Page 3 of Pumpkins & Promises
"No, thank you. I need to get back." I head for the door, then pause with my hand on the knob. "Just so you know, the hot water heater is temperamental. If you want a shower longer than five minutes, you have to jiggle the handle on the water tank in the basement."
"Noted." He takes a sip of his coffee. "And just so you know, I didn't ask your brother to take pity on me. My agent arranged this."
Something in his tone makes me look back at him. He's tired, I realize. Not just sleepy tired, but the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that I recognize in my own mirror these days.
"Well," I say, softening slightly, "I hope you find whatever you're looking for up here."
"Doubtful," he mutters, turning back to his manuscript. "But thanks."
I'm halfway to my car when I hear him call out from the porch.
"Emily?"
I turn, keys already in my hand.
"The water heater thing," he says. "Thanks for the tip."
I'm not sure why such a simple acknowledgment makes my stomach do a weird little flip.
"Don't mention it," I call back.
I catch what might be a smile before I get in my car and drive away, muttering to myself about brooding writers and disrupted plans and how this holiday just keeps getting better and better.
Chapter Two
Wesley
Istare at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen and wonder if it's possible to develop a phobia of blank pages.
The cabin is exactly what my agent promised. It’s quiet, isolated, and full of the kind of rustic charm that's supposed to inspire creativity. Pine walls, stone fireplace, windows that look out over mountains that probably have names I should know. It's the perfect writer's retreat.
Too bad I can't write.
My phone buzzes with a text from Oscar:How's the hermit life treating you? Any brilliant insights about redemption and second chances yet?
I type back:Day one. Still the same disaster you sent up here.
Give it time. You just need to get out of your own head.
Easy for him to say. Oscar isn't the one whose last book got eviscerated by every major publication and whose ex-girlfriend sold their breakup story to a gossip channel for enough money to fund her yoga teacher certification. He's not the one whose Wikipedia page now includes a section called "Personal Life and Controversies" that makes me sound like a cross between a pretentious jerk and a commitment-phobic cliché.
Which, to be fair, might not be entirely inaccurate.
I close my phone and walk to the kitchen, where the coffee maker gurgles like it's judging my life choices. The encounter with Emily Holloway keeps replaying in my mind, which is ridiculous because it lasted all of ten minutes and consisted mostly of verbal sparring.
But there was something about her. The way she stood her ground, the dry humor, the flash of genuine exhaustion I caught when she thought I wasn't looking. She didn't treat me like Wesley Thorne, Moderately Famous Author with a Google-able Dating History. She treated me like an inconvenience who happened to be occupying her space.
It was oddly refreshing.
The problem is that every time I try to write about trust and second chances, all I can think about is how Vanessa looked at me the night everything fell apart. Not hurt or angry, but disappointed. Like she'd expected better from me and was genuinely surprised that I'd let her down.
"You know what your problem is, Wesley?"she'd said, standing in the doorway of our apartment with her suitcase in hand."You're so afraid of being vulnerable that you've convinced yourself everyone else is just playing a role. Including me."
I'd wanted to argue with her, to point out all the ways she'd been playing a role. The gallery openings where she'd introduce me as "my boyfriend, the novelist" like I was an accessory, the way she'd started posting photos of our quiet moments for her Instagram stories. But somewhere deep down, I'd known she was right.
And that was before she sold our story toManhattan Gossipwith the headline "Inside My Relationship with the Writer Who Couldn't Commit to Anything, Including Love."
I'm saved from spiraling further by a knock at the door. When I open it, Emily is standing on the porch with a basket in her hands and an expression that suggests she'd rather be anywhere else.
