Page 11 of A Crane Family New Year

He scrolled through her account now, past myriad black-and-white photos, and—bingo. A plate of snickerdoodle cookies at the front desk of the Van Heusen Hotel, with a cheeky sign next to it reading “eat me.” The photo was an exact match of the framed one hanging in Merina and Reese Crane’s corridor.

“I’ll be damned.” What were the odds?

CurlyQSue had turned him down when he’d asked if she would sell some of her photos to him, and yet here they were. He’d been browsing for a client—Crane Hotels, as it’d turned out. She’d politely declined, stating that she was merely a hobbyist.

He peered closer at each of the framed photos. No signature on any of them. He’d bet his bank account—and it wasn’t small—that the photographer who’d taken that snickerdoodle photo had taken every photo hanging here.

If Emily were standing next to him right now, she would scold him and remind him that not every artist wanted to turn their artwork into a “marketing scheme.”

He smiled a sad smile. He and Emily had argued about the buying and selling of art when she’d been alive. He would argue that artists deserved to make money on their passion, and Emily would say that art should be free for the masses.

He hadn’t thought of that in a long while.

He stepped back and admired the row of frames one last time before taking the stairs that wound up and around to another corridor. He searched two rooms—both bedrooms, both dark and empty. The third door revealed an office. Reese’s, judging by the mahogany shelves and leatherbound books.

He stood at the wide window at the back of the room. Snow had begun to fall, tender flakes that floated down silently and slowly. There, in the shadows, he allowed the peace of the moment to engulf him while he figured out where to check next.

“You can’t hide in here all night,” Chloe whispered as she checked her work email on her phone. She shouldn’t be checking email. She had turned on “vacation mode” so that she wouldn’t be tempted to log in until after the holiday.

She tucked her phone into her silver clutch and snapped it closed, then pushed herself to standing from the edge of the massive garden bathtub.

She’d managed to find a bathroom—upstairs and far away from the party below. If facing Zander had been difficult before, it was damn near impossible now. She didn’t know what had been worse: the attack of word vomit, or that she had to literally flee the room to shut herself up.

“You can’t hide in here all night, but you can hide in here for another few minutes,” she murmured as she opened the app where she shared her photography.

She’d created the account over the summer. Since she’d started snapping photos of Chicago for fun last year, she’d longed to share them. The app offered a safe space for artists to showcase their work without the pressure of connecting with family and friends or giving updates on their personal lives.

Her handle, CurlyQSue, was the nickname her younger brother had given her, an ode to her curly hair. Curls that she’d smoothed into plump, tamed waves for the evening. After liking a few comments, her finger hesitated over the Message icon for a second before she gave in and tapped it. Then she reread the messages from HopperFan02 for the fourteenth time.

Had she said yes to his invitation, where would they have met up? A fancy, elite bar? A museum for a night of fine art, champagne, and dancing? If she were with him now, would they be chatting away, having fallen into a similar rhythm to their shared months of online messages?

It was a safe bet that she wouldn’t be hiding in a bathroom if she had said yes. Only she hadn’t said yes. She hadn’t said anything at all, she thought with a sigh.

She’d been on so many disastrous dates over the last few years, she was surprised to have a single positive thought about HopperFan02. She’d been out with seemingly normal men she’d met on dating apps, through friends, and even one random coffee-shop encounter.

As hapless as her dating life was, she had held out hope for decent sex this year. Her New Year’s resolution had been to pursue a man for a one-night stand rather than a relationship and see if her luck improved. Alas, whenever she’d met an attractive man who she could have taken to bed, she hadn’t been able to go through with it. Turned out she needed to be able to have a conversation—a connection—before she disrobed for anyone.

How inconvenient.

With time ticking eagerly away until midnight, her chances of keeping her resolution were practically zero. So, here she was, without having had a single sexual experience this year, and then when she did meet a handsome stranger, managed to embarrass herself half to death.

If she’d driven herself here tonight, she could have messaged Isa from the driveway that she wasn’t feeling well and hightailed it out of here. Then again, Eli and Isa would never allow her to get away with that. Isa might even follow Chloe home to make sure she was all right.

No, ruining Eli and Isa’s New Year’s Eve was out of the question. Chloe would have to tough out the two hours left until midnight. Though she wasn’t sure she’d be able to dodge Zander Crane the entire evening. The house was massive, but the party was intimate. She’d likely be under his shrewd, sexy, blue-eyed stare again tonight…if he didn’t think she was bonkers for running away from him.

One thing was certain, she was not apologizing again. It’d been an honest mistake and he’d told her an apology wasn’t necessary. If she had a chance to speak to him again, she’d behave like a normal human being, find common ground, and share a bit of small talk. He was a Crane, and she knew several Cranes. They could start there.

She smoothed her dress, carefully, as there were a zillion crystals sewn into it, and checked her reflection in the mirror. It was shorter than she would have chosen for herself, but she had to admit her legs did look amazing. Plus, sparkling was fun. She deserved to have some fun tonight rather than linger in a bathroom lamenting that she’d gone an entire calendar year without sex.

Who cared about stupid resolutions anyway?

After reapplying her favorite lipstick called Ch-ch-ch-cherry Bomb!, she fluffed her hair and stepped out of the bathroom. Halfway down the hallway, however, she realized she’d turned in the wrong direction for the stairs. She turned the opposite direction, or what she’d thought was the opposite direction, and…

Nope.

She rerouted once more, her focus on a corridor she hadn’t walked down yet—this house really was a maze—when she stubbed the toe of her high heel on the edge of a rug and tripped. She caught herself on the doorway, letting out a little yelp of surprise.

Hand over her racing heart, she closed her eyes and sucked in a breath. When she blew it out, she said, “Here lies Chloe Andrews. Death by face-plant.”

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