Closer to a year at this point. It might be longer. I stoppedkeeping track over the holidays when I descended into a three-month stretch of using my hand and an old T-shirt to get off so I could feel something other than bitter frustration.
I was serious when I said no one’s caught my eye or held my attention for longer than a couple seconds. The women I meet are all fine. Lovely people who will make a guy really happy one day, but they haven’t been for me.
I need better than fine.
“Oh.” Quincy clears her throat. “That’s … good for you. Or, I’m sorry?”
“Your compliments mean so much to me.” I dodge the napkin she throws at my head, turning to apologize when it lands on the table behind us that’s now occupied by new patrons. “Good for you for not settling. Don’t waste your time on men who think parking under an overpass during a tornado is safe.”
“We’re doomed, aren’t we?” Her chuckle is soft, tired. She lifts her coffee mug in my direction, a peace offering in the gesture. “Here’s to finding your haboob girl.”
“She’s out there. Probably waiting for the dust to settle.”
“Your jokes are terrible, which means it’s time to take me back to my car. It’s getting late, and I’ve exceeded my Sebastian Dunn tolerance for the day.”
“I should quit while I’m ahead.” I grab my wallet out of my pocket and set down a couple of bills. “But I’m not worried. I’ll get you to change your tune one of these days.”
“I don’t know about that.” Quincy slides out of the booth and stands. “You’re going to have to keep trying.”
“We have months before I leave, Monroe.” I stand too. She might be tall at five nine, but I tower over her. I’m glad when she has to tilt her head back to meet my gaze. “It’s a good thing my determination has always been one of my best qualities.”
The days after getting back from Miami pass in a hazy blur of live streams, Q&A sessions, and a dinner at Cooper’s house where Sebastian and I tell our friends about chasing Claudia. Two more tropical systems form in the Atlantic, but a weak Bermuda high keeps them out at sea.
My social media exploded after Sebastian tagged me in that photo with my ski goggles and helmet. A hundred thousand new followers rolled in. I’ve caught myself scrolling through his profile and staring at the snapshot on more than one occasion before I realize what I’m doing and shove my phone under a couch cushion so I’m not tempted to pick it up again.
Falling into a routine is easy. I balance my time between work and helping Mia and Harlow with the thick of wedding planning. Centerpieces and napkin colors are picked. Bridesmaid dresses get ordered, the guest list is finalized, and we sit on my porch in the early evenings, sharing a bottle of wine and unwinding while we talk about our days.
The third Friday of July arrives, bringing with it a temptation to step away from my computer early. It’s hard to focus when I look out the window in my office and find one of those rare summer days without an afternoon storm taunting me.
There’s a light breeze, a cloudless sky.
The temperature is somewhere between stifling and almost tolerable, and some fresh air sounds nice.
I close out of the tabs I’ve been working on, pausing when I see an unread email sitting in my inbox. I frown, heart climbing up mythroat when I click the subject line and scan the first few words. My mouth drops open as I read farther down, pulse spiking when I reach the end of the message.
I have to read it a second time to make sure it’s real.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. “Holyshit.”
I grab my phone and FaceTime Harlow before I start to spiral. I pace around the room, anxiously waiting for her to pick up. When she does, she’s yawning.
“Quin?” Harlow props her phone against the backsplash on her kitchen counter. She disappears out of the frame, returning with a coffeepot and a mug covered in middle fingers she fills all the way to the top. “Did I miss something important?”
“I have news,” I say, out of breath. Unbelieving. “Give me a second to add Mia.”
“Do I need to sit down for this? Do you have a stalker? It was only a matter of time before some creep on the internet found out where you lived.”
“There’s no stalker. Hang on.” I tap the screen and hit Mia’s contact info, smiling when her face takes up half my screen. “Can you hear me?”
“This is fun.” Mia turns and pulls the curtains behind her desk closed. When she does, I see the printout fromThe New York Timesbestseller list Harlow and I gifted her hanging on the pink wall in her office. “Do we want to get dinner tonight?”
“Something happened.” I sit on the couch shoved in the corner of the room. My hands tremble, and I scroll to the top of the email. A third read-through confirms it’s still true, and I burst out laughing. “The National Weather Service wants me to come in for an interview.”
There’s a moment of silence, then havoc unfolds.
Mia shrieks. Harlow rambles off a passionate soliloquy about badass women and putting men in their places. I fight back tears, soaking in their excitement for me and holding it close to my chest.
“Quin!” Mia claps. “This ishuge.”
