inti Raymi, I’d come with you.” Logan sighed.
“It’s fine.” She stroked the book jacket. “This is our collaboration, but it’s my story. Only I can answer reader questions about what I’ve written. I’ll be okay.”
“Still, I’m sorry I couldn’t get out of my other commitment, although maybe it’s best that I’ll be back here in time to help with the last-minute details of my engagement party.” He pulled his right foot up over his left knee.
The conflict did stink, but she couldn’t keep relying on him. He’d already rearranged his life for her and played a pivotal role in helping her begin to mend fences with Claire. She’d agreed to this crazy project, and these author copies sealed her fate, putting her desire to live more mindfully on hold while she pimped the dang book.
“At least I’ll be able to participate in the US tour dates,” he said.
“Yes, so enjoy this special time with Claire.” She pushed his foot. “Consider yourself fired from this babysitting job.”
He smiled again, a content smile particular to his feelings for Claire. Peyton wouldn’t have bet on that opposites-attract relationship, but her brother had fallen hard. Proof that dreams can come true, given Claire’s long-standing crush on him.
Dreams made life brim with excited possibility—or, at least, that’s what she remembered. Given her recent travails, she’d forgotten how to dream of anything other than survival. Then again, while dreams generated a delicious buzz, they could also make a person too focused on some goal, which detracted from being “present.” These days, Peyton was all about being present, because tomorrow was no longer a given.
“And you’ll be back for the party, right?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Not that long ago, she worried she’d miss so many celebrations with the people she loved. Now she didn’t even mind her mom’s tedious parties. Much.
He winked. “I’m relieved things between you and Claire are improved.”
Peyton nodded, although recollecting her behavior felt a bit like waking up with a massive hangover. “It’s still a work in progress.”
“At least I’m no longer caught in the middle of two women I love.” Logan then craned his neck in the direction of their father’s Michter’s twenty-year-old single-barrel bourbon. Its unbroken silver wax seal stared back at them. “Shall we break into Dad’s stash and toast to our success?”
She welcomed a change of subject. “Sure.”
“No reason to wait for him and Mom.” He pushed himself out of the chair and poured the amber liquid two-fingers deep into the tumblers before handing one to her.
“What? You don’t want to hear the umpteenth lecture about our airing ‘dirty laundry’ to the world?” She snickered. Never mind the philanthropic mission or the excruciating hours of work invested in the project. She doubted her mom had even bothered to read the advance copy. On the other hand, her mom had made one good point: promoting this book would force Peyton to relive everything over again, and further delay her return to “a normal life.”
Logan stared at Duck’s Pulitzer and then looked back at her while raising his glass. “To keeping the Prescott lit rep alive. Cheers.”
She sniffed the bourbon’s toffee scent before the liquid burned its way down her throat.
She hadn’t drunk alcohol for so long its effect instantly grabbed hold of her, loosening her muscles one by one until her limbs felt soft and heavy and her mood pleasantly fuzzy. Then her phone pinged. She glanced at the text. Mitchell.
Checking in. Any last-minute questions or problems?
“My taskmaster.” She chuckled, flashing the screen at her brother. She didn’t know much about Mitchell, but he didn’t seem the type to encourage he
r to go on a lark while in Europe. His tome-length list of goals began and ended with hitting all the bestseller lists, so side trips to browse the street art in the Quadraro area of Rome or peruse the antiques along Nieuwe Spiegelstraat in Amsterdam hadn’t made the agenda.
Thinking of those places made her smile. She’d loved her former career as a travel writer but doubted she’d regain the stamina to return to that lifestyle. Not anytime soon, anyway. This book and her recovery had consumed her thoughts this past year, leaving her little time to plan for life beyond the book release. What fit was there for a former psych major with a bunch of old passports and a semipopular blog?
Logan patted her shoulder. “I’ll let you deal with that. Need to get back to Claire for dinner.” He finished his drink and stood. “Can I take a few copies?”
“Of course. They’re half yours.” She didn’t need twenty-four copies of that bleak image staring at her, nor was she in a hurry to distribute them to anyone she knew.
It wasn’t a lack of pride that stopped her. She’d worked her ass off on the book. Bled onto those pages. It was her best work and she knew it. But the thought of friends, neighbors, and strangers picking over her thoughts and feelings made her want to vomit. This venture had better raise a ton of money to make up for what she’d exposed.
Logan smiled and snagged five books. “If you want to grab lunch tomorrow before you head down to the airport, shoot me a text.” Before breezing out of the office, he kissed her head. “Love you. Good luck.”
“Bye.” She waited until he left and then set her book on the desk and sighed. Looking at the screen of her phone, she pictured Mitchell’s intense gaze and imagined him tapping his foot while awaiting her response. That made her smile.
Chemo might’ve killed a lot of stuff, but the part of her that had always enjoyed keeping a man on the edge of his seat had survived. After counting to ten “just because,” she replied.
All set here. Not to brag, but I’ve been known to be a pretty good traveler. No need for hand-holding. ;-)
Not that, in another lifetime, she wouldn’t enjoy holding his hand.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth while waiting for the little dots to start dancing on the screen. They lit up almost immediately—confirmation of his workaholic status. She grinned, assuming he got the reference to her former career. Might he respond with something clever this time?
Thanks for the reminder. Always enjoy working with a pro. See you tomorrow.
She frowned, doubting he intended any kind of double entendre with that “pro” remark. Just as well. She really could not abide falling in lust with her publicist.
That said, there was no reason not to dig into her old wardrobe and ditch the Birkenstocks for a couple of weeks. She had less than twenty-four hours to convince herself that this trip across Europe—a return to her natural habitat—might be exactly what she needed to start to feel like her old self again.
Chapter Two
Mitch hit “Send” on a detailed, lengthy email to his new assistant, Rebecca. His blood pressure spiked each minute it took her to respond. These next two and a half weeks could kill him—literally. Delegating his workload to his first employee felt as prudent as handing his credit card to a teenage girl. In his experience, no one ever did anything quite as he expected. Not even when he mapped out explicit instructions.
He glanced out the airline gate’s plate glass window, but the behemoth plane blocked the view of the runway. His mouth filled with a sour taste. He’d have to board it—and several more—to accompany Peyton on her European book tour. Her publisher, Savant Press—also his former employer—had pushed the US release date back to avoid competing with the launch of other notable memoirs and biographies, but its European launch kicked off today.
When Mitch first got the call for help from Logan Prescott after Savant had recommended him, he’d popped champagne. After clawing his way into college and then New York publishing, he’d been derailed by an ill-fated office romance. He’d spent the rest of his career at Savant repairing that damage and also fighting the old-guard PR team with then-fresh ideas about how to create buzz through digital and social media. Seven months ago, he’d taken the plunge and founded his own PR firm, List Launch. Now he had full autonomy and the potential for much more income—or utter failure.
Savant’s faith in him was vindicating, but he’d have to perform well to keep that pipeline open. Wrangling multiple international publishers and having them apprise him of their plans was always a challenge, but he’d nailed it all down as usual. It was unfortunate, of course, that Logan’s schedule was too rigid to work around, but Peyton was the primary draw for this book. The hardest part of this particular job would be motivating his unenthusiastic author.
To date, he’d leveraged the Prescott legacy to get wide media coverage and help secure several major media endorsements for the memoir despite Peyton’s reluctance to exploit her name—a position that made no sense. He would’ve relished having had any advantages in life. In any case, this trip meant Peyton could no longer avoid him. Thank God, because they had work to do.
A quick glance at his watch and then at the airline personnel at the check-in desk had his knee jiggling. Boarding would begin in ten minutes, yet there was no sign of his client.
When he turned off his iPad and slipped it into his leather backpack, he caught sight of Peyton’s haunting book-cover image peering up at him. Those eyes. That mouth. Her despondent face washed a whirlpool of acid around his stomach and up into his chest.
He closed his eyes, but the memories of his father’s losing battle with glioblastoma surfaced anyway. Memories that had convinced him to rely on Rebecca’s summary of Peyton’s memoir rather than read it cover to cover as he should have. Atypical of him, but he’d do anything to avoid revisiting that grief.
If Peyton hadn’t been a client who could garner major visibility for his young firm, he might’ve declined the job altogether. But her memoir could make her the success story that took his business to the next level.
Unlike with his dad, he planned to maintain a polite but distant professional relationship with her to protect himself from the sorrow he’d feel if her cancer returned. But to date, she’d survived and written a book. By now he assumed she must be well enough to endure the grueling schedule of media events and interviews, signings, and parties. First, however, she’d have to show up.
After fishing his phone out of his pocket, he typed:
Are you in the airport yet?
Fifteen seconds passed before she read the message and responded.
Of course. I’m familiar with TSA requirements. Waiting for my bar tab. See you soon.
He felt his eyes bulge. She’d been relaxing while he fretted at the gate? If she made a habit of last-minute appearances, he’d need blood pressure meds.
Mitch’s research had revealed her to be gorgeous, funny, and daring . . . a killer combo. He’d developed a little crush by the time he’d read several blog posts and surfed her social media. Of course, that cover photo exposed the ravages of cancer treatment.
Her physical scars would heal, but if watching his father suffer had permanently changed Mitch, he could only imagine what cancer had done to Peyton’s psyche. He then quieted the voice that reminded him he wouldn’t have to imagine anything if he’d read the book.
His phone pinged.
P.S. I noticed we had a free evening on Thursday, so I took the liberty of making reservations for dinner in the Trastevere neighborhood of Rome at Enoteca Ferrara. They have the best amatriciana, and the sommelier will pair some nice wines for us.
When another passenger bumped into him, he started breathing again. Turning his attention back to the screen, he only had to picture Danielle’s face and remember her duplicity in order to resist the temptation of Peyton’s spirited messages. He thought up a dry response to ensure that she’d never find him interesting.
That’s thoughtful, thank you. Let’s play it by ear, though.
We have a lot to accomplish on this trip and shouldn’t risk wearing ourselves out.
He hit “Send” with a heavy sigh. God, he sounded so boring. Three dots pulsed on his screen, followed by her reply.
I can’t accomplish anything if I’m malnourished. Are you sure you want to risk letting me cozy up to the locals for dinner company? Roman men can be very persuasive. Rumor has it that I’ve been talked into doing crazy things on the Spanish Steps. I need a chaperone. Tag—you’re it.
He fought a smile, imagining her being the center of attention and dashing off on any adventure that came her way. Maybe he’d been wrong and cancer hadn’t killed her spirit.
He put his thumbs to work.
You win.
More dots.
Oh, good. Always my preferred outcome. Signing my check now. See you soon.
He tucked his phone in his pocket, too aware of the pleasant flutter in his heart.
Hadn’t he learned his lesson? Years of hard work and careful planning should not be put at risk over an infatuation. His savings had taken a hit after helping pay for his baby sister’s college tuition and updating his mom’s old kitchen. It’d be another decade or longer until he attained financial security. No missteps now, not even for someone as charming as Peyton Prescott.
Savant knew there weren’t any guarantees when it came to publishing, but that wouldn’t stop it from expecting him to deliver. This unspoken expectation was what drove him to accompany Peyton on her first book tour—an act that hadn’t been necessary when he’d handled more-experienced authors. He had one and only one goal for this trip, though—getting Peyton’s book as much buzz as it deserved to push it up the bestseller lists.
He stood and looped his backpack over one shoulder, shuffling to the priority-boarding lane with one more glance at his watch. In the distance, Peyton was making her way down the hallway, pulling a tiny carry-on behind her with a travel pillow tucked under her arm.
