“She was top of the damn class, Talon. In creative writing, no less.”
Malcolm beams like a dad on Christmas morning. “Her thesis was extraordinary. I suspect she’ll have tenure before any of us.”
The guests trickle in, filling the cabin with voices, laughter, and, yes, the smell of too many different kinds of cheese. Renee sets up a signing station on the kitchen table, and Talon signs gamely. I swear, his wrist must hurt after he scrawls his signature on the umpteenth copy, but I love this man, and appreciate him for his generosity.
The last guest to arrive is Erasmus Grant. The hermit’s as mysterious as ever, showing up on foot with a hand-carved side table, wrapped in a red flannel blanket. He sets it down by the fireplace with a satisfied grunt, shakes Talon’s hand, and, after a long pause, gives me a hug that smells like cedar and woodsmoke.
“It’s a side table,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Figure you could use it. There’s a fox carved on the surface underneath.”
I want to cry a little, but settle for grinning and running my hand over the table’s glossy surface. “Thank you, Erasmus,” I say. “It’s perfect.”
He nods, then slips outside with Malcolm, who’s already holding court on the porch. Talon disappears into the kitchen with Renee and Simone, leaving me alone for a second with the hum of voices and the way the light catches dust motes in the air.
I walk over to my desk, sit, and run my hand over the cool surface. It’s like a throne, and it’s mine.
Simone sidles up behind me, tucking her blonde hair behind one ear. “It’s really happening, isn’t it?” she whispers.
“What?” I ask, but I know what she means.
“This. All of it. The happy ending. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see the day, babe.”
I snort. “It’s not a happy ending. It’s just the next part of our story. Where we’ve worked out the major obstacles, and everything’s worth it.”
Sim gives me a squeeze, then smiles.
“I’m so happy for you, Kat. Love you, weirdo.”
“Right back at you.”
The party builds. There’s too much food, the wine flows, and at one point Talon gets roped into reading a passage from his next book aloud to the group. He picks a scene that’s all banter, but his voice is deep and smooth and the crowd eats it up. I hide in the corner, listening, feeling the pride bubble up in my chest.
Later, I’m out on the porch, two sips into a glass of Prosecco when I hear the soft creak of the porch step behind me. I don’t have to turn to know who it is: the jittery energy, the way the footsteps hesitate at the threshold. Only one person in the worldcan radiate both self-importance and deep, squirming guilt like this.
“Hey, Kat,” Jonah Everett says, hovering a full arm’s length behind me. Talon’s agent is a small, balding man, wearing city sneakers and an expensive windbreaker.
I keep my eyes on the trees, watching the ghost of my breath in the cold. “Jonah. Nice of you to make the trip.”
He sidles up, hands jammed into his jacket pockets, body hunched as if he expects the porch rail to collapse under his sins. “I know I’m not your favorite person, Kat,” he starts, and I have to snort.
“That’s not how I’d put it,” I say, voice flat. “You’re not even in my top ten least favorite people. But keep going.”
The agent lets out a tense, brittle laugh, glancing away, then down at his shoes. “You want the world’s shortest apology?” he says.
I shrug, arms folding over my chest. “If you’ve got it.”
He nods, licks his lips, fidgets with a button on his sleeve. “I’m sorry. For everything. For the setup, the Sweet Lies thing, for not warning you what you were walking into. I was… well, I was being a literary agent, which is basically being a glorified butler. I’m used to doing whatever it takes to get my authors into a groove, but maybe I went too far this time.”
He rubs his palms together, like he’s trying to kindle fire from shame. “I really didn’t think anyone would get hurt. It’s all transactional in my world. I thought Talon was just being Talon, and you have to realize we’ve used Sweet Lies a million times before. Well maybe not a million—” He cuts off, shakes his head.
“Yeah, but we’re all real people,” I say, not even hiding the edge. “Every single girl who came up here.”
At least Jonah has the grace to look ashamed.
“I know what you’re saying,” he says. “But the other girls didn’t seem to care. They were happy with their fat paychecks, and some are still working for Sweet Lies. What I didn’t expect was that Talon would fall in love. Or that you would. I didn’t know people actually did that anymore.”
I let the silence stretch. My head’s a mess of contradictory feelings: I want to forgive him, to punch him, to roll my eyes and move on. Instead I just stand there, watching the frost gather on the porch rail, arms hugged tight over my chest.
“Thank you for your apology,” I say at last.
