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  But I couldn’t bring myself to accept his invitation. Something was holding me back. Or someone. I had to decline.

  Rogier took the rejection like a perfect gentleman, even insisting on riding in the cab with me to make sure I got home safely.

  On the drive, we talked easily again about graffiti in New York City. When we got to my place, he got out of the car and opened the door for me. “Ellie,” he said, “I’ll be back for business in a month. Perhaps you’ll let me take you on a proper date then?”

  “I would like that,” I said.

  Then he took my hand and brushed his lips against my knuckles, his gaze locking on mine intensely enough to give me goosebumps. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” I replied.

  When I crawled into bed soon after, I couldn’t stop replaying the whole night over and over again in my head. . . except with Jackson Ford in the lead role.

  8

  On Monday, I phoned Ford and left him a voicemail asking him to give me a call. He never responded. On Tuesday, anxiety getting the better of me, I emailed him: “Hey there. Just drop me a line and let me know when I can expect pages.” He emailed back: “When they’re ready.”

  His ass wasn’t on the line. Mine was.

  By Wednesday, my heart was racing every time I left my office, for fear of running into Louise. I actually started using the bathroom down on the tenth floor, just to reduce the risk of crossing her path. I thought about calling Solly Braunstein for advice, though in the end I didn’t.

  I ‘worked remote’ on Thursday, which meant I spent the day holed up in my apartment, obsessively refreshing my email inbox, drinking dirty martinis, and making my famous homemade macaroni and cheese. Which I then ate out of the pan while sitting on the couch watching reruns of Sex and the City, wondering how my life had turned into such an Everest of horrible decisions. It goes without saying that I didn’t hear from Ford.

  On Friday, about ten minutes after I’d arrived at the office, thankfully only slightly hungover, my phone rang. Carolyn wasn’t in yet, so I picked it up myself.

  “Ellie Parker’s office,” I chirped.

  It was Louise. Shit. “Come to my office, please, Ellie. Directly.”

  I took a deep breath, attempted to stave off a wave of panic with a few brisk jumping jacks, and then headed to Louise’s office still shaking in my heels.

  “Have a seat,” she said curtly when I entered.

  I sat, trying not to feel intimidated. Which was basically impossible, considering that the walls were crowded with literary excellence awards, framed New York Times Best Seller Lists, and gorgeous hardcover first editions signed by Louise’s best authors.

  “Have you seen any pages from Ford yet?”

  I dropped my eyes like a guilty puppy but then forced myself to meet her gaze. “No.”

  She clicked her pen impatiently, clickety clickety click click click, sending my pulse skyrocketing. I could practically see the steam coming out of her ears. “Is there even going to be a fucking book?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice coming out quietly. I tried again, louder this time. “Yes, there is.”

  Louise folded her arms, eyes narrowing, sniffing out my fear. “Are you two communicating at all?”

  “It’s been a little hard to reach him this week,” I said, wilting under her laser beam eyes. “He’s writing.”

  “Is he?” she countered. “Or is that just a guess? Do you have any idea what direction he’s going in?”

  “Well, we’ve talked about this being a prequel. To Lions and Lambs.”

  That stopped her short. “A prequel?”

  “Yes. Something grittier. Going back to Addison’s beginnings as a spy.” I wanted my voice to come across confident; I was anything but. My knuckles were white as I held onto the seat of my chair in a death grip, awaiting her response. I got none.

  Instead, Louise just leaned back into her chair, still clicking that pen. She looked at me as if I were someone she didn’t quite recognize. Suddenly she seemed to come to a decision. She reached for her phone and tapped at the screen. “Clear your schedule for the next few days,” she said. Then she wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to me.

  “This is the address of Ford’s place in the Berkshires. I want you to go up there and make sure he’s on track. I’ll call him and tell him to expect you tonight.”

  I could feel the color draining from my face, but I set my jaw and nodded in agreement. Ford might be angry at me showing up, but I couldn’t say no to Louise, not with the book—and my job—on the line. “I have an agent meeting at noon. I’ll have to leave after that,” I said.

  “Directly after that,” she commanded. Then she opened up a manuscript and started to read, and without looking up said, “Make sure you close the door on your way out.”

  “I will,” I said, tiptoeing backwards toward the exit.

  “Oh, and Ellie,” she added, “You won’t be welcome back at Denton Rifkin without those pages in your hand. Are we clear?”

  I could only muster a dry-mouthed, “Yes, ma’am,” before I slipped out.

  9

  I mentioned to the woman at Executive Car Rentals that I was heading to the Berkshires and she suggested four-wheel drive and snow tires as there was a storm in the forecast. Oh, joy.

  Back at my apartment, I grabbed a duffel and filled it with enough warm clothes and toiletries for a few days. I was hoping Jackson would see reason from the get-go, but if not I was willing to get myself a hotel room and hunker down for a longer campaign. Because there was no way in hell I was leaving the Berkshires without those pages. My career depended on it.

  I tossed in a couple of the manuscripts that I was working on and my iPad. I also packed Maggie’s gorgeous boots and a beautiful gold filigreed cuff that had been a gift from Bianca; I thought if things went well I would take him out for a nice lunch. The drive would be four hours, so I dressed in my most comfortable jeans, an ivory funnel-neck sweater that had been a gift from my mom, my best winter boots, and a slim-fitting down parka with a fur-trimmed hood.

  Then I texted Bianca and Maggie: “Going out of town on business for a few days. Sorry to miss tonight. Fill you in when I get back. Lots of love.”

  I didn’t want to talk about where I was going or what was going to happen when I got there. Hopefully they wouldn’t hound me with questions, or worse: guess what I was up to and spend the next few days teasing me with a barrage of texts filled with bad puns and sexy double entendres.

  The drive out of the city was hellish, but once I hit the parkway it wasn’t bad at all. I really enjoy driving, the freedom of getting away from it all, nothing but open road ahead of me, but I normally don’t have a chance to do very much of it living in New York City without my own car. I took off my coat, cranked the heat, plugged Jackson’s address into the GPS and put Nina Simone on the sound system. A light rain was falling, and the rhythm of the wipers had an almost hypnotic effect. An hour seemed to pass in a heartbeat. Before I realized it, the CD had restarted. Nina was thinking about Buck:

  Buck, you’re a whole lotta man.

  Just take a look at your great big hands.

  And I was thinking about Ford. The anticipation of being in a room with him was delicious. I had visions of the two of us, working side by side, sending each other flirty glances across the room. I had a crazy fantasy about us having a snowball fight that quickly devolved into a sexy wrestling match, and then heating ourselves back up in front of a fireplace afterward.

  Then reality sunk in, and I wondered if he would even let me in the door.

  By the time I reached Massachusetts it was dark and the snow had begun to fall, slowing traffic considerably. The cars ahead of me seemed to meld into a snake of lights slithering lazily toward the mountains. I realized I hadn’t eaten since my lunchtime pit stop at a cute diner for a BLT (bacon extra crispy, add a slice of Swiss), coffee, and pie, and I was famished. I rummaged through the pockets of my parka—no luck. I had
visions of piping hot lasagna—the frozen kind my mom used to make on school nights. And apple crumble. Homemade.

  I glanced down at the dashboard clock. To my shock, I realized I’d already been on the road for five hours. I rolled my neck, trying to loosen my stiff muscles. I opened the window a crack to stay alert. My GPS estimate hadn’t factored in the snowfall, nor the traffic, and I was fading fast.

  When I finally began my ascent up the narrow, winding mountain roads, it was even slower going. For long stretches, it seemed like my headlights and the moon were the only illumination. After another half hour, I started to fear that I was lost. Had I made a mistake with the address? I checked the one I’d entered into the GPS against Louise’s note: the two were the same. Still, the darkness and unfamiliar location had me spooked.

  At last, the GPS indicated that I was nearing my destination. I followed a bend in the road and Jackson’s estate came into view.

  Even in the dark, it was stunning. Clean, modern lines, wood and stone siding, with massive picture windows aglow, beckoning.

  I parked, pulled on my parka, and stepped out of the car. The icy wind was bracing, but I pulled up my hood and set off toward the house. The snow was falling hard now, and I gritted my teeth against the chill as I trudged up the long path towards his doorway.

  My thoughts were racing as fast as my pulse—for all the brainstorming I’d done on the drive up here, I still had no clear plan in mind. But soon we would be face to face, and although the idea of standing before Jackson Ford made my knees go weak, I prayed I’d be able to find a way to get those new pages in my hand.

  The snowflakes were large, catching on my lashes as I stood there paralyzed, looking up at Ford’s expansive wraparound front porch. The bitter cold was stinging my cheeks and it was the cold more than my own bravery that finally pushed me up the steps and to the carved wooden door.

  Okay. Go time. No turning back. My mouth was dry, and my hand shook as I reached up toward his doorbell and pressed? I swallowed hard as I heard a gentle chime within. Almost immediately, the large door opened.

  “How the hell. . .?” Jackson Ford stared at me in disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m—didn’t—didn’t Louise call you?” I stammered. “She sent me here to—”

  “You’re lucky you’re so fucking beautiful,” he interrupted me, shaking his head. And then he stepped back and added, “Come in before you freeze to death.”

  I stepped over the threshold and crossed into his foyer. Welcome to the lion’s den. The whole time I could feel his eyes on me, like he was drinking me up.

  “Thank you,” I said, hating how timid my voice sounded. He only nodded, a glimmer of something in his eyes. Amusement? Anger? Lust? Maybe a combination of the three.

  Instead of shrinking back from his intense gaze, I stared right back at him and sized him up. He was taller than I had remembered. And those pictures of him online and in the magazines did nothing to capture the masculinity that seemed to radiate from him, nor the distinct sense that his energy was tightly coiled, as if he might pounce on me at any moment. Truthfully, I wouldn’t have minded. Not one bit.

  I shivered at the sudden rush of dirty images flashing across my brain. Jackson must have taken it as a shiver of cold.

  “Take off that coat and get over by the fire,” he commanded, gesturing down the long, dark hallway. I tugged off my damp, snow-dusted boots and followed him, my thoughts still racing.

  He was gorgeous. His eyes that impossible shade of blue. His sculpted shoulders, arms and chest were evident beneath the forest green sweater he wore partly unzipped at the neck. His jeans clung in all the right places, and his feet were bare on the cool stone floors.

  We stepped into a huge living room with a soaring cathedral ceiling with exposed beams, floor-to-ceiling windows across one wall, and an expansive fireplace with a crackling fire glowing from within.

  “Here, let me help you,” Jackson said, going around behind me to take my jacket. I could feel the power of his presence as he stood at my back, smell the hint of pine coming off him. His fingers brushed my shoulder blades as I struggled out of my layers, pulse racing, and as he touched me I felt electricity between us so strong that I couldn’t help but shiver.

  “Thanks,” I managed, trying to cover my physical reaction to him by rubbing my arms as if it was the chill making me tremble.

  “Here,” he said, wrapping a thick woven blanket around my shoulders. I was instantly warm, and I felt my face flush as I stared up at him. He indicated a tufted leather ottoman near the fireplace. “Stay put. I’ll go deal with the ever-meddling Louise.” Then he turned and headed out into the hall again, his steps echoing up a beautiful wooden staircase.

  The moment he left my body seemed to crumble. I wrapped the blanket tighter around myself and sank down on the rug in front of the ottoman. The flames danced and the logs crackled and popped. I was entranced, and I relaxed into the heat and tried to forget how awkwardly things had started off with Jackson. There was a mix-up. Louise would explain. Jackson and I would smooth things out between us and I’d be heading back to New York with those pages in my hand in a few days or less. Win.

  I must have dozed off because I awakened to the chiming of a clock. It was already 9:00 p.m. I stood and scanned the room, but Ford was nowhere to be seen. I draped the throw over the ottoman, rubbed a knot in my shoulder, and took another look around.

  It could have been in Architectural Digest. The expanse of the ceiling. The picture windows. The exposed beams and gleaming wooden floor. One wall was layer upon layer of pale stone, and lamps of amber glass cast a golden glow. It was truly breathtaking.

  Unfortunately, I was completely ravenous by that time, and my stomach let out a low growl of protest at me for just standing around and taking in the view. Maybe it was impolite to go foraging for food, but I figured I could be excused for going full Goldilocks in Jackson’s house since my less-than-accommodating host seemed to have disappeared.

  I tiptoed down the hall, keeping an ear out for a phone conversation or any sound of movement, but it was silent. I found the kitchen easily, but I was almost too hungry to admire the polished granite countertops, the custom cabinetry, the shiny modern appliances and wide-planked wood floors. Dream kitchen. Great. But was it stocked?

  I tugged open the refrigerator door with the last of my waning strength and my soul was immediately revived by the sight that awaited me within. I’d hit the motherlode. There was half a bottle of expensive white wine, a plastic-wrapped plate of sliced hard salami and wedges of manchego, brie, and gorgeous camembert, red grapes, a jar of tiny cornichon pickles. I lined everything up on the counter and then raided the cupboards for whole wheat crackers and a bag of almonds.

  I stepped back to admire the fine results of my looting. If nothing else, Jackson Ford definitely knew how to party.

  After setting up my feast of hors d’oeuvres on the island in the center of the kitchen, I climbed up onto a stool and dug in. It was heaven. In between bites, I went over the plan: dig in my heels and/or charm Ford (professionally, of course), coerce him into handing over a copy of the pages he was working on (which obviously could take a few days if he was in the middle of writing them), drive back home, march into Louise’s office at DR with the partial manuscript, and then reclaim my job. What could be easier than that? I felt better already.

  I cleaned up my dishes and then put away the food and then checked the time on the stove clock. It was almost 10:00 p.m., and Jackson still hadn’t reappeared. What now? I returned to the living room and tried checking my work email on my phone, but there was no service and even my roaming data wouldn’t allow me to load anything. I wandered the room, trying to catch a cell signal, probably looking like a crazy person as I held my phone toward the ceiling.

  “There’s no real cell service up here.” His voice seemed to boom behind me, and I jumped. “If you need the phone, you’ll have to use the landline.”

 
I smiled, hoping the frosty vibe he was giving off was a result of his conversation with Louise, rather than his reaction to me being there in his home. “Thank you.”

  “Listen, I’m not happy about this situation,” he continued, his voice cool. “But you’re here and it’s late and I can’t let you go back out into that storm. You’ll have to stay here tonight and we’ll figure out what to do tomorrow.”

  I felt the blood draining from my face. “What? I was going to get a hotel nearby. Surely there are—”

  “No.” His voice brooked no arguments. Then his face softened. “Ellie, there’s a blizzard out there. The roads aren’t safe. I doubt your little car could even make it back down the mountain in this.”

  He had a point. It was pitch black outside and the thought of navigating those winding roads again, now slick with snowfall, after drinking a half a bottle of wine. . . my prospects were not looking good. I squared my shoulders and nodded.

  “Alright. And I’m sorry I barged in on you like this,” I said. “Louise told me—”

  “It’s done,” he said, waving away my words. “I’ll get your things.”

  He took the keys to my rental car and went out to retrieve my luggage, not even bothering with a coat. It made me cold just looking at him when he returned with a layer of snow across his broad shoulders, but when he dusted it out of his hair I couldn’t help imagining him as a small boy who’d run out into the storm to play.

  “What are you smiling about?” Jackson asked, catching me mid-grin. I realized I could never quite read his expression, as if he had a protective wall up at all times. It made me yearn to see him with his defenses down.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I just never get to see the snow like this. It’s beautiful.”

  He grunted and then led the way up the wooden staircase to the second floor, where he paused in front of a door. “In here.”

  It was a lovely guest bedroom with a four-poster bed and another fireplace. Without my asking, Jackson knelt in front of it and went to work. My mouth went dry taking in the view of his muscular back, the motion of his strong arms as he adjusted the wood, quickly getting a fire crackling gently in the hearth.