I close my eyes, taking in a deep breath. Luckily, my afternoon of reading has left me in a tranquil state of mind. “Could you check again? I’m here for the SVP event, andmy assistant, Hilary, extended my reservation for the entire week. Hilary Jacobs? Maybe it’s under her name?”
“Ah, here it is. There must have been a mix-up, but we have a Nick Jacobs, checking in today and checking out the day after Christmas?”
I let out a sigh of relief. “That must be me.”
“The good news is I have your reservation. The bad news is your room isn’t quite ready just yet.”
I check my watch again, though I know full well we are past the designated check-in time. I don’t really want to be that person, but I do have a formal event I need to be at in an hour. “Do you know when it might be ready? I was hoping to shower and change before the party tonight.”
“I’m not sure, as we’ve had some staffing challenges today, but I promise it will be ready by the time the party is over.”
Given that the holiday ball is scheduled to end at midnight, I would damn well hope so. But I know this man himself isn’t responsible for the situation, so I make sure my voice is calmer than the turmoil roiling my stomach. “Is there a place I could shower and change?”
“Yes, actually. We just put in a new spa. You can get ready there, sir. My apologies for the inconvenience.”
“Fantastic.” I grab my bags and follow the man out of the lobby.
He leads me out into the cold, to a smaller building set in the back of the inn. He points out where the holiday party will be held, in the converted barn, and gives me a cursory tour of the property. Apparently, when the weather is good, there are all kinds of outdoor activities on the grounds.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like the weather is going to be good. The chill in the air is biting, and those heavy clouds seem to droop more and more each time that I look up.
I hurry into the spa building, making a mental note to see if Hilary made a reservation for a massage. My shoulders are perpetually tight from sitting in front of my computer all day, even with my fancy chair, and I could use one. The facilities here are small, but clean and warm. I don’t let myself linger in the shower. My grooming routine doesn’t extend much beyond combing my hair and brushing my teeth. I dress in my suit, begrudgingly tying the only tie Hilary snuck into my bag, a holiday print.
I wonder if Jess ever made it here. Somehow I don’t think she checked in while I was waiting in the lobby. I would have known if she’d been in the same room with me. I’m sure of it.
Maybe she’s going to bail, just not show up for this ridiculous, self-aggrandizing awards ceremony. I don’t know if I would be relieved or disappointed. The pang in my chest makes me think I’d lean toward the latter, loathe though I am to admit it.
I delay walking back into the freezing cold for as long as possible, but the party started a few minutes ago, so I can’t delay the inevitable any longer. I don’t know what to do with my bags, but I figure I should just bring them with me, find a corner to stash them in until I’ve accepted my award and can get the hell out of there.
To my room, I hope.
The air stings my cheeks as I stride quickly over to the barn. The snow has finally started falling, floating downin puffy white flakes. When I step through the doors of the party, I do my best not to let out an audible groan.
I’ve attended this holiday ball every year since signing my contract with SVP. I know my role with my publisher, and it doesn’t just include writing bestselling books. Part of my “brand” involves attending in-person events, schmoozing with my readers, and generally being a pretty face. There aren’t many of us straight men out here writing romance, and sometimes my job requires me to be more of a show pony.
I’d like to say that I hate it, and sometimes I do, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t also love the thrill of validation. Think of me what you will.
This year, SVP has outdone themselves. It looks like Christmas has thrown up all over this huge old barn. The beams crossing the vaulted ceiling are wrapped in lights, as is every single post or pole or stationary object in the room. I spot three giant trees, each one decorated with enough ornaments to stock a Walmart. The tables, arranged in front of the small stage at the back of the room, are all covered in either red or green tablecloths, large floral centerpieces resting at the center of each one.
Jess is going to love it.
It’s the first thought that enters my mind. Again.
I’m so fucked.
I push it out of my head and head to the check-in table. The woman sitting there takes my bags, hands me two drink tickets, and lets me know that Jessica Carrington has not checked in yet.
Yeah, I asked about that last part. Purely because Iwant to see her before we’re standing up on that stage together. It’s a business decision, really.
I can’t help the niggling worry at the back of my mind that she hasn’t arrived because she’s stranded somewhere. What if she took a Lyft from the train station and got into some horrible accident? What if she had to abandon the vehicle and is now trudging along in the snow? What if she fell and broke her ankle and is stranded with no means of survival? Jess is not the kind of person who can last long without heating, plenty of food, and lots of cozy blankets.
My intrusive thoughts are interrupted by SVP’s publicity director, who comes over to slip her arm through mine and lead me into the fray. I’m halfway grateful for the distraction, as I was about to charge out of the barn and march off to find Jess.
The room slowly fills with people as I’m dragged around, reintroduced to higher-ups, shaking hands and kissing babies. Well, there aren’t any babies at this party, but the feeling stands. No one asks more than cursory questions about my writing, instead focusing on publicity hits and movie options. It’s a drag, but I know it’s part of the deal so I try not to let my growing ire show.
I enviously watch some of the other writers in attendance as they hug one another, squealing with excitement. The romance community is vibrant and supportive and strong, but I’ve never really been a part of it.
My first manuscript—the one that scored me the six-figure deal I’d never allowed myself to dream of—had a happy ending when I sent it out on submission. Of course it did; all romances must. At the time, I was in a loving,committed relationship with a woman I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with. It was easy to see my characters riding off into the metaphorical sunset because it was nothing less than what I had planned for myself.
