by Beck, Jamie
His jaw barely twitched. He masked his feelings so well it made him hard to read. That kind of man was hard to trust, except that everything else about him seemed earnest.
She fidgeted in her seat. “The happy ending is that Claire—the old friend—is now engaged to my brother, and she’s happier than she would’ve ever been with Todd.”
Saying Todd’s name aloud always brought up a bit of bile. He’d bewitched her, which fact humiliated her now. That her buried pain could resurface as sharp and insistent as a slam to the funny bone made it all worse.
“How can you know that?” Mitch’s flat, unsympathetic voice caused her a moment of regret about telling the sordid tale.
“She’s had a crush on Logan since childhood, for starters. But mostly because Todd destroys hearts. Not that I shouldn’t have known that from the way he dumped Claire, but still.” She scowled, tapping the edge of her plate with her fingernail. What’s done is done. “He would’ve let her down someday. In a way, you could argue I saved her from wasting years of her life.”
At the cost of one or two of her own.
“You must’ve fallen hard for him to have been willing to hurt your friend so deeply.” The intensity of Mitch’s scrutiny pinned her to her seat while making her hot and restless. “How did he let you down?”
She closed her eyes and pictured Todd’s face two days after her diagnosis, when she’d caught him pacing in his bedroom in front of the drawers containing her things and the open suitcase he’d laid on the floor. He’d turned to her with a pathetic shrug and guilty face. “I’m sorry, but I can’t deal with the uncertainty. The idea of watching you suffer and be so sick . . . I don’t know what to say except I didn’t sign up for this.”
She must’ve mumbled that last part aloud, because Mitch asked, “What?”
There’d be no avoiding the most humbling part of the story now. “He left me the minute I got diagnosed.” Once she got the courage to look up, she caught Mitch’s expression hardening. “Having now gone through chemo, I can say I hated dragging anyone through that suffering with me. But Todd was so weak and disloyal about it, like I was supposed to feel sorry for him. In the end I got what I deserved, though, given how I’d treated Claire.”
Mitch didn’t offer platitudes, not that she would’ve believed any. At the moment, he seemed lost in thought . . . almost spooked. She poured herself another glass of wine to try to wash down her self-disgust.
“Seems we’ve both been double-crossed by an ex.” He pushed the pasta around with his fork like he was poking around his brain, searching for more words. “Logan must be quite adroit to have managed dating Claire while remaining so involved with you and this project.”
“He tiptoed on a high wire for a while, no doubt, with him trying to help me mend fences with her. He never expected to fall in love, but he fell so fast and hard I still can’t quite believe it.”
“Claire must be very forgiving.” Mitch’s expression softened around a respectful smile, setting off a pang of envy in Peyton.
“Well, in my defense, the first time I met Todd, I didn’t know he was her Todd. As soon as I learned the truth, I backed away. But then he dumped Claire and chased me down, made me feel completely and unconditionally wanted. I . . . well, I regret it all very much. As for Claire, she hasn’t forgiven me easily. It’s taken almost two years, and even still, there’s a fragility to our new relationship. She might never trust me again, not that I blame her.”
Mitch nodded. “I guess no one goes through life without regrets.”
“Like yours with Danielle?” That regret, however, was an error of judgment, not one of betrayal on the scale she’d achieved. “Or is there something else you regret?”
Please, God, let there be something to put us on even footing.
He stared straight into her eyes, the assessing gaze sending heat racing through her. As each second ticked by without a new confession, she withered bit by bit. No doubt he pitied her, and she hated that almost as much as she hated what she’d done.
“I’ve no regrets that will make you feel better right now.” He reached across the table and clasped her hand so she couldn’t withdraw. His touch, warm and firm, made her heart leapfrog into her throat while she braced for whatever he might say next. “I’m not judging you, Peyton. The heart has a mind of its own. Relationships and love are complicated. I’ve certainly never figured them out.”
“Me neither.”
His thumb caressed the top of her hand, although she wasn’t sure he was even aware of it. “If things had turned out differently—if Todd had been the true love of your life for the next fifty years—maybe it would’ve been worth the loss of a friend. Who can say?”
No one had made that suggestion yet. Even she hadn’t considered it. What if Todd had been her happily ever after? Did the rarity of lasting love make it worth any sacrifice? No. Some costs are too high, some betrayals too great.
“I doubt that. It was beyond stupid to think I could be happy with love I’d stolen from my friend.” She swallowed with effort.
Mitch frowned, now squeezing her hand. “Maybe it was misguided, but mistakes are part of life, and hopefully, we learn from them. Don’t beat yourself up any more than you already have. It’s done. You’re a different person today than you were then. Just be who you are now. It’s enough.”
Is it? Thank God she had the awareness to keep that question to herself despite being distracted by the warmth of his touch. Then, as if he’d heard that thought, Mitch released her hand and poured himself a second glass of wine. Already light-headed, she begged off when he offered her more, too.
He set down the bottle and raised his glass to make a small toast. “To the next chapter.”
When he took a healthy swallow, her heart tapped against her ribs like someone banging on a door, demanding attention. This one! This one!
Looked like she hadn’t learned a thing from her past mistake. She couldn’t afford to make another, though. That thought was all that kept her from reaching across the table to hold his hand again. And yet, sitting there, a part of her—a pretty big part—wanted to test the waters.
“You’re a good man, Mitch.” Too good for her. “I hope when you decide to follow your heart again, it brings you happiness.”
“Thank you.” He shifted in his seat, a rosy tint filling his handsome face. “And thank you for dragging me out tonight. I know you’re exhausted, but I did enjoy this meal . . . and your company. Perhaps we should wrap things up and get back now. I’ve got to take advantage of the time-zone difference to catch up on work.”
Tactful as always, but his desire to put distance between them couldn’t be clearer than if he’d painted a thick red line across the table. At least her initial plan to soften him up had worked. Their tentative friendship seemed to mellow him a bit. He hadn’t even suggested she prep with him tonight. Kind of cold comfort, but better than nothing.
“Of course.” She wiped her mouth, wishing she had one bite of pasta left on her plate—something tasty and filling after having emptied her guts onto the table. “Off to Barcelona tomorrow.”
“You sound sad about that, but I thought you loved to travel.”
“What we’re doing hardly qualifies as travel. What I love is getting lost in a city—meeting strangers with no agenda, exploring alleys and local shops, taking off on an unexpected adventure. No plan. No rules. Only an open mind and heart. After chemo I made a personal vow not to waste time doing things that didn’t fulfill me, yet here I am, stuck in sales mode.” She glanced at him in time to note his pale face. She dared push him a bit further. “Is it possible to revisit the schedule—maybe move things around a bit to make time for some minor detours?”
She’d love to revisit a few of her old favorites with him.
He stared at her, head tilted to one side, eyes filled with stormy emotion. She hadn’t meant to make him feel like crap about doing his job. Before he responded, she changed the subject. “In any case, I wish I w
ere multilingual. I don’t love trusting a translator to get things right in these interviews.”
Mitch flinched at the sudden change. He then eyed the waitstaff and made the universal motion for “Check, please.”
“I’m sorry you’re stuck on this book tour with me when you could be making other use of your time.” His soft tone made it seem as if he were talking to himself. Then with a more confident tone, he assured her, “Don’t worry about the translators, though. The editors screen the interviewers. Since your publishers’ interests are aligned with yours, you can relax.”
“Mitch, I didn’t mean to imply that I don’t enjoy your company . . .”
“It’s fine.” He waved away her comment without meeting her gaze. After Mitch signed the check, he tucked his wallet away. “Shall we share a taxi?”
“Of course.” She stood, having no idea how to soothe his hurt feelings. He waited for her to lead them out of the restaurant. “Will you sleep tonight, or will you be worrying about the flight?”
“A little of both.” He’d resumed his Optimus persona, no doubt thanks to her thoughtless remarks. “We have a handful of interviews at Voz Fresca late tomorrow morning, and then that live reading at La Central in the evening.”
She shuddered. La Central was a prominent bookstore. One she’d visited as a tourist a few times, often witnessing large crowds. Going back as a debut author made her feel like a bull being led to the ring. “That’s going to be so hard.”
“With your charisma, you’ll be terrific with a crowd.” His smile might’ve convinced her if something sad in his eyes hadn’t thrown her.
“Thank you.” She searched for a taxi while trying not to panic about the reading. She’d tabbed a number of excerpts ranging from the lighthearted to the darkest, but while the darkest might be the most honest and raw, she doubted she had the courage to stand in front of a crowd and recite those. Besides, most people might not find them uplifting. Of course, trying to think of any part of her trauma as entertainment was rather surreal to begin with. “I can’t decide which passage to read. Which parts of the book do you think would be best?”
He stumbled . . . or didn’t he? She couldn’t be sure, but his frown didn’t boost her confidence. “A memoir is deeply personal, so my advice is to read what feels most relevant to you. I can’t choose for you, although I will listen if you want to practice.”
A taxi slowed to a stop, and Mitch opened the door for her. Despite all the nice manners, his vague response disappointed her. She wanted guidance, or at least another false compliment to bolster her courage.
Instead he waved her inside with a little bow at the waist. “Your carriage awaits.”
Given what lay ahead, she didn’t much feel like a queen . . . unless you counted Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine.
The next afternoon, Mitch pressed his forehead to the wall outside the conference room and cursed his assistant under his breath. “Sorry, Rebecca. My patience is thin.”
Very thin, considering the restless night he’d spent replaying his dinner conversation with Peyton, the bumpy flight he’d endured that morning, and the fact that Peyton had been less than ebullient with the first two bloggers during this spate of interviews. “I’ve got five minutes to digest this, so start again and explain how you not only missed some key long-lead pitch deadlines for Kendra Khan’s next release but also informed her that the Boston Globe was reviewing her book when, in fact, it is not.”
“I’m sorry. I only realized yesterday that two were still sitting in my draft folder. There are so many emails every day—”
“But you assured me two weeks ago they’d all been sent.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing a breath to lower his blood pressure.
“I made a mistake.”
A big one! He would fix it, but he wished he didn’t need to spend his day doing so when Peyton seemed to be foundering.
“Which doesn’t explain the mix-up with the Globe.” He pushed off the wall as Peyton returned from the restroom. Her expression suggested she hadn’t heard him snap at Rebecca. She glided past him and into the conference room, leaving him some privacy. “I’ll call Kendra and the Globe reviewer to deal with that mess, but you must go back through everything else related to her upcoming release and triple-check it, then email me to confirm there aren’t any more errors. After that, go one by one through the checklist I left you and send me a status report on those items, too.”
“All today?”
“Yes, today. I’m thousands of miles away, and you’ve shaken my confidence in your ability to manage what I’ve left behind. Check each and every item to confirm that there are no more surprises coming my way. If there is anything else you need to tell me, please do it now. I’d like to get back inside before the next interview begins.”
“That’s all. Looks like I’m in for a long day and night.” Her put-upon tone might’ve gotten her fired if he didn’t need her help—unreliable as it was—while he was abroad.
“I’ll be waiting for those reports.” He hung up, not even a little sorry for his curtness. Her mistake would ding his reputation with Kendra and her publisher. He didn’t need this distraction now, when Peyton seemed off her stride.
Following his call to the Globe, he entered the stuffy conference room to find Peyton pouring herself a fresh glass of water. Picking his way around a too-big credenza and the extra chairs lining the wall, he crossed to her. The old building’s window AC unit barely pumped any cool air into the room. As an added “bonus,” the hideous, sputtering hunk of metal blocked the view from the room’s sole window. “All set?”
“As good as one can be in this prison.” She shrugged with the same malaise with which she’d answered every question thus far.
Somehow, between yesterday and today, she’d lost her mojo. If given the choice, he, too, would rather tour Casa Batlló or walk along the beach, but they both had a job to do, and with Savant breathing down his neck, he couldn’t ease up on her unless she was feeling sick. And considering how Rebecca had screwed up with his other new client, he needed Peyton to hit a home run.
“I’ll grant you, this room isn’t ideal, but you seem preoccupied today. Don’t you feel well?” He remembered learning about the long-tail aftereffects of cancer treatment, although his dad had never gotten that far. Peyton might still be taking medication that could cause lethargy, among other things. Or maybe all that conversation about her ex-boyfriend last night had brought her down.
“I’m tired.” She sipped some water, then chewed on an ice cube. “Nervous about tonight’s reading, too.”
“Oh.” He could fix that—pump her up. Like always, he channeled his middle school baseball coach, Mr. Ruiz, a guy who could always find the right words to encourage and inspire. “I know you’d rather avoid the spotlight, and it must be tough to revisit these topics with strangers. But remember—no one in the audience is being forced to come listen. Everyone who shows up wants to hear your story and cheer you on. They’re making you and your book a priority for their evening, so you need to show up for them. Focus on your mission and all the research that might get funded by your effort. Above all, remember that you’ve written a fine book. Have faith. I’ve no doubt you can make a great connection with the audience.”
“Thanks.” She nodded with a hint of a smile forming. “Good advice.”
Would she, unlike most people, take good advice when offered? He got his answer within two seconds.
“If things go well tonight, can we make good use of the big chunk of free time we have the day we arrive in France? Visit a vineyard outside of Paris and do a champagne tasting?” Her eyes twinkled with enthusiasm. “It’s so close we could easily get back in time for the evening publisher event.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry to be a buzzkill, but you just said you’re tired. I think you need real downtime to build back up for the next events. If you squeeze in side trips, you’ll be exhausted. Like it or not, we have to prioritize.”
She got called back to her seat before he could answer.
Just as well. She and her book—not him—had to remain at the center of attention in the coming weeks. She was, of course, his focus, although he couldn’t lie to himself and pretend that it was for purely professional reasons. He could lie to her, though.
The writer from the Barcelona Review swaggered in and sat down. Medium height, trim, with coal-black hair worn a bit shaggy. The guy’s eyes lit up when he got his first good look at Peyton’s smile, making Mitch’s gut tighten.
“Hello, Miss Prescott. I’m Javier Molina, but friends call me Javi.” He reached across the table to shake her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Javi. Please call me Peyton.”
The little knot in Mitch’s stomach screwed tighter when he thought she was flirting. She’s only smiling, stupid.
Javi set up his phone recorder and then slouched back, feet planted wide apart on the ground, pen in hand. That cocky bastard was trying to intimidate Peyton with his domineering position. “First, let me say I enjoyed the book, although I suspect some of the caustic humor was meant to keep us at a distance.”
“Not exactly,” she muttered.
Javi hesitated but would be disappointed if he expected his silence would force her to elaborate. Mitch had watched her operate with interviewers in Rome. She’d make an excellent trial witness, answering only those questions asked—nothing more or less. Even this spare utterance seemed to have slipped through her fortress wall.
A day or two ago, when his sole focus had been his job and goals, he might’ve faulted her for using a buffer to keep from digging into old wounds. But how could he fault her for that when he found any excuse to bolt from the room whenever her answers began to cut him up inside as they sent him back in time to his dad’s losing battle?
