“Isn’t that what you want? To find love?”

  “Yes, but I came here tonight for you. Because I said I would. Because I thought you wanted all this,” she says, gesturing wildly, encompassing all the party. “Because I wanted to be a woman of my word. Stick to the terms of our bet and show up at your parties.” She sucks in a breath, then raises her chin. “But guess what?”

  “What?”

  She pokes my chest. “I found love already, you dumbass.”

  My brain goes haywire. “You met someone? Here?”

  Who is he? I’ll take him down.

  With fire in her eyes, she grabs my shirt and twists it hard. “Yes, you idiot. I met someone. I fell in love.”

  A drum beats deafening loudly in my ears. “Who the hell is it?”

  She jerks me even closer. “Look in the mirror. I’m not interested in these men. But you can’t do this to me, Easton. You can’t ask me to come to your party and tell me you want to set me up, and then sabotage every chance I have.” She bites out each word as my head reels. “I want love. And I deserve it. And I want it with you.”

  With me.

  Holy shit.

  She wants it with me.

  My heart scrambles to break out of its cage, to leap into her waiting arms. It wrestles to get away from me, especially when she softens her voice, lightens her grip. “I fell in love with you, you fucking idiot. I don’t want anyone else. I want you to be mine. All mine. Don’t you get it, Easton?”

  I do, I want to say.

  I don’t want anyone else either, I want to tell her.

  I want you only.

  But those words won’t form. My throat sticks with sand and my tongue feels heavy because . . .

  This feeling.

  This too intense, too much, too good, too big, too everything emotion is going to smother me.

  It will eat me alive, and I will be lost for good.

  One more time, I shove all those feelings far, far away.

  “Evidently, I don’t,” I say.

  A lone tear slides down one rouged cheek, but my tough, resilient woman swipes it away defiantly. She looks at me, blows out a breath, waits one more beat as if to see what I’ll do.

  But I don’t move. I simply can’t.

  She presses her lips together and nods tightly.

  “Goodbye, Easton,” she says. Then she turns toward the stairwell and disappears through the door.

  For the second time in a day, I let her go. I stand here, watching the door, in case she comes back.

  She doesn’t.

  I don’t know what just happened. No, I do. I just don’t know why I let it.

  41

  Grandma Knows Best

  I’ve never been big on meditation. Mantras aren’t my thing. And the only time I ever needed an intervention was when I spiraled after Anna’s death.

  This is not the same. No one died. Bellamy just left. That’s all.

  I’ll be fine.

  I’ll return to the party, make sure one of the staff steered Max to Angeline to make sure they’re good, then I’ll find another woman for Kendrick, and someone for Payton too. Duty done, I’ll dust my hands, go to The Lucky Spot, and order a stiff drink.

  Or ten.

  Only . . .

  My head throbs.

  Maybe some fresh air would do me good, so I stab the elevator button, head downstairs, and walk around the block a couple times, breathing in the night. Fall is coasting into Manhattan, and soon the leaves will change, the air will chill, and life will go on.

  As it should.

  After another lap or two, I have a hold of myself. Smoothing my hands down my shirt, I return to the party.

  I get up to the warehouse space and scan the room for the guests I need to check on.

  Angeline is nowhere to be seen.

  Hmm.

  Maybe she’s with Max. He’s gone too.

  I hunt for Kendrick and Payton, but don’t see them either. The party seems to be winding down, and it’s damn early. Isn’t it?

  A glance at my watch, though, tells me it’s ten. Maybe my walk lasted longer than I thought.

  But I’m sure everything was fine while I was gone. Coco stands by the piano, and she’ll debrief me. Nothing escapes her.

  When she spots me, she pins me with a stern glare and arches one brow, then the other. I hold out my arms, asking what with my expression.

  Efficiently elegant, she glides over to me, then beckons me back down the hall. Once we’re out of earshot, she bops me on the head.

  “Ouch!” I rub my temple where she knocked me. “That hurts.”

  “It does not.”

  “Does so.”

  “Good. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into you.” She nods toward the elevator at the end of the hall. “What mess did you just make of your life?”

  “Why do you think I made a mess of it?” I ask, defenses all the way up. We’re talking ramparts level.

  “Let’s see . . . could it be because I have eyes and ears?”

  I’m just not in the mood anymore. “And what did you hear and see, Coco?”

  Her eyes are fiery. “Young man, do not take that sassy tone with me. I might work for you, but I’m still your grandmother.” She’s half a foot shorter, but she seems ten feet taller.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  “Say it like you mean it,” she says crisply, her shoulders squared.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  “Good. Now, what on earth were you thinking?”

  “With what?” I ask, exasperated—with tonight, with the party.

  With myself.

  “Let’s start with how you didn’t introduce Max to Angeline. You had a very important client here who needed extra attention, and you failed.”

  I wince. “What happened with Max?”

  “Nothing, munchkin,” she snaps. “Absolutely nothing. All she wanted was an intro, but you had to go pee on Bellamy instead.”

  “So did you introduce him to her?”

  “No,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Because he was already chatting with Priya. It was too late, and that would have been rude. Which is exactly what you were to all your guests.”

  “I wasn’t rude.” I try on denial, but it’s not a good look on me. Whatever jealousy-fueled bravado I felt earlier has been stripped away. Guess when the woman you adore leaves you, it puts a damper on your night.

  “You were rude,” Coco insists.

  I sigh then shrug helplessly, admitting the cold truth. “Okay, I was rude.”

  Her tight smile shows no teeth and no pleasure. “That’s a start. But you were also rude to Kendrick and to Payton. Is that how you behave with guests? You say those sorts of things to clients?”

  My cheeks redden with shame. “How do you know what I said?”

  “I heard from the hosts and hostesses. And I saw their faces as you crashed each conversation with that crazed look in your eye. I can’t even imagine what you said to Bellamy.” Her stare intensifies, burning through me.

  “I said . . .” The conversation with her replays in my head, but I don’t want to hear my foolish words again. “A lot of things,” I mumble.

  “Like?”

  But I don’t think it’s what I said that sent her away. It’s what I didn’t say. I didn’t say how I feel about her, or us, or anything.

  I didn’t tell her a shred of the truth.

  “Look,” I say, zeroing in on work, “just tell me what I need to do to fix the party.” I’ve got to be able to do that much.

  But when I return to the main space, I see the event is a lost cause. Only stragglers are left.

  Even if I was in my own world, I have excellent hosts and hostesses.

  Terrific staff.

  A great theme.

  Fantastic drinks.

  But this is like a high school party after the cops have been called.

  It’s all my fault. I left, abandoning the scene. A host shouldn’t do that.

  This vacant space is all my doing.

  I set to work cleaning up, and I go home alone.

  As I stare out at the city from my window, I hit play one more time on Bellamy’s podcast.

  And what if he does want the same things? What if he’s changed? What if he’s open to all the possibilities?

  I brace myself for the next part.

  Chin up; lipstick on. Sometimes you have to talk to the frog no matter how much it scares you.

  And I listen to the end yet again.

  I’d rather kiss this one frog than any others, but first, I have to use my mouth to tell him how I feel.

  I’m on my eleventh listen. Maybe my ninety-seventh. Who knows? It’s after midnight and the pad of my finger is sore from hitting play over and over on her podcast.

  Every repeat reminds me that I blew it tonight—big time.

  I toss the phone onto the couch, but I miss, and it hits the tiled floor with a loud clack, skids, then bangs into a couch leg.

  Doesn’t matter. I don’t need a recording of what she said to me in front of the elevators. It’s etched in my mind.

  I fell in love with you, you fucking idiot. I don’t want anyone else. I want you to be mine. All mine. Don’t you get it, Easton?

  A pang jabs at my heart as I remember those words.

  Words I wanted to reciprocate but didn’t.

  Because of those damn flickering lights.

  Because my heart is petrified of feeling something so damn good that I could lose again.

  I stare at the city, my forehead against the cool glass, my breath steaming it up. I think over the last few weeks and all the things Bellamy and I did together, the time we spent, everything we shared.

  My wandering thoughts stray to the city below as New York after midnight unfurls beneath me. Friends and couples stream in and out of bars, pool halls, ice cream shops, clubs, cafés. People come and go, together and apart.

  And I’m not there with her.

  I’m up here, alone, when I could be in Chelsea with her. Or she could be here. If I’d gotten out of my own way, said something, I could have been one of those people down there. That’s what I want. I want what they have.

  “Fuck me,” I mutter. That stabbing feeling in my chest returns. Jab, jab. But it’s faster, the knife going deeper.

  That clawing, too-heavy feeling from earlier is not gone at all. It’s multiplied by stupidity, making me even more hollow.

  Slowly, I bang my head against the window.

  Thunk.

  And again.

  Tha-thunk.

  And that solves nothing.

  “Man the fuck up,” I say. I’ve got to do something. I have no clue where to start, but if I owe my guests an apology, I sure as shit owe one to Bellamy.

  Peeling away from the wall, I stalk over to the couch and grab the phone from the floor. Slumping onto the cushions, I open the screen, hop over to my email, and send her a letter.

  42

  Just the Start

  From the Email Correspondence of Bellamy Hart and Easton Ford

  * * *

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  I am so sorry. I was rude. I was a jealous jackass, and I did try to sabotage you. I behaved horribly. There’s a lot more I need to say, but I wanted to start by asking if you can forgive me.

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  Of course.

  * * *

  I understand that some nights we simply aren’t operating at our best.

  * * *

  Be well, Easton.

  * * *

  Bellamy

  43

  The King of Epic Bonehead Moves

  As the bright light of morning streams into my bedroom, I know three things.

  I miss Bellamy.

  I fucked up.

  And I pray that’s her call rattling my phone on the nightstand.

  But the screen flashes with a cartoon avatar of a bearded dude wearing a crown.

  “King TJ,” I grunt, hoarse with sleep.

  “Well, if it isn’t the King of Epic Bonehead Moves,” he says.

  I close my eyes, push my head against the pillow, and groan. “Word travels fast.”

  “It does, indeed. Grandma texted me,” he says. Despite the complete suckitude of my life right now, I manage a small smile. Coco has taken all my friends under her bossy wing. “I heard you fucked up and need some spiritual guidance from a pro.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  TJ laughs. “Fuck if I know why she thinks I’d be any good at this, considering my love life is in shambles.”

  “Join the club, man.” I sit up, squinting as the sun pelts me with its rays. It’s got a lot of nerve, shining so bright after last night.

  “But I’m not calling to commiserate,” says TJ. “I’m calling because the one thing I do know is that when situationships”—I picture him drawing air quotes around the word—“like yours go belly up, you need to get your ass out of bed the next day. Meet me for a run in thirty. The usual spot.”

  “I’ll be there,” I say, even though I can’t outrun my fuck-up.

  I spend the first mile thinking, and TJ is friend enough to keep quiet and let me do that.

  By the second mile, I admit I’m out of my element and I need help. “What would you do if this were one of your stories?”

  With a chuckle, he shakes his head. “Stories are easy, my friend. Everything works out in the end. There’s no Happily Ever After guarantee in real life.”

  My stomach twists. I knew that was coming, and still, it stings. “True, true. But I have to try.”

  “And that is what you need to focus on. Trying.”

  We keep up a fast clip. “I sent her an apology note last night.”

  “That’s a start,” he says.

  “But it’s only a start?” I ask, though I know the answer.

  He cuts his gaze my way, holding up a thumb and forefinger. “You’ve got a long way to go. Maybe start with groveling.”

  My eyes widen.

  Holy shit.

  That’s it.

  That’s exactly what I needed to hear. “Your pen is genius,” I say.

  He cracks up. “Drinks are on you.”

  I salute him, then cut the run short and head to a bench at the end of The High Line. Panting and sweaty, I sit, open my phone, and start at the beginning of our story.

  I read every letter Bellamy and I exchanged, from the first one after my party to the one late last night. I savor every word about the Joker and Batman, spinach in teeth, schadenfreude and its arousement cousin, her crush on Coco, my love of her lips, and the ones when she told me what she did for me.

  She fixed my business problem.

  She saved my ass.

  And I repaid her by fucking up the entire night.

  TJ was right. I don’t just need to apologize. I need to grovel big time. Because these letters tell me everything. But there’s one revelation that stands out above all the rest. The thing I denied vehemently.

  I love her.

  I don’t want to lose her, no matter what.

  With a renewed purpose, and the start of a plan, I head home and take a fast shower, then I sprint to the chocolate shop where we started.

  Thirty minutes later, I head up the steps to Bellamy’s place in Chelsea, a whole new fleet of nerves parking in my chest. Maybe a squadron.

  I backed down last night, but I won’t back down now. When I reach the top step, I press her buzzer, and I wait.

  I wait a minute, buzz her again.

  Wait some more.

  She doesn’t answer. Finally, I unlock my phone and call her.

  “Hey,” she says, but there’s reserve in her voice.

  “Hi. I’m at your place,” I say.

  “Oh. I’m not there.”

  “I figured as much. But I was hoping to see you. And to apologize again.”

  There’s a pause, then panting breath. Music comes next—pop songs—and the grind of equipment. “I’m at the gym. And you apologized last night. It’s fine. I said it was fine,” she says.

  And the hurt.

  Dear God, the hurt.

  Bellamy Hart has never been good at masking her emotions, and she’s shit at it now.

  This gives me hope and steals some hope away.

  “I’m so sorry. I want to talk to you, though. Is there any chance I can speak with you in person?”

  I hear a heavy sigh from her, and I don’t know if it’s due to the workout, or the request.

  “I’m on the StairMaster. I’ll be done in an hour. I can meet you at Doctor Insomnia’s on Seventh Avenue.”

  I get the message. She’s not cutting a workout short for me this time.

  An hour later, I spot her outside the coffee shop, chatting on the phone, a soft smile on her face.

  My heart thunders. I can’t believe I nearly lost her.

  Slow down, cowboy. You don’t have her back yet.

  And maybe I won’t ever, because the smile slides off her face when she comes inside and beelines for me. No coffee, no drink, nothing.

  She’s all business as she grabs a seat. “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  Awkwardly, I push the box of chocolate caramels across the table. The idea that seemed brilliant an hour ago feels remarkably short-sighted now. Chocolate won’t make up for being a top-notch asshole.

  “I got you your favorite chocolates to apologize,” I say, since that’s what I rehearsed, but it sounds awful out loud.

  “Thank you, but like I said, apology accepted.”

  The chilly professionalism in her voice scares the fuck out of me. Is she going to leave? My heart jackhammers at the thought.