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1
SUSAN
“It’s not working, Susan,” my agent, Elena, announces over the Zoom meeting I have set up in my study. The study is, of course, just a sectioned-off part of my bedroom. I live in a matchbox apartment in Manhattan, and let me tell you, rent is not cheap here.
I blanch, sitting up straighter on my chair. “Wait, they’re breaking off the contract?”
Elena shakes her head. “No, not yet. But you’ve missed three deadlines. Your editor is not very happy with you right now.”
I fidget. Guilt gnaws at me, making my stomach churn.
“You’re a talented writer, Sooz. But hard work means something in this industry, as does respecting the time of your editorial team.”
“It’s not that,” I say. I’m not one of those authors who throw tantrums whenever they feel like it. I’ve always been disciplined. Till now.
I had a bad breakup back in April and let’s just say, a part of me lost my will to write that day.
I haven’t submitted anything to my editor since July, despite the many follow-up calls and emails. I sent her a partial which she said she loved. But that was back in June.
I look out the window, watching the last leaf come off the tree. It’s late November, and the graveled streets of New York are slippery with sleet. “Tell me you have something,” Elena says.
“I don’t. You need to get me more time,” I say, raking the hair away from my face. “Please, Elena.”
Elena’s face puckers. She discovered me in her slush pile twelve years ago. When my first book didn’t sell on submission, she encouraged me to go indie. That book became my first New York Times bestseller, and I haven’t looked back.
“Is this still about your breakup?”
“No,” I lie. The irony is I don’t even miss or want George back. It’s more about the betrayal, and the fact that I can’t even have a stable relationship despite writing about swoony men who give their all to the heroines. See, my entire identity is romance books. I’ve grown up reading and loving them. Writing them is how I pay the bills. What does it say about me that I’ve never experienced that kind of love, or happily ever after, in my own life?
Elena sighs. “I can get you two more months, but you’ll have to give me something by then.”
I nod excitedly. “That’s fine.”
Elena leans forward on her elbow, her gaze on me. “I’m counting on you, Sooz. Get it right this time. Do whatever it takes—even getting away if it’ll get your creative juices flowing.”
After she’s gone, I stare at my reflection on the screen. Even though I live in one of the most exciting cities in the world, I barely have any social life or friends. Most days, I don’t even leave the apartment. I even get my groceries delivered.
My phone chimes with a text. It’s Elena. I expect the worst, but when I open it, I realize it’s a link to an Airbnb listing. She is really serious about me getting away.
Another text.A fresh perspective really does help.
I sigh. She’s serious.
I’m not much of a traveler, but something about the listing just pulls me in. It’s a cozy cabin, perched on top of a mountain in upstate New York, just a few miles from the Canadian border. It’s not somewhere I would usually visit, but it’s surrounded by a gorgeous pine forest, just a few miles away from a small town called Wishing. It’s perfect.
The description reads:Artie’s place is a rare find. It’s usually booked.
I can feel the wheels in my head turning. I check the listing. There’s an opening for today! The dates disappear after the end of November, and I can practically feel the magical place slipping between my fingers like sand.
I have to go there.
It’s pretty easy on the pocket too. Without thinking twice, I book the place. It’s hard to navigate the website at first, and I’m supposed to contact the host or something, but I can’t wait for that. The best thing about the place is that it’s self check-in, so I probably don’t even have to meet the owner. As soon as I book the place, an automatic list of rules appears in my inbox along with the icon of the host.
I can’t see his face clearly in the photo. It’s small and blurry. He’s wearing a red flannel t-shirt, standing in front of the cabin. He’s huge—from the picture I guess he’s at least a foot taller than me but I can’t be sure. My legs squirm under me, and I change my mind about not meeting the host. I hope he drops by once.
Hey, I just booked the place and I’ll be checking in today,I message him.
I head to my closet to pack up my bag of clothes—mostly jackets, coats, and buffers that’ll keep me warm. On a whim, I pick out a lacy bra with matching panties, the only luxury lingerie I own. Briefly, my mind flashes back to the mysterious, faceless host Artie. I shake my head. I can’t believe I’m packing lingerie for a stranger.
