Page 42 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

“Saturday. T got me a permit to go caving at Kubla Khan and extended my trip.”

“I see the bromance is still going strong despite the fact that you probably bored his sister to death,” Victory teases.

I glower.

“Dude, all kidding aside,” Flynn says with a serious tone, “I’ve been wanting to do a show about Kubla Khan for years. If I’d known you were setting that up, I’d’ve had a team ready.”

“Sorry, man,” I say. “I only found out half an hour ago. I don’t even know how he pulled it off.”

“Kubla Khan is fitting,” Noah says. “It’s deep, dark, and impossible to reach without a special permit, just like Seth!”

As they crack up and make more jokes, I say, “Bye, assholes,” and end the call.

The screen goes dark, and the quiet rushes in, bringing with it every thought I’ve been trying to outrun. They’re wrong about me being impossible to reach. Ellie found a way in, and I fucking welcomed it.

My gaze drifts to the sketchbook, still open to the page with both our beacons of hope.

Fuck it.

I grab my phone and text Taylor before I can talk myself out of it.

Me: Hey, can I get Eleanor’s address? She left her sketchbook in Saint Aurelle, and I’d like to return it.

Three dots dance on the screen like he’s typing. They disappear, and I grit out a curse. Why am I so fucking nervous? I stare at the screen like a damn teenager waiting for a response from the girl I asked to go to the prom. Just as I look away, a chime rings out.

Taylor: Send it to me. I’ll take care of it.

Me: Thanks, but I can handle mailing it.

I know how important her sketchbook is, and I’m not taking any chances with it. Two minutes go by without a response. What the hell is taking him so long?

Finally, a text rolls in with Ellie’s address.

Me: Thanks.

Taylor: No problem. I appreciate you looking out for her while she was there. She said she had a great time.

“Not great enough to stay,” I say, as I thumb out, Glad to hear it.

Chapter Fourteen

Taylor

The numbers on the invoice I’m preparing blur, and the words might as well be written in a foreign language. I keep telling myself that work and paying bills matter more than the ache in my chest, but it’s a lie that hurts almost as much as my lie to Seth.

I try for the hundredth time to push past the pain, clicking through invoices, answering emails, pretending my relationship with Seth isn’t really over. But I know the truth. Seth isn’t someone who procrastinates. If he wanted to speak with me, he would have asked Taylor for my number days ago. Mailing my sketchbook is an afterthought, a courtesy. That shouldn’t hurt as bad as it does. We were only together for two days. Nobody has that kind of power, do they?

Seth obviously does. Only it doesn’t feel like power. When I think of power, I think of people wielding it. In all the years I’ve worked for Seth, never once has he used his wealth or status to make himself seem better than me, and in the time we spent together, he never did, either.

He’s not the one who caused this pain anyway. I only have myself to blame.

My doorbell chimes, startling me so badly my hand flies off the mouse. Leave it to Seth to send my sketchbook overnight mail. My throat thickens as I push to my feet and make my way out of my office. Why does this feel like the final nail in the coffin?

Buck up, Taylor, and answer the freaking door.

I pull it open, and the air rushes from my lungs. “Seth…?” falls from my lips, raw and full of disbelief. I blink repeatedly to make sure I’m not seeing things. He’s really here, standing on my porch, broad shoulders covered by a black wool coat, hair tousled. Hope claws at me, but it’s hard to think past his troubled eyes, brimming with restraint.

His smile slips through, quick and a little crooked, threatening to pull me under as it did on the island. “Hi, Ellie.”