Page 46 of The Seven Year Slip

“Hi, there,” I greeted brightly. “Sorry I’m a bit...”

Latewas what I wanted to say, but the words dropped out of my mouth as I came into the room and caught sight of the man seated at the head of the conference table. I’d rehearsed this moment in the mirror all morning—look pleasant, put-together, smile professionally (don’t smile too wide, don’t show your gums—act like your life is together, too). Maybe he’d recognize me. Maybe he’d think I looked familiar, and he’d flash that boyish smile of his—

I had it all down to a fine art by the time I got to the subway, going over the scenario in my head until I’d memorized exactly what to say and how to say it.

And all of it, in one split second, failed me.

Because the man at the head of the conference table was not the one I remembered. Curly auburn hair cut short on the side, longer at the top, accenting his sturdy face and clean-shaven square jaw. He’d lost the beard from the Instagram photos, but somehow gained the ability to leave me absolutely speechless. There were bits of the Iwan I knew—a smattering of freckles across his cheeks, a strong nose, soft-looking lips.

I immediately recalled what they felt like on me. The way he’d nipped at my skin, fastened his hands around my waist—

My stomach plummeted into my toes.

But for everything that stayed the same, so much hadchanged. Things I really couldn’t know until I saw him in person. Seven years had sharpened his edges, turned stretched-neck T-shirts into a fitted light gray blazer that hugged his shoulders in a sharp cut, Vans into sensible oxfords, dark sleepless circles around his eyes into refined crow’s feet, his entire appearance tailor-made. His gangliness had shifted to something solid and muscular, muchmore fit than the man I’d met over a month ago over a strange summer weekend. The man who kissed me, lips tasting like sweet lemon pie, promising to follow me to the moon and back—

His gaze rose to mine, pale gray eyes, sharp and bright, pinning me to the spot like a moth to a corkboard, and I felt every muscle in my body tense.

Oh, no, I was insomuch fucking trouble.

19

The Proposal

“This is clementine west,”Drew introduced me. “Though I think you might’ve met her for a few seconds last month?”

Last month...? Had she figured out that this wasIwan? My Iwan? No, I hadn’t told Fiona or Drew any specifics about him, and besides, he looked very different than the man I’d met in my aunt’s apartment.

Then it occurred to me, suddenly—

I’d run into him on my way out of the restaurant. That was what she meant.

“Clementine...?” Drew asked, a bit hesitantly.

I snapped to my senses and smiled—don’t show gums, look pleasant, just like I’d rehearsed. “Oh, hi, yes, sorry. I think we had a bit of a collision, actually, at the restaurant. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet you properly then.”

“It’s quite all right, we can meet again now,” he remarked in that familiar Southern lilt, not unpleasantly. Beside him sat his agent, a shark of a woman named Lauren Pearson, who was,undeniably, one of the best in the business. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off me—almost as if he thought I might disappear.

Was he trying to place me—I had that kind of face, really. Someone you might see in a crowd and almost remember.

Do you recognize me, too?I wanted to ask.

No, he couldn’t. It’d been seven years.Ididn’t even remember my one-night stands from seven years ago.

Get it together, Clementine.

“You made a good save with that dessert, if I recall,” he went on.

“It would’ve been a shame to wear the dessert out of the restaurant,” I replied, and sat down beside Drew, situating my notebook in front of me.

And then the worst thing of all happened, the thing that I had been dreading: he smiled, perfectly straight and perfectly white and perfectly practiced—like mine—and stretched his hand across the table to me. “I’m sure it would’ve looked stunning on you. I’m James, but James is my granddad’s name. My friends call me by my middle name—Iwan.”

I accepted his hand. It was rough and warm, marked with scars, so many more from the seven years between us. The last time I had felt those hands, they’d been cradling my face, his thumbs tracing my jawline, gentle, like I was a work of art—

“How would you classify your future publicist? A friend?” I asked, and his agent barked a laugh.

“I like her!” she crowed.

James Ashton’s smile turned a little crooked. A small slip in his refined image. “We’ll see, Clementine,” he replied, and released my hand.

---