“Trust me,” he said, helping and guiding me step by step. “It’s not food-related. This time.”
When he took the blindfold off, we were standing in the bar, but the lights were dim, and hanging from the rafters were twenty tiny string lights clipped with Polaroids of me writing, of our dates, of early pages of my manuscript, of that first night I let him read Chapter One.
On the bar itself was a cake.
In icing, it read:
“A Second Chance” – Coming Soon to a Shelf Near You”
I blinked hard.
“You did this?”
He shrugged. “Just a little something for my favorite author.”
“I can’t believe it.”
He stepped in close. “Believe it. This town is about to know what the rest of us already do, that you’re the real damn deal.”
Later that night, I lay beside him in bed, listening to the late October breeze rattle the trees outside the window. I held the proof copy of my book in my hands, still too stunned to flip through it again.
He traced his fingers along my bare arm. “Are you proud of yourself yet?”
I turned toward him. “I think I’m getting there.”
And I was.
Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t waiting to be chosen. I had chosen myself.
And the world was finally listening.
Chapter 35
Blair
The sound of the delivery truck idling out front made my heart thud against my ribs. I threw open the front door of Greyson’s house, no, our house now, and there it was. A dozen stacked boxes, each one filled with copies ofmybook. My name is on the cover, my words on the pages.
My knees nearly buckled.
“Bee!” Greyson called from the kitchen. “Is that them?”
I nodded, tears already blurring my vision. “They’re here.”
He strode toward me, barefoot and shirtless, his hair still damp from his morning shower. He looked like a scene from a dream, but he was real, solid, and smiling as he pulled me into his arms.
“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, kissing my temple. “My honey bee did it.”
I clung to him, burying my face in his chest. “I can’t believe it’s real.”
“It’s real,” he murmured. “And it’s just the beginning.”
We spent the next hour unpacking the boxes and lining them up along the bookshelf he’d built for me in the living room. The cover shimmered under the soft light, deep violet with gold lettering, like something sacred.
Later that afternoon, Madison stopped by with Olive, her wild curls bouncing as she giggled in the sling, beaming at me. Madison was holding a bottle of wine and wearing her usualcrooked grin.
“Got something for you,” I said, retrieving one of the fresh copies from the shelf. I had signed it with shaking hands that morning. Madison’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Are you giving me homework?”
“Open it.”
