But tonight, love feels big enough to bridge the distance and I have to hold on to that thought.
CHAPTER 23
Sam
This is myfirst visit to Nashville, and I must say—I’m a big fan. The whole city hums—neon guitars, honky-tonk laughter, and the faint twang of a pedal steel somewhere down the block.
Derek and I are at a bar that’s equal parts smokehouse and music joint, wedged in at a high-top table. A local guy with a voice like gravel is singing about his girl leaving and his dog dying, and the air’s thick enough with hickory smoke to cure humans along with the pork and beef BBQ they’re serving.
Derek looks wildly out of place. His suit’s tailored, his cuff links catching the bar lights, his hair perfectly in place. I’m the opposite—jeans, boots and a faded Carolina Cold Fury T-shirt I’ve had since the hockey team first came to reside permanently in our state.
We make quite the pair, and Derek has garnered his fair share of admiring lady stares, probably because he looks so different.
He tips back a beer and grins at me over the rim of his pint glass. “You realize you crushed that interview today, right? The host was practically swooning by the end.”
I shrug, pulling a rib from the platter between us. “She liked the book.”
“She loved the book,” he corrects, stabbing at his phone like he’s about to produce hard evidence. “Sales are spiking, TikTok’s losing its collective mind over the ‘small-town fantasy romance author with soulful eyes,’ and we’re going to have to hire someone to handle all your fan mail.”
I snort. “Soulful eyes? Pretty sure those were just bags from lack of sleep.”
“Whatever works,” he says cheerfully. “The important thing is—”
He stops mid-sentence, staring down to his screen. His face changes. “Oh… holy shit.”
I glance up. “What?”
He looks at me like Santa just landed in the bar. “We got an email from Harper & Laud. They’re offering you a multi-book deal. Print, audio, foreign rights, the works.”
Derek stares at me expectantly, as if I’m missing the biggest piece of information. I lift my eyebrows. “And…”
“The offer is two milliondollars,” he wheezes.
I set the rib down, wipe my fingers, and stare at him. “That’s… two million dollars?”
“Two fucking million dollars.” He cackles in disbelief, tapping the screen like he’s afraid it’ll disappear. “This is it, Sam. You’re not just S. P. Rochelle anymore—you’re the brand. You’ve arrived.”
I nod slowly, the sound of applause from a nearby table blurring into the music. I should feel ecstatic. This is the dream—years of quiet writing finally paying off.
My talent is being recognized and that’s really all I ever wanted. Especially with so many in my hometown thinking that what I write is frivolous, this is the validation I need.
But instead, the joy doesn’t quite reach me. It hits the surface and slides off.
Derek’s still talking—words like tour schedule and publicity circuit—but all I can think about is Penny.
It’s been a week since she boarded that plane, and it feels like a year.
We talk every night, sometimes for hours. She calls on her lunch break, texts when she’s in meetings, sends photos of her office plants like they’re our adopted children. I sent her flowers after her first day back, and she sent me a card that said, “Distance makes the heart text fonder.”
It’s sweet. It’s us.
But it’s not enough.
I miss her laughter ricocheting around my kitchen, the way she leans her hip against the counter while she talks, how her hair smells faintly like citrus and sunshine. Every hotel room feels too quiet. Every city, too sterile. The guy on stage strums the last note of a heartbreak song, and it feels personal.
Derek looks up from his phone, silly smile still in place. “Don’t tell me you’re already negotiating in your head. Let me enjoy this high for five minutes before you start asking about royalty splits.”
“Not negotiating,” I say. “Just thinking.”
