The Wonder of Now

by Beck, Jamie

  Questions, questions, questions. For days she’d been probed. At the moment, she’d rather hide in the wall hatch where abandoned babies were once left for the orphanage than remain at the podium.

  “Peyton?” Mitch nudged.

  She fixated on the woman in the blue dress. “Miss?”

  “Thank you for to be here tonight.” Her warm smile helped to quiet the roaring in Peyton’s ears. Then she launched into a question in her native tongue, which the translator passed along as “My sister was diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer. I want to help, but everything I do or say seems wrong. How can I help her . . . like your brother helped you, but I can’t write and take pictures?”

  Oh God. Peyton’s chest burned like she’d run ten miles. A crystal-clear image of Logan’s initial reaction to her diagnosis—the face drained of color, the strain in his eyes from holding it together—popped up as if it were happening again. His pain had made hers more crippling. The reflection of her worries in his eyes had been too much some days.

  She blinked to stop the warm tears in her eyes from spilling, then cleared her throat. This woman, like her brother two years earlier, needed help. The absurdity of anyone believing that Peyton—the least emotionally equipped person in the room—could give help almost made her burst into a fit of inappropriate giggles.

  “I’m so sorry for your family, and wish your sister the very best outcome. As to your question, it’s hard to say. Every relationship has different boundaries. Cancer will break down most of them over time, but I know in the beginning I craved time alone to process my diagnosis, the treatment options, the realities of how it would affect my body, my work, my entire life. My brother wanted to carry all my fear and pain for me—that’s how this project started, as a way to channel our energy into something productive. But you can’t take away someone else’s pain, so don’t try. Don’t cheerlead or give platitudes. It’s enough to be a steady shoulder of support and be understanding with her moods. Right now she probably has very little patience for other people’s ideas.”

  When the translator finished speaking, the woman took a seat and another woman asked a question, but Peyton didn’t hear it. Her mind had slipped back to those earliest days in Logan’s apartment, when she’d stared at the blank wall, cupping her breasts in her hands, cursing her body, wondering why she’d drawn the short straw when she had so many more things she wanted to do with her life.

  Mitch touched her biceps and then handed her a tissue. He was speaking to the audience now, but she couldn’t focus on his words, either. Not with the tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry.” Her meek mumbling went unheard due to the scraping sound of chairs being moved and people gathering their personal items. The rude man from earlier had disappeared from the edge of the crowd while the line for signed copies began to form.

  Mitch turned to her. “Do you need a break? Take five minutes in the ladies’ room. I’ll refresh your water.”

  “No.” She cracked her knuckles and rolled her shoulders to loosen the tension. “Let’s get this done and get out of here. But what about that guy—the jerk who said my book sucked?”

  “He didn’t say your book sucked.”

  “Unoriginal . . . whatever. I think he was recording the whole exchange. Will it end up on some blog or YouTube or something?” FML if Mom’s most dire prediction becomes my reality.

  Mitch’s brow shot up. “I don’t know. I’ll check with the manager to see if he recognized him.”

  “What if he’s some big-time reviewer and he pans me, my reading, my book?” She dug her fingernails into her thighs.

  “There’s nothing we can do about that right now, but if he were that big, the publisher would’ve invited him to meet with you earlier today.”

  She thought she saw the man again speaking to someone on his cell phone. An editor? His boss? When the person turned to the side, it wasn’t him.

  Two large stacks of books landed on her left. She sighed and put that guy out of her mind. Time to earn her advance.

  One look at the slope of Peyton’s shoulders and the wrinkled lines on her forehead made Mitch want to pummel the asshat in the back of the room who’d blindsided her. He sent a quick text to Rebecca to scour YouTube and other sites for any video or live feed that might go up in the coming days, assured Savant that the reading went well, then reset his Google Alerts to add “La Central” and “Barcelona” to Peyton’s name.

  He caught himself looking at his watch a fifth time while waiting for the last reader to finish her conversation with Peyton. At least Peyton appeared to be engaged and comfortable in the one-on-one with the reader. After what seemed like twenty more minutes, he and Peyton made quick goodbyes to the bookstore manager and others involved in organizing this event.

  Peyton reached around her chair for her purse. “I need to go.”

  “I know. We’ll get something to eat.” Nine o’clock—an hour ahead of the dinner crush at most restaurants in this city.

  “I don’t know.” She frowned as she dragged herself through the bookstore, eyes forward, expression tight as a soldier’s freshly made bed. “Right now I’m thinking of a warm bath followed by a soft pillow.”

  “That sounds great, but you need to keep your strength up.” He clutched her arm to bring her to a standstill. “Let’s grab a quick bite . . . maybe tapas or paella?”

  On a deep inhale through her nose, she closed her eyes and nodded. A small victory for him, considering how ticked off she’d been earlier this afternoon.

  “Any preference?” He searched for the nearest taxi stand, then laid his hand on her lower back to lead her in the right direction. She didn’t shrink from him, so he let his hand linger longer than he should, even though stifled desire was helping neither of them.

  “Not tonight.”

  He opened the taxi door for her and then scooted in beside her. “Let’s go back to the hotel and hit up something nearby.”

  “Fine.” She clasped her purse on her lap, looking at him like she didn’t quite trust him. “So that jerk. What if he causes a problem? I mean, I know I shouldn’t have shot off my mouth like that, but I couldn’t help myself. I have no patience for bullshit these days.”

  “He had an ax to grind.” This wasn’t the time to criticize her response. Everyone knew these days that video could be edited to make things look much worse than the truth. He guessed that was what prompted the worry in her eyes. “Nothing has come across my Google Alerts yet. Honestly, that exchange—while not ideal—wasn’t anything anyone should consider viral gold. It’ll be fine.” Please, God, let it be fine.

  When his phone buzzed, he prayed that it wasn’t an alert. He checked the screen. Mom. He typed, Yes, I’ve calendared the surgery date. Can’t talk now.

  Peyton stared out the window, her long neck twisting away from him, one earring glinting in the light of passing cars or streetlamps. With her forehead now pressed to the glass, she asked, “Is that text more of whatever it was that had you so preoccupied earlier today?”

  “That was my mother.” He closed his eyes and let his chin drop. “I’m sorry about earlier, though. I thought you were holding your own, and I was dealing with a bit of a crisis.”

  Her limpid blue eyes turned his way, beckoning him to spill more details.

  “Not concerning you. My assistant made a mess of things with a new client.” He felt his jaw clench at the memory of the tongue-lashing he’d given Rebecca. “I had to fall on one hundred swords today, but I promise, you’ll have my complete attention now.”

  As if the cab driver read his secret desire to give her a hug, he made a hard left at a high speed, which threw Peyton against Mitch’s side. Taking advantage of fate, Mitch gave her a gentle squeeze with the arm that had fallen around her shoulders.

  “Sorry!” She pushed off him, making him pray for another hard left before they got to the hotel.

  “Peyton, I know tonight was tough on you, but you did really well, especially
for your first time. And the way you take time to speak with the readers afterward is special. Those personal connections will help spread the word so customers flock to the shelves.” His heart throbbed when she hung her head.

  She sighed then and pushed her hair back from her face. “Do you always take the high road, or is it your custom not to scold authors who insult audience members? I mean, I’ve yet to see a bad temper, not even when your family bugs you with petty calls. This whole perfection thing makes it hard to trust you.”

  “You don’t trust me because I haven’t lost my cool?” Her logic astounded him.

  “Yes. It’s inhuman.”

  “Well, I am Optimus, aren’t I?” He sent up a quick prayer of thanks for the opportunity to lighten the mood.

  “Touché!” She chuckled for the first time all day—at least the first time he’d seen. “But be serious. I want the truth.”

  “The truth is that I’ve too much at risk to indulge wishes or bad habits.” He picked at his thumbnail and glanced out the window to stave off the temptation of showing her how very bad and inappropriate he could be if he could afford to make a second client blunder in a single day.

  “All business.” She shook her head.

  Better she think that and keep her distance. “Seems so.”

  “Well, then, Mr. Business, did I choose the wrong passage to read? I mean, it’s obvious that guy was not impressed.” Her eyes beseeched him for an answer he couldn’t give. “Did the rest of the crowd seem as underwhelmed?”

  “Forget about him. He’s one person. The rest of the audience enjoyed the introduction to you and your work. Bottom line—you’ll have rabid fans and you’ll have people who ding you with one-star reviews.”

  “Because my book sucks.”

  “No. Because no book fits every reader. We all filter what we read through our experiences and perspective. The goal is to find more readers who get you than who don’t.” Work at Savant had taught him how hard authors struggle to accept this concept. Each one wants to be universally beloved and see nothing but five-star reviews. But a quick spin on Goodreads would show that even To Kill a Mockingbird has one- and two-star ratings.

  “This is one thing I’ve dreaded since Logan proposed this whole idea. I’m a travel writer, not an author. I never wanted to be like—or compared to—my great-grandfather. Or have my work judged by strangers.”

  “There’s a memoir with your name on it that proves otherwise.”

  She shifted, fluffing the hem of her dress, neither accepting nor denying his remark. “Be honest. Did I read from the wrong part of my book? I mean, if I want to make sure no one else accuses me of riding on Duck’s coattails, tell me which part of my book you think is the most fresh or unique.”

  He couldn’t keep lying, although the pit in his stomach opened wider. Now another client would rightfully be pissed at him. He’d never let things go so wrong before, but unlike with Rebecca’s screwup, he could blame only himself for this one. “I don’t know.”

  Her brows pinched together, and then she slapped his thigh and laughed. “Oh, come on, I’m not that fragile. At least tell me your favorite section.”

  “I can’t, Peyton.” With a sigh of dread, he confessed. “I never read the entire book. My assistant gave me a detailed summary and talking points.”

  She withdrew, her expression silent dismay and disappointment. “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I were.” He’d never meant anything more.

  The taxi pulled up to the hotel, so Mitch paid the fare while Peyton pulled herself together. When they got out, she didn’t look at him. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Peyton.”

  She whirled around on him, arms raised overhead. “Don’t ‘Peyton’ me. All this time you’ve been pushing me to prepare, yet you’re my publicist and you didn’t even read my book.”

  Her arms slapped against her sides.

  “Rebecca read it. Despite her administrative failings, she’s an excellent reader and helped craft the pitch and promo materials. I leveraged all of my contacts and planned the entire PR campaign, which resulted in multiple recommendations from big hitters and nice placement among very popular literary tastemakers.” His excuses tumbled to the ground like unwanted pennies, so he stopped talking.

  She had every right to be livid. Hell, she could fire him and no one would blame her. And he’d lost all hope of her recommending his firm to anyone in the future. Oddly, that was the least of his concerns at the moment.

  “Why?” She thrust her hands out in question. “Why wasn’t my book worth reading?”

  “That’s not it.” He reached for her hand, but she’d already turned to storm toward the hotel entrance. “Peyton! Let me explain.”

  “No,” she called over her shoulder. “No more excuses, and I don’t want to eat with you. Room service will do. And I’ll find my own way to the airport tomorrow. I need some space from you and this whole tour.”

  “Please, just listen.” He trotted to catch her, but her wide-eyed glare dared him to take another step. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

  She shook her head in disgust and pushed through the door, leaving him to deal with himself. He let his head fall back, gazed at the sky—smoky-gray clouds against a field of black—and cursed.

  Bad enough he’d lost the confidence of two clients in one day. But the weight of Peyton’s crestfallen look pressed on his heart for reasons that had nothing to do with his professional reputation. That, not the hit to his business, bothered him most of all.

  She’d done him in. Captivated him with her irreverence and compassion. This yearning could not be more ill-timed, and yet its engine gained speed, urging him to consider that maybe something other than List Launch might be the key to his own happiness.

  First he’d have to win back her trust.

  Chapter Eight

  “You’d better hide when I get home, because I won’t be held responsible for any flying objects when I see you.” Peyton flopped onto the bed while speaking with Logan. She reached overhead to nab the chocolate square from her pillow and unwrapped the foil. Dark-chocolate salted caramel—even better than a martini, although she could use one of those, too.

  “I’m confused. Last we spoke you sounded rather upbeat. In fact, it almost sounded like you had a little crush on Mitch. You know I think it’s time you get back on that horse, by the way.”

  She caught a glimpse of the daisies on the nightstand and groaned. “He’s a fraud like all men but you. And even you have your moments now and then . . .”

  God love him, but Logan did have a manipulative streak that he justified six ways to Sunday. She crumpled the foil and set it aside, then craned her neck to search for a second one. Woot!

  “Hey now.”

  “Don’t worry. I still love you, but right now I hate you a little.” She propped herself up on her elbows and greedily devoured the candy, although even several pounds of chocolate wouldn’t make this book tour any easier. “Reading for strangers is hard as hell.”

  And she hadn’t even read from the raw parts of the book.

  “I’m positive you were brilliant. Don’t let that idiot who took a swipe at you sour the experience. He’s a jealous bastard.” Logan paused. “But let’s get back to Mitch. What did he do to piss you off?”

  She could tell Logan the truth, but he might then tell others, which would hurt Mitch’s reputation. If Mitch never read any of his clients’ books, his rep deserved the hit. But she sensed—from his tone, the pleading look in his eyes, and those damn daisies—that her book was the exception, not the rule. There must be some reason he chose not to read hers. That didn’t make her feel better, but she wouldn’t mess with his livelihood without knowing the full story. “I’d hoped for a different level of support now that we’re in the thick of things, I guess.”

  “Then sit him down and tell him exactly what you need. I know you hate to ask for help, but there’s no shame in it. It’s not like you’ve ever done this
before. And he can’t read your mind. You put up a good show of strength when you want. Maybe he doesn’t think you need him.”

  She rolled onto her stomach and then stuck one arm beneath her chest to raise her upper body off the mattress, still not comfortable with her full weight bearing down on the foobs. Always some reminder that nothing would ever be like before. “Let’s talk about something pleasant. How’s the engagement-party planning coming along?”

  “Oh, Darla is handling it with the same fervor she does the annual literary fund-raiser.” Logan often referred to their mom by her first name, especially when he was making fun of her.

  “I’m glad. It’s a big deal, and Claire might not admit it, but I bet she loves being made a fuss over.”

  “Well, then, she’s in luck, because no one makes a bigger fuss than Mom.” A warm snicker followed the statement, surprising Peyton. Perhaps this impending wedding would bring Logan closer to their parents. “Go make up with Mitch and then invite him to the party as your plus-one. I want to meet him.”

  “Get out of here.” Although the idea didn’t bounce off her armor like she might’ve hoped. Without any effort, an image of Mitch in a navy-blue blazer and pinstriped shirt sprang to mind. Cover-model material that made her heart flutter—God help her. The daydream was so vivid she could feel herself swaying to a classic love song on the patio with him, his hand on her lower back . . .

  She shivered, then frowned at getting all tingly when she was still so pissed at him for being as phony as Todd. She couldn’t be a fool for men twice!

  “Well, if you don’t bring your own date,” Logan threatened, “I’ll have to force one on you.”

  “Don’t you dare!” He didn’t have a single male friend that she liked. Jon—arrogant. Kyle—flighty. Sean—boozer.

  “I don’t want you sitting alone all night when your two closest friends are paired up. I know Todd hurt you, but you’ve survived so much since him. Next time will be different. I promise.”