by Sara Hantz
Well, screw Mac, screw the convention, and screw Vegas. She wasn’t staying there for a moment longer. She’d pack her bag and be on the first plane out of there.
Chapter Eleven
Humming tunelessly, Mac rubbed his hair with a towel and hurriedly ran a comb through it. He pulled on a pair of boxers, deciding to finish getting dressed for the ball once he’d seen Sheridan, since she’d need time to get ready herself. The thought of her in the dress they’d chosen set his nerve endings tingling. The thought of slowly sliding that dress down Sheridan’s gorgeous body set more than his nerve endings tingling. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have to stay too long at the ball. As long as he was seen attending. That’s what his contract demanded. Not that he wanted to upset the attendees. He wouldn’t do that to them. They paid a lot to attend each year, and he knew that part of their fun was having access to romance writers.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a convention so much, and it was totally down to meeting Sheridan. He planned to suggest that they see each other again after the convention was over. He lived in San Francisco, which was only a three hour flight to Minneapolis where she lived and worked. It was doable. If she agreed. He couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing her again.
He’d never had feelings like that for his ex-wife. They’d just sort of fallen into the marriage without thinking it through. It hadn’t mattered, at first, because they’d got on well. But as the years progressed, their marriage had become more and more turbulent. He never knew what mood she would be in. He could never trust that she would be there for him. When she asked for a divorce, he was relieved—apart from having to raise the money to buy her out of the house. But at least now he could live his life like he wanted. With Sheridan by his side. Sheridan who was so refreshingly different. Who was so forthright that she just blurted out exactly what was on her mind.
He wondered what was so important that Sheridan couldn’t wait until later to talk to him about it. When they had more time. He pushed open his bedroom door and stepped into the living area. He scanned the room, expecting to see her sitting there.
“Sheridan,” he called out, puzzled by her apparent absence.
Where the hell is she?
He ran to the main door, opened it, and stuck his head out, thinking that if she’d only just left and gone to the elevator to head back to her room, he would see her. But the corridor was empty.
He took another look around his suite to see if anything was out of place. His eyes fixed on his desk. The laptop was in a slightly different position, and his notebook was open beside it. That definitely wasn’t how he’d left it. Sheridan must have been looking at something over there.
He rushed over and saw a page from his notebook resting on his keyboard.
How could you? Did you think I was dumb enough not to realize that you’d used me as research?
He picked up his notebook. His stomach rolled when he saw the page on display. He backed up and dropped onto the couch, then leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. He let out a long groan. He couldn’t believe it. Sheridan had read his notes on Cassie. She’d thought he was writing about her. Not such a huge leap on the face of it, but surely she couldn’t think he meant that about her. Not after everything they’d shared.
Sheridan had no way of knowing the notes were written way before they had even met. It was pure coincidence that Cassie was a journalist. He glanced at his words again, fixating on “unlovable.” How could Sheridan believe that’s what he thought of her? Hadn’t their time together meant anything?
He realized his whole representation of Cassie, the career woman, was steeped in stereotypes. Because in his ideal world, he didn’t want a woman who was wrapped up in her career. But it wasn’t having a career or not having career that made a person right for another. It wasn’t being cynical and snarky that defined someone.
He could kick himself for leaving everything on the desk. Then again, he didn’t think Sheridan would read it. And the more he thought about it, the more he felt she was wrong to read his work. It was private and she was snooping, in true journalistic form. It was an invasion of his privacy. But he didn’t care. What mattered was their relationship.
He reached for his phone and called her.
Pick up. Pick up. Please.
Finally, it went to voicemail.
“I can’t take your call, please leave a message.”
“It’s me. Mac. Please call. It’s not what you think. I have to see you.”
He threw his phone onto the couch beside him and sat there clenching and unclenching his fists. How could this be happening to him? For the first time in his life, he’d found someone special, and now he might have lost her. Why hadn’t he told her about his new book? About Cassie? He had to find her and explain. Nothing else mattered. He ran into the bedroom, pulled on his pants and a shirt, slipped on his shoes, and hightailed it out of there.
He just hoped he wasn’t too late.
Chapter Twelve
Sheridan grabbed her jeans from the closet and threw them onto the bed. Next she took her tank. She kept on going until the only thing left hanging was the emerald green dress. She glared at it.
“I’m not taking you. The maid can have it.” She sniffed and reached over to the bedside table for a tissue. “I hate green anyway,” she muttered.
Except that was a lie. She loved the color. And she loved everything about the dress. The little green gems on the spaghetti straps. The way the skirt hugged her hips and fell to the floor. The way it brought out the slight auburn sheen in her dark hair. She’d felt so special wearing it. And the promise of Mac removing it from her body had sent tendrils of desire threading through her every time the thought had entered her head.
Had.
She hitched in a breath. She still couldn’t come to terms with the fact that he’d absolutely duped her. She’d always been such a good judge of character in the past. But Mac. How the hell did he manage to get one over on her like that? Well, he might have used her for his own ends, but she was determined not to lose it and break down. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She would not. Anger was the best way to deal with him. That and actually writing the article Jane wanted. And boy would she make it a good one. Worthy of the Pulitzer, if one was awarded for popular journalism. Which would be ironic, seeing as she’d always dreamed of receiving one for political journalism. Her brother had been awarded two in his lifetime, as her father constantly reminded her.
She shook her head to rid herself of the thoughts rattling around in there. It was bad enough having Mac inside her head without giving room to her dad and brother. Talk about a living nightmare. Where were the rainbows and unicorns when you needed them?
At the bottom of a bottle of good whiskey.
No. She wasn’t going to resort to liquor to ease the pain. That would be the easy way out. Something she wasn’t known for taking. She was a survivor. She would get over this. She would. She really would.
She lifted her suitcase onto the bed and started to pack, with little care as to how screwed up everything was. Thanks to a cancellation, she’d managed to secure a flight home, leaving in three hours. After she’d checked out of the hotel and taken a cab to the airport, she wouldn’t have to wait too long. She could use the time to write her copy.
By the time she reached the elevator, there was a crowd of people waiting, all dressed for the ball. They got out at the second floor, where the ball was being held. Sheridan joined them, deciding to take a few photos of the attendees before leaving. She stood by the entrance of the conference room and watched. The room was already full. Everyone wearing a mask. She took out her phone and snapped away, making sure to get plenty of shots of the most outlandishly dressed.
“Sheridan.”
She turned at the sound of her name and saw Deidre heading in her direction, waving furiously with one hand and holding her mask in the other.
“Hi,” Sheridan said once Deirdre reached her.
She was wearing a bright pink dress gathered in at the waist with a net layer over the skirt. Although a little out-there, Sheridan had to admit, it wasn’t noticeably bad when compared with some of the other dresses she’d seen.
“Aren’t you coming to the ball?” Deidre frowned as she looked Sheridan up and down.
“No. I’ve got a flight to catch.”
Keeping up the normal facade in front of Deidre wasn’t going to be easy.
“Have you seen Mac?”
“No,” Sheridan snapped, instantly regretting sounding so mean.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”
Sheridan knew how pathetic that sounded, especially coming from a journalist, but Deidre didn’t seem to register.
“Yes, these conventions do take it out of you. But it’s such fun. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Case in point, look over there at the old woman copping a feel.” Deidre pointed about ten yards to the left of them.
“Worthy of a snap, I think,” Sheridan said, holding her phone out and taking a photo.
“Definitely. And what’s with all the fur? It beats me.” Deidre laughed.
“To each their own,” Sheridan replied.
“Do you think you’ll be here next year?” Deidre asked.
“I doubt it.” She shook her head.
“Shame. It’s been great meeting you.” Deidre touched her gently on the arm, and Sheridan suddenly had the overwhelming urge to confide in her everything that had happened with Mac. But, of course, she wouldn’t.
“You, too,” Sheridan replied. “Selfie?” she asked Deidre, as she held out her arm.
“You bet.” Deidre moved closer to her.
“Room for one more?”
Sheridan’s heart flipped at the sound of Mac’s voice.
“Of course,” Deidre said, holding out her hand and pulling Mac in beside her.
Sheridan struggled to keep her arm steady to take the photo, but she managed. The driving force being she wasn’t going to let Mac see how much he affected her.
“I’ve got to go now,” she said once it had been taken. She turned away from them both and began to head off.
“Wait.” Mac grabbed hold of her arm.
She glared at him. “What?” she muttered.
“We have to talk.”
He seemed so convincing, but she knew it was all a lie. He was probably worried she’d write a bad article about him, and was trying to rescue the situation.
“Why?”
“Please. Let me explain,” he implored.
“There’s no need for an explanation.” She waved her hand and refused to make eye contact.
“There is. Please. Just give me five minutes,” he said, his jaw rigid with stress while his blue eyes were clouded with worry. Something in her softened, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Deidre mouthing, “Go on.” She supposed five minutes wouldn’t hurt.
“Okay. But only five. And not here. Somewhere quieter.” She started to leave and then remembered Deirdre. She walked up to her and held out her hand. “Bye.”
“Bye, love.” Deidre ignored the outstretched hand and gave Sheridan a hug.
Sheridan left, assuming Mac was following. Once she was outside the conference room, she headed toward the corner where she could see there were two empty chairs.
Chapter Thirteen
The moment Mac had seen Sheridan with Deidre, he knew he had to do whatever it took to win her back. Yes, she’d invaded his privacy, but if he’d been in the same position, wouldn’t he have been tempted to sneak a peek? Of course, he would.
As she’d strode out of the conference room, through the throngs of people, he’d walked fast to keep her in sight. Now she was sitting with her arms folded tightly across her chest, glaring at him. Except her face seemed softer than a few moments ago. Hope flared in his chest.
“Hey,” he said as he sat down opposite her, a small round table separating them.
She nodded and glanced at her phone. “Your five minutes starts now.”
Mac leaned forward in his chair. “What you read in my room. It isn’t what you think.”
Sheridan narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “Really? Now you’re into mindreading. So, what did I think exactly?”
She wasn’t making this easy for him, and he didn’t blame her. Because on the surface, it appeared like he’d totally screwed her over.
“Cassie in my new book. She isn’t based on you.”
“Yeah? She just happens to be a…let me see… How did it go…? Oh yes. A cynical, snarky, unlovable journalist. Of course that’s not based on me. How could I even think that? I wouldn’t know how to be snarky or cynical if my life depended on it. And as for being unlovable, well, I can’t comment on that. But clearly you can.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she swiped them away.
Mac swallowed hard as he realized just how deeply he had hurt her, and even though it was unintentional, it didn’t make him feel any better. It just made him more determined to fix it. He leaned even closer and took hold of Sheridan’s hands. She tried to pull them away, but he wouldn’t release them.
“Stop,” he said gently. “I promise those notes had been written long before I’d met you. Yes, you’re a journalist, too. But that’s a coincidence. Yes, you can be cynical and snarky. But that’s a coincidence, too. As for being unlovable. No. You’re not. You’re the total opposite.”
She stared at him open-mouthed. “What do you mean?”
What do I mean?
He knew what he meant. He just had to take the plunge and say it.
“That you’re the most lovable person I’ve met. I couldn’t bear for you to think otherwise. I want a future for us. Together.”
His chest tightened. She had to believe him. He couldn’t imagine not being with her. Not seeing again the way she chewed on her lip when she thought no one was looking. Not seeing that compassionate side of her, like how kind she was with Deidre and the others, despite what she thought of romance.
“But we’ve only just met.”
He nodded. “I know. It’s crazy. But it’s happened. Love at first sight.” He cringed. The whole love at first sight thing seemed so clichéd.
“And you believe in that?” She arched an eyebrow.
“Don’t you?” he asked, throwing it right back at her, mainly because he didn’t have an answer. Yes, he wrote about it all the time. And he did believe in true love, even though until now he hadn’t found it for himself. But he’d never really considered it could happen almost immediately after meeting someone.
“You know my views on love and romance.” She shrugged.
“I was hoping that might have changed,” he said in a soft voice as he studied her face, desperately hoping the mask she liked to wear would evaporate.
“I thought it had,” Sheridan admitted, her face flushing.
“And now?” he asked, his voice guarded.
His heartbeat raced as he waited for her reply. Silence hung in the air. It seemed like ages before she spoke.
“I don’t know. I was convinced you’d used me as research fodder. You say you didn’t but…”
“But nothing. I promise. I swear on everyone’s life who I hold dear that Cassie is not based on you.” He locked eyes with her, hoping the flicker of uncertainty in her face meant she was questioning her belief.
“And why should I believe you?”
“Because I saw the real you. Saw how you can be all those things and so much more. And that’s what I love about you.”
“Oh.” Sheridan sounded surprised.
“Oh. I was kind of hoping you’d say you felt the same way about me.”
“I admit I had jumped to conclusions. But anyone would have.”
His heart sank. She was avoiding his question. He guessed that meant she didn’t love him.
“I know,” he agreed. He let out a long despondent sigh.
“And because I thought we had somet
hing good together, it made it hurt even more.”
She did? That meant he still had a chance.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I just thought you were like my father. Finding fault with who I am. Comparing me with my brother and finding me coming up wanting.”
“Crazy talk.” He lifted her hands up to his lips and kissed her fingers. “Your dad doesn’t know you very well, that’s all I can say.”
She paused for a moment, as if to consider the possibility, and a tiny smile hovered around her mouth. “Maybe not.”
“You still haven’t told me how you feel. Is there any chance for us?”
Her eyes twinkled. “Yes,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”
Mac leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. “Come on. Let’s get out of here and celebrate.”
…
Sheridan sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard with Mac next to her. He ran his fingers lightly along her thigh, and she covered his hand with hers and pushed him away. “Stop it,” she admonished while giggling, as she realized her call had been answered. “Jane. It’s me.”
“You’ve come to your senses and are sending me the copy I asked for,” Jane replied.
“Not exactly.” Sheridan locked eyes with Mac and mouthed, “Here we go.”
“Meaning?” Jane’s icy tone sent a shiver down Sheridan’s spine.
She sucked in a long breath, the tension leaving her body.
“Meaning,” she replied slowly. “Meaning. I can send you some good copy about the convention, but it won’t be about Mac. I mean B.A. Mackenzie. And how he stacks up against women writers.”
There was a long, almost painful, silence. Sheridan was determined not to speak first.
“Mac?” Jane finally said. “Am I to understand there is something between the two of you, and that’s why you’re disobeying my instructions?”