Page 62 of Yes No Maybe

I inch backward, my heels catching roughly in the shag carpeting. Then, I turn to run—I shouldn’t be here.

Sirens and screeching tires prevent the last break through the door.

“Oh, shit!” The crowbar clangs against the concrete.

I run into Sara, rushing through the back door. “It’s okay. The police are here.”

The bat falls to the floor, my legs wobble, and she holds onto me.

Blue lights flash through the front window. Gun drawn, Lt. Wright orders the men to the ground. They quickly obey, and two other officers pat them down and put them in cuffs. He finds us in the house once the men are safely in custody.

As Sara and I gush our thanks, Lt. Wright calmly explains the charges and takes our statements. Then, he promises to add Sara’s house to his nightly patrols.

Everything’s okay. Only I’m not.

Twenty

Jack

“Niceshindig.”Devinleansagainst the railing beside me. He wears a tuxedo t-shirt, jeans, Converse, and an amused expression, taking in what’s left of my dying party. “Why are you hiding over here?”

I don’t answer. I’m parked on the fencing at the pool’s edge, near my study, where I can peek at Rowan’s driveway.

It’s nearly midnight. She’s still not home. Though her texts have been vaguely reassuring, I’m worried.

Frustration plays a close second. Something must be wrong for her to leave so quickly and not be here by now. I wish she’d get over the anti-damsel-in-distress thing and ask for my help. Or, at least, tell me what’s going on. I reread her texts. She might as well be giving me her forced smile, shields up.

“You’ve been watching for her all night,” Devin says. “She’s not coming.”

“I don’t care about the party,” I say into my whiskey before gulping it down.

Rephrase—I don’t care about the partynow.

Earlier, I did. I bothered the hell out of the caterers and decorators, making sure everything was just right. I added her favorite chardonnay to the menu at the last minute. I had the mini-basketball court turned into a dance floor. And remembering how much Rowan liked the twinkling lights at the oyster roast, I had the decorators add them everywhere—draping the trees, the railings, and the arbor over the outdoor kitchen.

I imagined her showing up, looking fucking amazing. She’d be nervous at first—parties aren’t her thing. But I’d stay by her side, loosen her up with wine and my quick charm, and introduce her to all the important people in my life she hasn’t met yet. My friends. My agent and editors. Even my parents. I imagined whispering in her ear and making her laugh over my father’s tipsy ramblings about grocery prices these days and my mom’s uncanny ability to find fault with the food. We’d take a bet on how early they’d leave—whether it’d be because of Dad’s tipsiness or Mom’s unease driving at night. They left by nine for a new reason—Mom’s designer heels hurting her feet. Maybe Rowan would’ve guessed it.

I’d sign books and divvy out door prizes while she’d linger with the neighbors and Sara, and I’d catch her eye from afar occasionally. She’d smile, her gorgeous blue eyes twinkling under the lights, and I’d make every excuse to get back to her.

She’d meet my agent, Lynn, and hear her gush about my latest pages. “It’s your best work yet,” she said before explaining everyone’s relief. “The publisher is already talking about renewing your contract.The Other Usis exceeding expectations. Your writing hiatus worked for you… but never do it again.”

My idiot friends would be on their best behavior, partly because of their wives but also because I forewarned them to behave. They’d warm up to Rowan just like I have, and she’d laugh over their best and worst stories about me.

I’d getThe Hurricanesto play “November Rain” and lure her to the dance floor, where she’d slip her arms around my neck and hold on to me a little easier than last time.

At the night’s end, she’d linger, and at the right moment, I’d tell her—

“Tell her what?” Devin chimes into my thoughts.

It’s the only part I haven’t figured out yet. It’d be easy to tell her how I feel—at my keyboard, where I transform pivotal moments like this into fucking art that has my heroine falling into her lover’s arms.

Butthisis Rowan. Romance doesn’t work. Plans don’t work—she’s not even here. Even if she were, what would I say?

“Tell her the truth. Tell her you’re falling for her.” Devin cocks his brow at me. “And just go with it, even when it’s hard.”

I peek at Rowan’s empty driveway. “It’s already too hard. She’s hellbent on marrying the world’s worst fiancé and convinced she’s not my type.”

“Change her mind, dumbass. Or give up and go back to business as usual.” He motions to a newbie on my editing team, a twenty-something redhead in a skin-tight black dress. She catches my eyes and nibbles her bottom lip—the same come-hither look she’s been giving me all night.

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