The Wonder of Now

by Beck, Jamie

  Peace vaporized and the croissants she’d devoured this morning now stewed in stomach acid, giving her cramps. The metal table jiggled from being knocked by her knee. She glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then texted Logan.

  What are you talking about?

  Within seconds, he replied.

  Barcelona Bastard (my nickname for the douche). https://bit.ly/Sh4$i0

  Everything decelerated as if happening in slo-mo—the woman meandering to the table behind her, the worker wiping up a spill from the counter. Nausea soured the otherwise sweet aroma of the shop. She bolted from her seat and burst onto the sidewalk.

  Each pore on her body began to sweat as she opened the link. There he was, the Bastard, alternating between his native tongue and English, calling her book insipid and then airing her mini rant without first playing the obnoxious questions that had prompted it.

  At this point, the video had received eight comments, all in Spanish or Catalan. She didn’t need Google Translate to guess that they were also unflattering. Avoiding that deep dive into pain, she toggled over to his Twitter handle. Fourteen retweets, five replies.

  In the greater scheme of social media, this was a small blip. Almost less than nothing. Her own Twitter account had more followers than the Bastard’s, and Logan’s dwarfed them both. Not that the Bastard had bothered to tag her or her brother. Intentional or an oversight? She couldn’t guess, but as long as she and Logan didn’t reply, his video wouldn’t blast to their followers, too. Maybe the guy had been wary of the backlash, especially from Logan’s devoted fans, so he’d opted for a secretive sabotage.

  The Bastard’s negativity stung even more than she’d expected. Like it had that night, it dragged her self-doubt back up to the surface, where it now ate away at the confidence Mitch had helped her build.

  She started when her phone rang.

  “What?” she snapped at her brother.

  “You watched?”

  “Yes.” She leaned against the building’s brick wall, staring at the traffic. A trim young woman in fabulous red cat-eye sunglasses walked past with her papillon in tow, laughing at someone on the other end of her phone call. So carefree, enjoying the simple pleasure of gallivanting around Paris on a sunny summer day in gorgeous Manolos. The rosettes on the ankle straps taunted Peyton mercilessly.

  “It’s one opinion. From a nobody.” Logan grunted. “PW and Booklist loved the book. Shake him and his jealousy off.”

  As with most things in life, that was easier said than done.

  “Says the guy who doesn’t have to be interviewed or read from the ‘insipid’ thing in front of a crowd again and again.”

  His heavy sigh practically heated her ear. “You’re not going to focus on this one negative review and ignore all the good ones, are you?”

  That incredulous tone made her feel more alone. She couldn’t explain why any criticism always rang more true than any compliment. Could be vanity, or maybe self-doubt was easily stirred in everyone. Everyone but her brother, who seemed to breeze through the world with healthy confidence and an easy smile. This conversation supported her lifelong suspicion that he’d gotten all the really good genes and she’d been stuck with the leftovers.

  Heaving a sigh, she said, “Screw it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I give up.”

  “Give up? Are you quitting the tour?”

  The urge to do exactly that bucked like a bull in the ring. If she ran this time, she’d have to go for good. Maybe even forfeit the advance. Find a way to make it up to the foundation when the donations weren’t as healthy as predicted.

  But she’d be free. Finally free after two years of battles and recovery and slaving away on a book that hadn’t been her true passion. Free to live life on her terms every blessed minute she was given. Free to discover where her next steps should lead.

  Logan’s concerned tone broke her reverie. “Peyton, what’s Mitch say?”

  Ha! Mitch had danced around the subject like a true champ. This morning’s white-lie conversation took on a different meaning in this new context. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  While she’d been spinning mad fantasies about him, he’d been thinking her too weak to handle the truth. She’d be insulted and furious if her constant whining about every obligation of this tour hadn’t in fact painted that unflattering portrait of herself.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, Mitch came through the glass door. She forced a fake smile to buy herself time.

  “All set?” he asked while putting his sunglasses on.

  Her mind took off in different directions. Humiliation hogged center stage. He’d implied that he told white lies to protect the person from pain. But in truth, he’d also lied to her to protect his bread and butter so she’d perform well and further his goals.

  Then the angel on her shoulder elbowed her way to the mic, reminding her that Mitch had a job to do. A job he counted on to take care of the people he actually loved. Peyton had never had that kind of worry or responsibility. Who might she be today if she’d been handed his deck of cards as a teen? Certainly not someone who’d traipsed the world without much thought to anyone but herself.

  Her brother cleared his throat at the other end of the line.

  “Logan, I’ve got to run. I’m fine. All is well.” She dropped her phone back into her purse.

  Confronting Mitch would be satisfying but unproductive. Yelling at him wouldn’t reverse his pitiful impression of her, either. Nor would she respect herself much if she couldn’t find the mettle to finish this damn tour and prove that Barcelonan jerk wrong.

  “Shall we go?” When Mitch smiled, her heart softened. His ability to disarm her with ease should scare her, but she liked it. Honestly, she kind of craved it. “It’s two blocks that way, according to Google Maps.”

  He’d been right to push back on her earlier. She had chosen to publish the book, take the money, fund-raise. At a minimum, she owed everyone involved her best, even if this tour wasn’t how she’d otherwise choose to spend her time.

  “Something wrong?” His brows gathered as he tipped his head to study her face.

  “No.” To force a smile, she recalled when Mitch had taken her hand earlier to steer her around a pile of trouble. That was him in a nutshell—a knight—and she could hardly stay pissed at that. “It’s so pretty out I came to enjoy the fresh air before being grilled in a crowded room of strangers.”

  He shot her a wary look. “Are you ready?”

  “Bring it on.” She winked in the face of Mitch’s surprised expression and then walked toward the publisher’s building, leaving him trailing behind.

  That evening, Mitch hustled with Peyton across the Rue de Rivoli on their way to the bookstore, expecting her to clutch her stomach or make a glib remark—do any of the things she’d done before prior reading events. Although she’d held her own during the earlier interviews, live reading events rattled her most. The imposing stone arches in front of Librairie Galignani—the continent’s first English-language bookstore—could also give anyone pause. Of course, she’d visited and written about this store in her former life, which might explain her apparent lack of nerves when passing through the doors. And her failure to gawk in awe at its magnificent skylight, antique wood floors, and row after row of stuffed walnut bookcases.

  After they met with the proprietor, who then introduced Peyton to the audience, Mitch scanned the crowd while she discussed background details about the memoir. Unlike in Barcelona, no one suspicious stood out in this crowd. At least not yet.

  Another set of updates on that situation helped him to relax. Nine comments, eighteen retweets, no new activity in the past four hours. It wouldn’t blow up now—yesterday’s news and all that. Crisis averted.

  His picnic idea had given them the clean slate they’d needed. Peyton cooperated with him and seemed almost ebullient in her determination tonight. Standing at the podium, she exuded humor a
nd confidence. A marked difference from the first two cities on the tour. The only trouble was that it made her even more appealing, and he was already over the line when it came to his feelings about this woman.

  She set the memoir in front of her and opened it to a marked page. He’d tried more than once to discuss what she planned to read, but she’d shot him down each time. He guessed she’d been protecting him from reliving his own bad memories, but since sharing those old ghosts with her—whose history with cancer made her eminently sympathetic—they no longer seemed quite as chilling.

  As Peyton adjusted the mic, he uncrossed his arms and stretched his neck left and right, his heart beating hard with hope for her to make a good connection with the audience.

  “I guess I’ll dive right in.” She nodded and began.

  “A Small Price to Pay.

  “I hopped around the waiting room on one leg, flapping my arms while humming the chicken-dance song to make Amelia laugh. For ten seconds, I had my life back—my precancer life. The one that involved my famous—or infamous—attention-grabbing antics, usually undertaken to make someone else happy.

  “These past few months, I’ve forgotten what the impulse to be silly felt like. For all intents and purposes, that instinct died the day the doctor set a stopwatch on my life. One that incessantly ticked in my mind, night and day, warning me not to waste time on games while dealing with life-and-death stakes.

  “Fortunately, Amelia’s eighth birthday offered a reason to play. Permission—no, a command—to hit ‘Pause’ on my problems for her benefit. I couldn’t have picked a more grateful audience. She clapped, face flushed with happiness, even as she chided me for the many ways I’d messed up the dance. We were both giggling when, without a whiff of self-consciousness, she asked me to pose with her for a birthday selfie.

  “My first bald selfie.

  “I froze—uncertain—but I couldn’t decline. She’d shown no discomfort about her own hairless face and scalp. I wouldn’t risk allowing my issues to cause her to doubt her confident body image.

  “I adjusted my scarf and crouched beside her, then she snapped the picture.

  “While I squatted there looking at the photo of us and our ‘frameless’ eyes, Amelia noticed one of the gold four-leaf-clover earrings a friend had given me after learning of my diagnosis. Her cool, small fingers flicked it. ‘These are pretty!’

  “‘Thank you. They’re from a friend, for good luck with all of this.’ I gestured around the waiting room, where it sometimes felt like we’d been abandoned. ‘She beat her cancer, so she passed them on to me.’

  “Amelia’s eyes went round. ‘So they really work?’

  “‘It seems so.’ I saw the small holes in her earlobes.

  “‘Maybe my mom can get me a pair.’ She glanced toward the hallway, where her mom had gone to use the restroom. Or, as I suspected, to cry in private, because no mother wants to celebrate her child’s birthday in the cancer ward. Either way, I knew she’d return to Amelia’s side with a reassuring smile.

  “Still, the desperate hope in Amelia’s pale-blue eyes when she glanced back at my earrings kicked me in the chest. I might be too young to die, but at least I’d had a first crush, a first kiss, a college graduation, and several thousands of miles of travel in my rearview mirror. Amelia still slept with stuffed animals.

  “Without thinking, I took out my left earring and set it in her palm. ‘Take this and we’ll share the luck.’

  “‘Is there enough for both of us?’ Her knitted brows, all sincerity and concern, made it hard for me not to cry in front of her. This sweet, unselfish child should not have to endure such anxiety.

  “Somehow I managed to speak past the lump in my throat. ‘Yes! In fact, I think luck doubles when you pass it on.’

  “‘That makes four lucks because your friend passed it to you, so that is two, and now you passed it to me, which makes four! Now we both have double the luck.’ Amelia smiled with pride at her somewhat dizzying mathematics. Obviously quick-witted, yet still so willing to cling to any hope for a cure. She put the earring in her ear and then took another selfie so she could see how it looked. ‘Are you sure your friend won’t be mad at you?’

  “I gently squeezed her thin thigh. ‘I’m positive she’d wish she’d been able to give a pair to you, too.’

  “My chemo sessions ended before Amelia’s. The last time I saw her, I gave her the other earring and a tight hug. I don’t know if they worked for her, or for how long my luck will hold, but I can’t discount the value of the joy they brought us both.

  “No matter the ultimate outcome, those gold earrings were a small price to pay for the gift of Amelia’s happiness and the reminder that, for however long we are on this earth, love and hope will always remain the most important ways we can fill any day.”

  The audience erupted with a round of applause.

  Mitch dabbed the inside corner of his eye before he clapped. If he hadn’t been at Peyton’s side for most of the past twenty-four hours, he’d swear the woman he just watched charm the bookstore audience was an impostor. Confident. A little irreverent. Sexy. Much like the woman he suspected she’d been before her diagnosis.

  This moment—her courage and bright, bright smile—sealed his fate.

  Smitten. Not a masculine word, but apt. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. His heart skipped an extra beat whenever she glanced his way. His chest stretched to the point of exploding because of her triumph here.

  Even if the audience hadn’t responded well, it would’ve still been a victory over her self-doubts.

  Thank God he hadn’t told her about that Barcelonan tool.

  He followed her to the table that had been stocked with books to sign.

  “You’re on fire tonight.” He gripped the back of her chair and leaned close, seeking her body heat. Despite right and wrong, he wanted her. Want didn’t come close to it, actually. He vibrated with need—to touch her, to kiss those lips, to make this woman want to moan his name.

  “Mmm.” She nodded before pulling her pink pen from her purse and smiling at the first woman in line without sparing him a glance. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  She was working. Nothing personal. That’s what he’d told himself more than once since they’d left the coffee shop.

  A bookshop employee handed Peyton a sticky note with the correct spelling of the patron’s name. This routine continued for thirty minutes, during which time Mitch stepped back and let her work.

  Following two rounds of texts with his mother, seventeen emails, and a review of Rebecca’s latest update with Savant, he put his phone in his bag and studied Peyton.

  Today they’d been a true team for the first time. Her successful run of interviews had masked the absence of teasing, nicknames, and lingering looks that had previously mottled their interactions. The professional rapport he’d wanted from the beginning now left him cold and his chest hollow.

  When he got her alone in the cab, he prodded her. “That was fantastic. Let’s grab a drink at the hotel bar to celebrate.”

  “I don’t know. I’m pretty tired.” She slouched against the seat, her iridescent silver skirt billowing around her like a satin sheet.

  “Oh. Well, I don’t want to wear you out.” He looked away. Through the window, the City of Light twinkled all around them. If he hoped to reach his room without making an ass of himself, he had to focus on anything but Peyton. His hand ached from the desire to reach across the seat and grab hold of hers.

  “There are so many things you should’ve seen while in Paris.” The wistful tone of her voice filled him with regret. “I wish we had more time to explore.”

  “We’ll always have the park.” A memory he treasured, even if it meant less to her.

  The reminder wrought a smile from her, but it was too dark to see if she was blushing. “An amuse-bouche—to borrow a food term.”

  “Hm?” he uttered distractedly.

  “The tiny sampler served at many restaurants . .
. like a glimpse of all to come. A taste. Literally, a mouth amuser.” She kissed her fingers as one does to signify something delicious.

  Whatever she said next, he didn’t hear. He couldn’t concentrate on anything but her mouth. Her lips, smeared with petal-pink gloss. Hardly amusing . . . more like succulent. He didn’t even want to resist the helpless sense of tumbling out of control or, in this case, toward her, despite his rules and the lessons he’d learned with Danielle or the fact that this vibrant woman still had a few hurdles to cross before being declared cancer-free. It gutted him to think of her relapsing or worse, and they weren’t even lovers. Could he survive that if they evolved into more than colleagues?

  Dragging his gaze away from Peyton’s mouth, he returned his attention to the city lights until they arrived at the hotel. A few guests sat outside chatting in classic Parisian café chairs. He might’ve liked to enjoy their last night here that way, but she’d already shot him down. With so little pride left, he wouldn’t risk another rejection.

  When they entered the lobby, he started toward the elevator, but she stopped beside the giant potted fern and toyed with a frond. “On second thought, perhaps a Pépa would be a nice way to end the night.”

  “A Pépa?”

  “A cognac-and-vodka cocktail.”

  A surging sense of victory tempted him to spring across the lobby to ring the large silver bell on the check-in desk. Instead, he gestured toward the restaurant and bar area. The sensual space, with its continuation of dark wood floors and walls, brass and silver accents, and bold floral wallpaper set against a field of black, hinted at something mysterious and a bit daring. A warning of what could come of crossing a line with Peyton, yet his restraint faltered with each second.

  In one corner, he spied an old couple. The bald man, dressed in a jacket and tie, leaned forward to taste something sweet the elegant woman with a silver bun wanted to share. They were holding hands across the table, and she cackled at something he said. Their obvious affection—borne of decades of commitment, Mitch imagined—produced such a pang in his chest Mitch had to look away. Might his parents have been like them? He liked to think he’d had a good example of what love and commitment could look like, even if it hadn’t lasted long enough.