“Yeah?”
“Go big, Number Seven.”
I think I love her.
I set down the phone. Stare at it for a long moment. Conrad’s words echo in my head. Be real. Admit you’re wrong. Ask how you can fix it.
I’ve been running because I’m scared. But maybe—just maybe—it’s not too late to turn around.
I get up, grab the ice bucket, and head out into the hall. Pile ice from the machine into it, return to my room, and shove my swollen knuckles into the cold.
CHLOE
Of all the ways I imagined spending my sister’s wedding weekend, sitting alone in a honeymoon suite wasn’t one of them.
And yet, here I am. A complete fraud with my fake relationship, unpacking in the Lakeside Suite—king bed, stone fireplace crackling away, rose petals scattered across white bedding like someone’s Pinterest board exploded. There’s champagne chilling in an ice bucket. Chocolate-covered strawberries on the nightstand.
The whole nine yards of romance.
For me.
Alone.
Apparently, there was a little mix-up with my reservation. Maya booked the reservation as part of her room block, and the check-in lady thought it was her room. But she’ll be glamming it up with her bridesmaids down in the Oak Cottage—all five of them squeezed into three bedrooms, which apparently left no space for the bride’s sister. Hence the honeymoon suite.
I set my suitcase—my sensible, decidedly unfancy suitcase that probably cost less than one of those throw pillows—on the bench at the foot of the bed and can’t help but laugh.
This room is ridiculous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Maple Lake, where late-February sun glints off patches of ice still clinging to the surface like it’s not quite ready to let go of winter. The bathroom has a jetted tub and heated floors. Heated. Floors.
If I wasn’t so embarrassed about being literally single in the honeymoon suite, I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.
I start unpacking. Hang up the dress I brought for the rehearsal dinner. Set my toiletries in the bathroom that’s roughly the size of my entire apartment bedroom. Toss my giant tote filled with all the contracts, files, and timelines for the wedding onto the bed, and a manila folder skids across the duvet.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring at it.
The return label reads Stratton Publishing.
I don’t know why I even brought that thing along, except that it was sitting outside my door when I went to pack Jessa’s car, and I couldn’t bear the thought of opening another rejection in front of her, so I stuffed it into my tote and let it burn a hole in my brain for the next three hours and seventeen minutes while Jessa drove me to Maple Lake.
The envelope stares at me, waiting.
Fine. Let’s just get it over with.
I lean across the bed, snatch the envelope, and plop down on the edge of the bed. The envelope is heavier than I expected. Thick. Official. It makes a very crisp tearing noise when I slide my thumb under the flap.
The letter is printed on heavy cream-colored cardstock—the expensive kind that makes you feel important just holding it. Stratton Publishing logo embossed at the top.
Dear Ms. Chloe Dawson,
I am writing to personally extend an offer for your manuscript, Sparkle, the Dragon. Your voice is exactly what we’ve been searching for in our children’s literature line, and I believe your work has the potential to resonate deeply with both parents and children alike.
After careful consideration, Stratton Publishing would like to discuss the potential of a five-book deal with the following terms:
•Advance of $5,000 for the first book, payable upon contract signing
•$10,000 per book upon successful completion and acceptance
