Read an Excerpt from Meet Me in Italy

Dedication

To Leanne Luttges—

For opening your heart to my daughter, Alexa, and loving her so completely. Knowing she has such a wonderful mother-in-law—that you’ll be there for her if ever there comes a time I can’t—is one of life’s sweetest comforts. And please know, I’ll always be there for Vinny, too.

Our children’s wedding in Italy will forever be among my most treasured memories—and the one that inspired this story.

Epigraph

You may have the world if I may have Italy.
—Giuseppe Verdi (1813–1901), Italian opera composer

 

Chapter One

Charlotte Williams-Jackson was about to lose her married name. Her husband of only four years wanted a divorce. The reality of that—the mere weight of the D word coming out of nowhere—hit her, once again, like a gut punch as she walked through the front door of the sprawling LA mansion he’d purchased just after they were married and saw the leather carry-on Cliff had packed in anticipation of his trip to New York. The text she’d received while she was at yoga said he wanted her out by the time he returned.

Out. Gone. But they hadn’t even been fighting!

She covered her mouth with one shaking hand as tears welled up. She’d be divorced before she turned thirty. That had to be unusual. These days, people weren’t even marrying until then. And not only would the split be painful, but it’d also be humiliating, embarrassing. Their relationship had been almost as public as that of Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift.

At least she wouldn’t be left destitute. As an NBA player who’d just negotiated a huge contract, he’d asked her to sign a prenup, but the settlement was more money than most people her age would ever have the chance to earn. Since they hadn’t been married long and didn’t have any kids, she’d get the minimum amount specified, but eight hundred thousand dollars was still a lot of money.

Maybe he was breaking things off because she’d been pressing him to start a family. He was probably afraid she’d go off her birth control and get pregnant even though he wasn’t ready. She wanted to believe he knew her well enough to trust she’d never try to trap him, but there were plenty of professional athletes who’d faced such a scenario or worse, and he’d heard all the horror stories.

Before he’d left their bed to sleep in one of the many guest rooms last night, he’d said he hoped she wouldn’t try to break the prenup. She’d told him she wouldn’t, and she meant it. Besides the settlement, she still had royalties coming in from her first novel, a “sports romance.” She wanted to think her book had sold over a million copies because it was just that good, but she knew debut authors typically didn’t see such numbers. Her success had to be largely due to her connection with Clifford, who was one of the best shooting guards in the league. Thanks to him, she’d had over a million followers on social media before she’d even been published, giving her an incredible platform.

But she hadn’t married him for his fame or his money. She’d married for love, and although her parents and friends had warned her that being the wife of a professional athlete wouldn’t be easy, she’d thought she could defy the odds. She’d never dreamed she and Cliff wouldn’t even make it to their fourth anniversary.

Numb inside, she lifted the hand that held her phone. She’d replied when he’d said he wanted her out before he got back, but he hadn’t answered. Couldn’t they talk through whatever had upset him? Go to a counselor?

She’d suggested as much last night when he’d asked for a divorce, but he’d refused, said he just didn’t want to be married anymore. When she’d pressed him for an explanation, he’d added that he didn’t know how long his NBA career would last and he planned to enjoy these years while he could.

Apparently that meant unencumbered. But why couldn’t he enjoy playing ball while he was with her? How had she been getting in the way? Didn’t he love her enough to try to salvage what they had?

The door opened behind her, and she turned to see his driver, whom she’d passed in the driveway when she’d pulled in a minute ago.

“Mrs. Jackson.” Jeremy nodded politely, but he wouldn’t look her in the eye. She could tell he already knew that she was now persona non grata. Cliff must’ve told him he was kicking her out, which made everything she planned to say, after a morning spent reassuring herself that her husband would view things differently once he came back to himself, seem pointless.

“Have you seen Cliff?” she asked woodenly.

“No, ma’am. He called to tell me to get the car ready shortly after you left, but I haven’t seen him yet,” he replied. Then he grabbed the luggage and beat a hasty retreat.

Was there another woman? Charlotte wondered. She had a feeling Cliff had strayed a time or two. Last night, he’d insisted he hadn’t, that he simply wanted his freedom. But professional athletes—at least those at his level—were constantly faced with temptation.

A bead of sweat rolled down between her shoulder blades. It was only eleven, but LA could get warm, even in April.

Footsteps sounded above her. She looked up to see her husband striding toward one of two matching staircases that swept down to the first floor. It appeared he was leaving for his trip to New York to play the Knicks in an important play-off game sooner than expected.

When he noticed her, he stopped as if he didn’t want to confront her. She got the impression he’d been trying to get out of the house before she returned. But then he squared his shoulders and continued, jogging down the stairs.

“You’re back from yoga already?” he said.

She tried to hide the hurt, but the emotional blow he’d struck was still so fresh it was impossible. She blinked rapidly but couldn’t hold back the tears. “I’m actually home later than usual,” she said. “I wanted to give you plenty of time to sleep in. I know you have to be rested for the game.” She’d also been hoping he’d be in a better frame of mind. “So I ran a few errands after my class and stopped by my mother’s house. She hasn’t been feeling well.”

“There’s always something wrong with her,” he said dismissively.

Surprised by this callous response, she stiffened. “Lupus is like that.”

“Maybe she’s got lupus and maybe she doesn’t. Has that really been determined?”

“That’s what the doctor told her.”

“Either way, she loves the attention being sick brings her. Every time she says she’s not feeling well you run over there, which is exactly what she’s after.”

He’d made similar comments before, but her mother would not say she wasn’t well unless it was true. Charlotte opened her mouth to defend Penny, as she always had, but the words froze in her throat. If he wasn’t going to be part of her life in the future, what did it matter?

He pulled his phone out of the pocket of his slacks and glanced at it. “Anyway, I have to go.”

She fixed her eyes on the thick gold chain hanging around his neck because she couldn’t bear to see the hardness in his eyes. “You rarely leave this early.”

“I’ve got lunch with some of the guys.”

As if he wouldn’t have enough time with his teammates on the long plane ride. “That’s it then?” she said. It was all so sudden she had whiplash. But she didn’t know how to fix anything. Cliff was completely unemotional, indifferent; she almost didn’t recognize him. He’d been an asshole at times, sure. But he’d grown up with a difficult father who’d been in and out of his life—until he’d gotten rich and famous. Then Richard was always hanging around, looking for a handout.

Cliff was also in an unusual and demanding job, despite its perks, and sometimes suffered from anxiety and depression due to the constant pressure to perform and the very public backlash if he didn’t.

She’d tried to be understanding, tried to see the best in him. She’d meant what she’d said when she’d sworn to love him for the rest of her life. But if he wanted to end their marriage, there was nothing she could do to stop him. The helplessness she felt was probably the worst aspect of what was happening. He wouldn’t even give her the chance to change whatever was bothering him.

“Have a safe trip,” she said dully.

The door opened behind her, and Jeremy stepped in. “Car’s ready,” he announced.

Relief flooded Cliff’s face. “Great. Let’s go.”

Charlotte thought he’d simply circumvent her and leave without so much as a goodbye, but as he brushed past, he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

Then he was gone.

 

Charlotte had packed a suitcase and moved back in with her parents, who lived in Newport Beach, while Cliff was gone. She wasn’t going to stay where she wasn’t wanted; it’d been his money that’d bought the house in the first place.

But even after living an entire week in her old bedroom, whenever she opened her eyes and took in her surroundings, she felt strange, as if she’d stepped into a time capsule. Her parents hadn’t changed a thing since she’d graduated from high school and left home. Her yearbooks were stacked in the closet, the cluttered bulletin board above her desk held, among other things, a picture of her and Doug Green at senior prom, along with the dried-out corsage he’d given her, various notes from the friends she’d been closest to at the time, her SAT results, her acceptance to Stanford and her old book lists, which were extensive because she knew, in order to become a writer, she needed to be well-read. That she’d been able to achieve her dream of getting published by a major publisher and hitting The New York Times bestseller list so easily and early in her career certainly wasn’t typical. But she hadn’t marveled at the anomaly too much. For her, nothing had seemed off-limits. As far back as she could remember, the world had bowed at her feet. She’d always felt loved, valued, capable, happy.

Until now. Now the world had, without warning, become completely hostile. The press was having a field day with her divorce (“Clifford Jackson Kicks out Queen of the ‘Sports Romance’”; “NBA Star Leaves ‘Queen of Sports Romance’”; “‘Sports Romance’ Author Unable to Create Her Own Happily-Ever-After”; “Clifford Jackson Giving up on ‘Storybook’ Romance”), so she wasn’t just brokenhearted; she felt like a laughingstock. It didn’t help that the friends she’d made since marrying Cliff had become unresponsive to her; apparently, they’d decided they’d rather remain friends with him. She didn’t even know if she’d have the emotional wherewithal to finish the second book on her contract, so her career might go the same way as her marriage. The manuscript was due in just three short months, and because she’d been so intimidated by the success of her first book, so scared she wouldn’t be able to top it, she’d started five different stories only to abandon them all.

Now the fear was worse than ever—overwhelming, paralyzing, suffocating. The fact that Cliff was responsible for so much of the word of mouth she’d received when Playing for Keeps was released made her feel like an imposter, as if she hadn’t deserved what she’d received in the first place, and her second book would reveal just how inept a writer she really was.

She pulled the blankets over her head to block out the light. Her mother had come in an hour or so earlier and put up the shades. Penny was making lunch—or dinner; Charlotte couldn’t keep track. She just knew that her mother wanted her to come down to eat.

But she had no desire for food. She’d been in bed since she came home and still couldn’t summon the strength to get up. Everything she’d built since she’d left this room eleven years ago had been leveled—or soon would be.

She heard someone at the door but didn’t pull the blankets down so she could see who it was. Her father, a hedge fund manager, didn’t usually get home until six, and it was somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, somewhere in the middle of the week, so she was fairly certain he was still gone. It had to be her mother, who’d been a tennis instructor at the local club before her health had started to deteriorate. The longer Charlotte stayed in bed, the more Penny began to hover. She said encouraging things, offered to take Charlotte shopping or to lunch. She’d even mentioned getting her a good therapist. Her family was wealthy, so they could afford that kind of help. But right now, even those baby steps seemed too daunting.

“You’re not coming?” her mother said.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied.

The bed dipped as Penny sat beside her and tugged the covers down. “That can’t be true,” she said as she smoothed the hair out of Charlotte’s face. “You’ve hardly eaten for days.”

“I’d rather sleep.”

Her mother’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s all you’ve been doing!”

“I must be catching up,” she muttered.

Penny’s cool, gentle hand cupped her face. “What about your book, honey?”

Just the mention of her book caused fear to burn like acid in Charlotte’s stomach. “What about it?”

“Isn’t it due soon? Don’t you need to write?”

“I’ve got time,” she lied.

Her mother studied her with concern. “I’m so worried about you.”

Charlotte curved her lips into as close an approximation of a smile as she could manage. “I’ll be okay.”

“I can’t believe Clifford would do this to you,” she responded. “You . . . you haven’t heard from him, have you?”

The first few days after she’d moved back in with her parents, Charlotte had checked her phone religiously. She couldn’t help hoping Cliff would change his mind, feel some regret. She hadn’t done anything wrong; she’d been a loving, devoted wife. Surely, he’d realize he was tossing away someone who was important to him, someone he missed and needed in his life.

But no . . . She winced as she remembered how torturous it’d become as the days passed and she received no calls from him—no messages, either. The Lakers had managed to beat the Knicks, and he’d scored over thirty points. She’d been hoping he’d do well because that usually made him eager to celebrate with her. But he still didn’t call.

Then she’d made the mistake of googling his name to see what was going on in his life—or what the press was reporting about it, anyway—and came across a headline that’d nearly made her throw up: “Clifford Jackson Seen in Vegas with Model Marija Vidmar.” There’d been a picture to corroborate the brief sighting—of her husband holding hands with the tallest, most beautiful woman she’d ever seen—and she hadn’t picked up her phone since. For all she knew, the battery was as dead as her marriage.

“I haven’t heard from him,” she mumbled.

“Then you need to let him go.”

“I know that.” Instant annoyance had caused her to speak too sharply, but if it was that easy to get over Cliff, she would’ve done it already.

“Time heals all wounds,” her mother said, attempting to soothe her, but it was difficult to believe anything could help. Charlotte could barely open her eyes they were so red and swollen from the crying jags that would hit her out of nowhere.

Her mother stood, then bent over to gather the balls of tissue that’d avalanched onto the carpet from the nightstand. “You have to keep up your strength. Come on down and at least try to eat something.”

Charlotte allowed her heavy eyelids to close. “Not tonight.”

“But I have a surprise for you.” Penny was clearly disappointed. “Something guaranteed to cheer you up.”

She forced her eyes open again. Unless her mother could put her marriage back together, nothing would cheer her up. “Mac and cheese won’t do it this time, Mom,” she said. “But I appreciate the effort.”

“It’s Julian,” Penny said.

Charlotte shoved herself into a sitting position. “Davis?”

Lines of confusion creased her mother’s forehead. “Do you know another Julian?”

She didn’t, but she hadn’t heard from her best friend’s twin brother in years. He’d hung out with them a lot in high school. But when they graduated, they all went off to different colleges. He’d gone to a school on the East Coast to play lacrosse, found a girlfriend and gotten busy. She’d only remained in contact with Sloane. The last she’d heard about Julian, which was a couple of years ago, he’d become a landscape photographer who traveled extensively for work but was now based out of Moab, Utah, where he’d opened his own gallery, and he’d become engaged to some woman who worked for one of the travel magazines that featured his photographs. She probably would’ve heard more about him, but Cliff hadn’t liked Sloane, and Sloane hadn’t liked Cliff, so even her relationship with Julian’s sister had been mostly nonexistent in recent years, especially once Sloane got married and moved to Seattle just after telling Charlotte about Julian’s engagement. “What does he want?” she asked her mother.

“Didn’t say. He just came to the door to see if you were home, and I invited him to join us for dinner.”

She groaned. “You didn’t . . .”

“Why wouldn’t I?” her mother replied. “You’ve always loved Julian. I’ve always loved Julian. I was happy to see him, especially because I thought . . . Well, I thought he might be able to help me pull you out of this . . . funk.”

Her sinuses were plugged, making her voice sound nasal. “I’m going through a divorce. It’s not a funk. Anyway, look at me.” She grabbed a tissue and held it up before blowing her nose, which she’d wiped so often in the past week she could’ve played Rudolph in a Christmas show. “I haven’t showered for three days. I don’t want him or anyone else to see me like this.”

“Then take a few minutes to clean up,” she said. “You’ll find us in the kitchen when you’re done.”

“I can’t face getting ready! Tell him I don’t feel well,” she said to her mother’s retreating form and flopped back down on the pillows.

Penny turned at the door. “Charlotte, please. Staying in bed isn’t doing you any good.”

It was better than allowing others to witness the depth of her devastation. That was probably what Julian had come to see; it was what everyone on the internet was speculating about. Millions of strangers were talking about her online, probably dying to catch a glimpse of her. If someone happened to take a snapshot and post it on the internet, she could only imagine the number of views it would get . . .

The world was no longer safe. “I’ll eat later,” she said.

“You’ve been putting me off for days.” Her mother gestured at the rumpled bed. “I can’t see you like this anymore. If you won’t come down, I’ll call him up.”

Panic gripped Charlotte, causing her to bolt back into a sitting position. “No!”

Her mother didn’t even hesitate. “Come on up, Julian!” she yelled in a fatalistic voice.

The sudden movement had made Charlotte’s head swim. She put a hand to her right temple. “Mom!” she said, her voice a harsh whisper.

Penny winced as she glanced back, but she was far more determined than Charlotte had expected. When Julian came, she merely turned to the side to make room for him to get past her in the doorway before she left.

“You look good,” he said sarcastically.

All too aware of her greasy hair, swollen eyes, red nose and blotchy face, Charlotte sniffed. “That’s the first thing you’re going to say to me?”

“Pretty hard to ignore the obvious.”

Unfortunately, he looked incredible. Of course that would be the case. These days, everything seemed to be engineered to make her feel bad. No longer the scrawny late bloomer he’d been in high school, with terrible acne and braces on his teeth, he had a clear, unblemished complexion, broad shoulders and well-defined biceps. And the white cotton of his T-shirt contrasted nicely with his dark tan and cornflower-blue eyes. Those long, golden eyelashes matched the lighter streaks in his hair and had always been attractive, but now they were positively dreamy.

She preferred the tall, lanky physique of her husband—soon-to-be ex-husband—she told herself. She’d always liked basketball players. But she could see how some women would find Julian’s stockier frame appealing. He looked incredibly strong.

“You don’t feel even the least bit sorry for me?” she said.

“Looks like you’ve got that covered.” A crooked smile coupled with a wink softened his words, but she took exception to them all the same.

“My husband just . . . My husband dropped me without any warning and hasn’t looked back since, Jules,” she said, easily and automatically falling back on the nickname his closest friends and family had always used. “This was the man I was hoping to have a family with—the man I was hoping to grow old with.”

His muscular shoulders lifted in a shrug. “He’s also the man who doesn’t deserve you. Good riddance to Clifford Jackson—that’s what I say.”

“Because he’s a professional athlete?”

“Because he’s a selfish bastard.”

She stiffened in surprise. “How would you know?”

“It’s obvious from the way he plays ball.” He opened the doors to her closet and stepped inside.

“What are you doing?” It looked like he was rifling through her suitcase, which was lying open on the floor. She hadn’t bothered to unpack. Why would she? She’d been hoping Cliff would invite her back to the gorgeous Malibu mansion she used to call home.

“Finding something for you to wear,” he replied.

“I’m not coming down to dinner,” she reiterated.

“I know.” There was a plop as he tossed some of her clothes to the side. “We’re going out.”

“What?”

His voice drifted to her, once again, from inside the closet. “You heard me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she argued.

He took a moment to poke his head out. “It might look weird if I’m carrying you over my shoulder, but I guess that’s up to you.”

She felt her jaw drop. “You’re saying you’ll haul me out of here if you have to?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re not going to let Clifford Jackson get the best of you—that’s why.”

She considered his response, found it somewhat empowering and, therefore, appealing. “How do you propose we stop him?”

“We’re going to be seen around LA, make sure we’re photographed together and leak those pictures to every online source that might be interested.”

That would be a long list. For the news outlets, it’d be almost like receiving shots of Hailey Bieber hanging out with another man if she ever split with Justin. “You want to make him think we’re seeing each other? That I’ve already moved on?”

“He can think whatever he wants as long as he knows you’re not sitting in your room—” he poked his head out again “—crying over him.”

“What about the evidence?” she grumbled. “You don’t think my swollen eyes and red face will give me away?”

“That’s what makeup and sunglasses are for.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip as the nasty online comments she’d read about herself floated through her mind. It wouldn’t help her broken heart, but maybe it would feel good to salvage a portion of her pride . . . “You really believe we can sell it?”

“Why not? Any woman would want to be seen with me. After all, I’m a hell of a good-looking guy.”

That made her laugh out loud in spite of everything. “You’re definitely not bad.”

“You probably think Clifford’s hotter, but I’m cutting you some slack for being delusional at the moment.” He came up with a shirt and a skirt from two different outfits and held them up before tossing them over to her as if he’d decided they’d do. “Here you are.”

“Those don’t even go together,” she informed him.

“Now you’re questioning my fashion sense?”

“I’ll pick my own clothes, thank you—if you’ll just step out of the room.” She wasn’t wearing anything other than a tank top and a pair of panties, so she couldn’t get out of bed until he left.

“I’m not that stupid,” he said. “Once I’m gone, you’ll just lock the door.”

She laughed again, and the sound of it reminded her of who she normally was. This was what friends were for, she reminded herself. They picked you up when you were flat on your ass and compelled you to journey on. Her problem was that she’d let her friends go because of Cliff, had let him dictate who they saw and what they did. She’d felt she had to do that to keep him happy.

Little good it had done her . . .

“Then turn your back,” she said.

He instantly obliged, and she dragged herself out of bed and over to her suitcase. “Where’s your wife, by the way?” she asked. “Won’t she mind you taking me on this little escapade?”

“I don’t have a wife.”

She’d just pulled the rest of her clothes out of her suitcase and hadn’t found anything that wasn’t too wrinkled, so she was going through what he’d already tossed aside. “Sloane told me you were engaged.”

“I was.”

“What happened?”

He kept his back to her. “My fiancée came to her senses, I guess.”

“She broke up with you?”

“Went back to her douchebag ex, who, it turned out, had been calling her. So don’t tell me I don’t know how bad you’re feeling.”

“That would hurt,” she acknowledged. “But as long we’re comparing war wounds, I was actually married and thought we were ready to start a family—and all of America was paying attention to our relationship and is now witnessing my fall from grace.”

“You’ve got a backbone. You’ll get through it.”

Would she? That remained to be seen. “How long ago did your fiancée leave you?” she asked as she pulled out a clean pair of panties.

“It’s been about fourteen months, but it was only nine weeks before the wedding. We were just about to send out the invitations when she realized she’d rather be with him.”

“That sucks. So . . . are they married now?”

“No. Didn’t work out between them again. I, of course, wasn’t surprised—but neither was I interested in taking her back.”

“You were over it?”

“I was more than over it. I was grateful she’d left me—feel like I dodged a bullet. Distance gave me a certain perspective I’d lacked before.”

After nearly drowning in feelings of inadequacy and allowing her own internal critic to beat her up over and over again by suggesting everything she should’ve done differently so she wouldn’t have been tossed out by the one person she loved more than any other, it felt like Julian was throwing her a life preserver. She hated that he was seeing her at her most vulnerable, especially because it was the first time they’d been together in over a decade. But he wouldn’t let her send him away, and his tough-love approach—although, admittedly, a little callous—was actually helping. He was essentially saying, “Shit happens to everybody—get over it.” And he was right. What other choice did she have?

“You’re lucky,” she agreed.

“So are you. You just don’t know it yet.”

She was far from feeling the gratitude he felt, but she certainly hoped he was right.

“What are you doing in town, anyway?” she asked as she finally settled on a casual black spaghetti-strap dress. She’d always loved yoga, had stayed in shape, so at least she wouldn’t look too bad if she could fix her face and hair.

“My mother had to have a full hysterectomy, and my father had to get an operation on his hemorrhoids,” he replied matter-of-factly.

She covered her mouth. “I’m sure your father wouldn’t want you telling people about that!”

“Let it be a lesson to you. Eat more fruits and vegetables or suffer the consequences. Anyway, Sloane’s design business is so new I didn’t want her to leave it.”

“So you stepped up. That was very good of you.”

“I have my moments.”

She dropped her tank top on the floor before yanking the pool dress over her head. “I’m decent.”

He turned around. “Nice. Now you just need to wash your face and comb your hair.”

Fresh tears filled her eyes—out of nowhere—but these tears weren’t for Cliff. “I’ve missed you,” she admitted, somehow feeling as if she’d suddenly come across an important part of herself she’d lost along the way.

His smile softened. “Yeah, well, you might think of me more as a pain in the ass before this is over.”

Impulsively, she walked into his arms—and her bruised ego and broken heart felt just a little better as he hugged her. “You’re going to be okay,” he murmured in her ear. “Let’s go.”

 

Chapter Two

“So how is this going to work again?” Charlotte asked, glancing around. She wasn’t so famous that everyone she passed would be able to identify her—especially without her husband at her side, towering over her—but there were a lot of Lakers fans in the area who would know who she was. Someone was bound to notice her.

Julian clasped her hand more tightly, steadying her. He’d driven her over to Westwood, one of the most popular neighborhoods in Los Angeles. It was a fun place to hang out, with trendy shops and eateries, movie theaters, the Hammer Museum and UCLA—and there was usually a crowd of people milling about the streets, especially on a warm spring evening like this one.

Tonight proved no different.

“I texted my friend, told him where we’ll be. He’ll snap a few pics and email them to various online sites.”

She smoothed her dress with her free hand. “How do I look? Okay?” She’d decided she couldn’t go out without washing her hair, so she’d ended up showering, and he’d visited with her mother while she put on makeup.

“Much better,” he said. “Relax.”

She slid her sunglasses higher on her nose. There hadn’t been anything she could do, even with makeup, to hide her swollen eyes, so she had to cover them. “Where are we going?”

He scanned the crowd. Now that he’d dragged her out among the wolves, he seemed determined to make sure she didn’t get eaten, and his protectiveness helped. “To a little French bistro.”

“Is the food good there? Because I’m suddenly famished.”

“I’m not surprised. Your mother said you haven’t eaten for a week.”

“I’ve eaten,” she argued, but when he challenged that statement with a pointed look, she broke eye contact. “Just . . . not a lot,” she admitted.

As they reached the restaurant, a man stepped out of the shadow of the building and started taking pictures of them. Julian feigned outrage at the invasion of their privacy and yelled for him to go away—all while making sure he angled aside so the lens could catch her face well enough to make her recognizable—and the attention made others turn to look. Soon, several people were murmuring about them and lifting their phones for photos.

Charlotte forced a smile as she clung to Julian. “You’re sure this is a good idea, right?” For a second, she was afraid this would mean Cliff would never take her back. She knew she probably shouldn’t want that, not after what he’d done, but she did.

“You’ve got this,” he responded.

“Charlotte! Charlotte Jackson! Over here! Is that your new man?” someone yelled from not too far down the street.

Charlotte struggled to broaden her smile as she turned. “Just a friend I went to high school with!” she called back.

“Perfect. You’re doing great,” Julian told her and led her inside.

While they waited for the hostess, the door opened behind them and a group of teenagers who’d seen the commotion on the street poked their heads in. “Do you think that’s her?” . . . “No, dude. She’s not that tall.” . . . “You’re just used to seeing her with Clifford Jackson, who’s, like, six-nine!” . . . “I heard someone call her name.” One of them tried to get a snapshot of her and might have succeeded had the manager not shooed them out.

“This isn’t going to be as bad as I thought,” she told Julian after the hostess had seated them. She probably couldn’t have braved going out on her own, but she felt safe with him.

“It’ll get even easier from here,” he said. “You just have to take one small step forward every day.”

The waitress came to bring water. “Everything looks delicious,” Charlotte said, scanning the menu.

She chose the French onion soup and pistachio-topped salad. He chose the salmon and lentils with capers.

“Look, this place is also a cooking school.” She pointed at the back of the menu.

He leaned over to read the information. “I didn’t realize that.”

“They offer classes—the Art of Making Pasta, Date Night, Springtime in Paris. It’d be fun to sign up for one.”

“Maybe you should.”

She frowned. “I have to finish my book before I do anything else.”

He spread his napkin in his lap. “Your mother mentioned you were on deadline. How’s your second book coming along?”

“Great,” she lied.

He called her bluff with a skeptical look, but she nodded, trying to convince him.

“Your first book was good,” he said.

Her hand froze with her water halfway to her mouth. “You read it?”

“I did. I downloaded it shortly after Sloane told me you’d been published.”

“That’s so nice!” Her own husband hadn’t read it. Cliff had acted proud of her, but he wasn’t much of a reader.

“I knew how much it would mean to you to see your name on the cover,” Julian said.

“Too bad I didn’t use my maiden name on the cover,” she grumbled.

“You can change it for the next one.”

“Not really. Not without hurting sales. An author’s name is more than a name. It’s a brand. If I go back to Williams, the readers who liked my first book might not even realize I’ve written another one.”

“So you’ll stick with Jackson,” he said with a shrug. “No big deal. Anyway, I liked the story. You’re going to be fine.”

She took a drink before putting down her glass. “Do you typically read romance?” she asked with a grin.

He winked at her. “Only yours so far, but I might read more in the future.”

When the waitress came to pick up their menus, they agreed to get a bottle of white wine, and he ordered it. “So . . . are you going to continue living with your parents?” he asked.

“For the time being, I guess.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Because you’re hoping Clifford will take you back?”

“Yes.” She gave him a pitiful look before reversing her answer. “No.”

“It would be a mistake to go back to him, Char.”

“I know. But when you love someone . . .”

“He’d just dump you again, and maybe by then you’d have kids, which would make it that much harder.”

She knew he was right. “Did you see that picture of him online with Marija Vidmar?”

“I don’t follow him.”

“Then how’d you know we split up?”

“My parents said something about it. My dad’s a big Lakers fan. I prefer college ball. Who’s Marija Vidmar?”

“Only a model,” she said. “And the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“In the whole world, huh?” He grinned. “Wow, that is beautiful.”

She called up the picture on her phone and turned it to show him. “See?”

“She’s not bad,” he allowed. “But Sloane told me Clifford picked you out of the crowd at one of his games and sent someone over to ask for your number.”

“He did.”

“So something must’ve caught his eye, and it couldn’t have been your sparkling personality.” He waved a hand. “Anyway, who cares? Let her have him. You have a book to write. That’s what you need to focus on—the opportunities that lie ahead of you.”

If only she had the confidence she needed to make the most of those opportunities. “I don’t think I can write it, Jules. I . . . I’m going to blow the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, growing resolute again. “You can do it. Your first book proves it.”

“My first book only proves that having a big social media following can turbocharge a writer’s career—and I got that by dating and then marrying Cliff.”

“Your book was good,” he reiterated.

She wanted to believe him, but the doubt was too crippling. She took another drink of water before asking, “What about you? Do you still have an art gallery in Moab?”

“It’s not a full gallery—just my work. It gives me a direct outlet in a place that sees a lot of tourists, thanks to the national parks in the area.”

“Who works the store when you’re off taking pictures?”

“I have an employee. She can’t be there all the time, of course, so she just tailors her hours to fit her schedule. That’s how a lot of places do it down there. And we also sell online.”

“I’ve seen some of your work,” she said. “You’re incredibly talented.”

“I love what I do, mostly because it gives me the opportunity to travel.”

“You’ve been all over the world.”

“I’ve seen a lot of places, but there are still destinations on my list.”

“Like . . .?”

“Lençóis Maranhenses National Park, for one.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s in Brazil. There’re too many places to name, actually. The world is a big place.”

It was a big place, with so much to discover—and yet she’d been living her life as a satellite to someone else. Had she truly been happy?

She’d been grateful, felt lucky because so many women would be eager to trade places with her. But Cliff never seemed to care much about her goals and dreams. His were much more important. They always came first.

“What are you thinking?” Julian asked.

The waitress appeared with their food. Charlotte leaned back and waited until the woman had set down their plates before responding. “I’m thinking I need to quit wallowing in self-pity and start writing my next book.”

He seemed pleased to hear it, but then the smile slipped from his face. “Wait a second . . . Did you say start writing your next book? When’s it due?”

She gave him a sheepish look. “In three months.”

He sat back. “Can anyone write a book in that amount of time?”

“It’s possible,” she said. “But it won’t be easy—especially for a newbie like me.”

 

When he got home, Julian found his mother sitting on the couch in a robe watching TV. “Where’s Dad?” he asked.

“Went to bed.”

“It’s barely ten. He feeling okay?”

Although his mother was sitting in the dark, the TV made it possible to see her face as the colored lights flickered across it. “I think so. He got up early. And he typically beats me to bed these days.”

“You weren’t waiting up for me . . .” Julian said. She’d been so interested when he’d said he was going to visit Charlotte, he’d half expected it.

“Maybe I was,” she admitted with a laugh. “I’ve been curious. How’d it go with Charlotte?”

“Better than I expected. She’s resilient. She has a tough road ahead of her, but she’ll rise to the occasion.”

“She must’ve been surprised to see you. It’s been a long time.”

“Since the summer we graduated from high school.” They’d made the most of those final, sun-filled days by lying out at Charlotte’s pool, playing sand volleyball at the beach, going on their friend Trevor’s sailboat—his parents were even richer than Charlotte’s—and partying with another friend whose parents were always going out of town. So being back in LA conjured up memories that’d made him eager to reconnect.

“Even Sloane hasn’t talked to Charlotte for a while,” his mother said.

“It’s been over a year.”

“Why, do you think? Sloane and Charlotte were always so close.”

“Sloane says Cliff cut her out. She claims he would only accept his own family and friends. To get along with him, Charlotte had to become part of his world and leave her own behind.”

“It would be easy to resent that.”

Julian nodded. “But she was trying so hard to make her marriage work, I got the impression she never even considered the cost.”

She adjusted the small blanket draped over her lap. “Is that why her parents have been so reticent about their son-in-law?”

“I didn’t know they had been reticent.”

“We ran into them at a charity function—a firefighter’s fund raiser—last summer. Everyone was excited to hear about the NBA star who’d joined their family, but they didn’t say much, didn’t seem all that happy to have such a close connection with him, which took me by surprise.”

“They were probably sorry to see their only child marry someone who wouldn’t accept them into his life.”

“Makes sense. Penny seemed kind of sad, to be honest.”

Julian thought of the shots his friend had gotten tonight. He couldn’t wait until they were splashed all over the internet to show Cliff that Charlotte would be just fine without him. The friend he’d asked to take those shots would be compensated, since he’d be able to sell them for a good price, so everyone came out a winner—except Cliff, who deserved a dose of his own medicine. “Now that he’s moved on, Charlotte and her parents are better off.”

“It’s hard to be tossed aside.”

“She’ll get over it eventually.” He started to cross the room to the hallway, but she spoke again.

“Did you tell her?”

He knew what his mother was talking about; the gravity in her voice made her meaning clear. “No.”

She twisted around to face him. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want anyone to know—other than you, me and Dad.”

“You said you’d talk to Sloane.”

“I will, when the time is right.”

“When?”

He couldn’t say. He sensed something was going on with his sister. Until he had the chance to spend some time with her and figure out what it was, he wasn’t going to dump his problems at her feet. It’d be different if there was anything she could do to help—but there wasn’t. “When I’m ready.”

“Your friends and family should have the opportunity to love and support you through the coming months just like you’re trying to support Charlotte.”

“My situation’s different,” he pointed out.

“How? She’s facing a challenge. You’re facing a challenge.”

He frowned. “Not one that I can win,” he said and continued on to his room.

 

Sloane sat behind the wheel of her car at a stoplight, staring off into space, worrying about her marriage and where it was going—which wasn’t anywhere good. Ben was a wonderful man and a great spouse, but if she couldn’t wrap her mind around having children—and soon—where would that leave them?

The car behind her honked. She hadn’t realized the stoplight had turned green.

Glancing in the rearview mirror to see the angry driver behind her, she gave her Subaru some gas. She wished she and Ben could find a compromise, but either they had children or they didn’t. And the push/pull over that subject was putting so much strain on their relationship, they were killing what they had. Sure, they still came home from work, made dinner together and acted as if everything was okay. But then she sat, numb, as they had a drink before bed, and he talked about his two nieces and nephew and how he couldn’t wait to be a father.

He’d been pressing her to get pregnant—to at least start trying—but she hadn’t yet visited the doctor to have her IUD removed. She kept telling him the doctor was booked solid and the earliest appointment she could get was months away. But she hadn’t even spoken to anyone at the doctor’s office. Every time she picked up the phone, she had a panic attack and hung up during the “Press 1 for English” recording that came on as soon as the call connected. She liked her life the way it was, didn’t want it to change. Even seeing her husband’s nieces and new baby nephew didn’t evoke the response she felt it should—a burning desire to become a parent herself. She was excited for Caitlyn, Ben’s sister. She thought Caitlyn’s children were sweet. She even offered to babysit when Caitlyn needed help. But that was enough “kid time” for her. When she imagined living Caitlyn and John’s life—when she saw firsthand the huge commitment raising a family entailed, the lifelong commitment and how it changed absolutely everything—she felt positively claustrophobic.

The worst part about it? She’d thought she wanted children when she first met Ben. It wasn’t fair that she’d changed her mind. But how could she force herself to go through with something that impactful if it wasn’t what she wanted now? She preferred to focus on her career and not take on that added responsibility, couldn’t even imagine trying to juggle being a good mom with being a good decorator and business owner.

She pulled in behind the small downtown boutique she co-owned with her college friend, Rory Gaiten. Despite knowing how difficult it would be to start their own interior design firm, she and Rory had moved ahead with their dream and were making it happen. The business was still in its infancy—they were relieved whenever they covered overhead by mid-month—but they were gaining more clients as time went by, so Sloane hoped they’d be on safer ground soon. They’d recently been featured in a local magazine that praised them as being “fresh, innovative and extremely talented,” so this month was proving to be an especially good one.

“There you are!” Rory said.

Sloane checked the oversize watch she wore. It’d belonged to her grandfather before he passed. “Am I late?”

Slight and clean-shaven in a fitted white shirt, tailored gray slacks and Italian loafers, Rory cleared his desk, which he never let get very cluttered, by putting a piece of paper in his drawer and centering his coffee mug on its coaster. “Later than usual.”

“Traffic was bad.” She tossed her keys on her desk, which faced his in the back section of the store. “And the line at Starbucks was out the door.” She set down her to-go cup and circled around to take her seat. “Did the paintings come in for the Jones house?”

Rory shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Damn it! She’s entertaining for her anniversary next weekend and wants us to be finished—understandably.”

“I’ll email the artist again,” he said and started typing.

“Thanks.”

Rory looked up from his computer as she put her purse in her drawer. “Do you feel okay?” he asked.

She looked up. “Of course. Why?”

“I don’t know. You seem . . . tense.”

Her personal life was starting to bleed into her professional life. She needed to find a resolution—the sooner, the better. “It’s just . . . been a hectic morning,” she said.

“Except you seem to be getting worse by the day,” he pointed out.

“It’s nothing.” She’d have to bury deeper the way she felt about the disintegration of her marriage, improve her acting . . . something.

He frowned at her. “You’re not going to tell me?”

Tucking her dark hair behind one ear, she put even more effort behind her smile and hoped it would be convincing. It was the best she could do when she felt trapped between two choices—neither of which she liked. “There’s nothing to tell,” she said as brightly as possible.

 

Chapter Three

When Charlotte came down for breakfast carrying her laptop the next morning, her mother beamed at her. “Well, look at you! I’m so glad to see you—and you’re even showered.”

Charlotte drew a deep breath. “I’m trying to keep putting one foot in front of the other.”

“You can do it. How’d it go with Julian last night?”

“We had fun,” Charlotte admitted, but one night out with a friend couldn’t fix what was broken in her life. The fact that her mind kept circling back to Cliff and the pictures of him with that woman proved it. But after Julian’s kindness and support, at least she had the energy to try. She’d needed to hear what he had to say, and she believed him when he said that surviving her heartbreak would be easier if she didn’t let the rest of her life fall apart at the same time.

The last thing he’d said to her when he dropped her off was that it would be difficult “digging out from beneath the rubble” and warned her to do whatever she could do to make the comeback easier—which was, basically, not to let herself sink any lower.

So here she was, up and about, even though she still didn’t feel like getting out of bed.

“I see you have your computer,” Penny said. “Does that mean you’re going to write today?”

Charlotte wished she could say yes, but she was empty inside. Too empty to create. She couldn’t even contemplate staring at her computer screen, trying to force a story, and having a blank page gazing stubbornly back at her. “Not today. I just brought this down so I can check my email while I’m here in the kitchen with you. I haven’t done it in a while.”

Her mother nodded encouragingly. “That’s a step in the right direction.”

Maybe, but if she didn’t write today, she’d fall another day behind, ratcheting her tension even higher.

Charlotte tried not to let that freak her out. Be kind to yourself. Julian had said that, too. Although her deadline was marching inexorably closer, she could still finish her manuscript in time if she could get on her feet soon. And that was exactly what she was all about today. “I’m thinking of looking for an apartment. Would you like to come with me?”

“You don’t want to stay here with us for the time being—in your old bedroom?”

She heard the disappointment in her mother’s voice. At least she still had people who cared about her. “I might. But shopping for an apartment will give me a reason to leave the house. I just want to see what’s out there, get a feel for the market.”

“Sure, I’ll go with you. Let me make you some breakfast first.” Her mother took out a frying pan. “How many eggs would you like?”

Charlotte was still too upset to crave food. But, again, she decided to push past the pain and behave as normally as possible, regardless of what Cliff had done. “Just one. That’s probably all I’ll be able to get down.”

“I’ve got bacon, too.”

Fortunately, bacon always sounded good. Charlotte imagined that even during an apocalypse people would still be eating bacon. “I’ll have a couple of slices.”

“And toast?”

“No, that’ll be enough.”

Her mother chatted about the weather, Sloane’s design business, which Julian had apparently told her about while Charlotte was getting ready last night, and how busy Charlotte’s father had been lately. “Should I call your dad?” she asked. “See if he can pull away for lunch?”

“That’s a good idea,” Charlotte replied. Her father had always treated her like a little princess, but he worked long hours. It would be great to have him join them for a change.

“He mentioned he had meetings this morning, but maybe he’ll be free in a few hours. I’ll check with him.”

Although Charlotte nodded, she was paying more attention to her computer. The pictures of her having dinner with Julian had started appearing online before she’d even gone to bed. Ten hours later, they were proliferating like ants pouring out of an anthill. They were everywhere, and after seeing how they’d turned out, she was satisfied that no one would be able to tell how devastated she was on the inside. She looked okay, she thought, and Julian looked better than she’d even realized while she was so worked up about the dumpster fire her life had become. A lot of people in the comments, especially women, stated that she’d traded up and they were happy she’d landed on her feet.

She found that interesting . . . Maybe the world didn’t begin and end with Clifford Jackson. Maybe she’d just let her world shrink that small.

Her mother slid an egg onto a plate and called her father as she clicked away from the celebrity gossip sites—because there were also harsh comments she couldn’t bear to see in her current frame of mind—and checked the sales rankings on her book. Playing for Keeps was experiencing another surge in sales—a byproduct of everyone talking about her online again.

At least that was positive.

She could hear her mother speaking to her father while she logged into her email account. Besides plenty of spam from the retailers she liked best, trying to tempt her back to their stores, she found some fan letters asking for the title of her next book. She had a release date, but no title. Sadly, no book, either.

She fumbled through those responses, asking her readers to sign up for her newsletter so she could keep them informed. Then she read an email from her web gal asking for any monthly updates she wanted on her website.

She hadn’t even looked at her website, so that would have to wait. She replied that they’d catch any fixes next month and moved on to a message from the publicist at her publisher. Shauna wanted to see if she was okay since she hadn’t been returning calls or emails.

Charlotte reassured her. Then she came to the email she’d spotted first thing. It was from her editor. She’d saved that one for last—and wished she could avoid it altogether—but she knew she had to respond before logging off. Megan Schwimmer was a wonderful person, but she had a job to do and that was to get Charlotte’s manuscript in and edited on time so they didn’t hold up the other departments at her publisher and her book could come out on its scheduled date.

“He said he can make it,” her mother announced when she disconnected from her call and carried Charlotte’s plate to the table.

Charlotte got up to gather her own silverware while her mother poured her a glass of orange juice.

“Anything interesting?” Penny asked, indicating her computer.

There was nothing from Cliff. Email would be an unlikely way for him to contact her, and she knew that, but hope reigned supreme. “Just something from my editor.”

Penny had returned to the sink and was scrubbing the frying pan. “What does she have to say? Do you think she’ll give you an extension?”

Charlotte didn’t see how that would be possible. Her release date in the fall was a coveted one—typically reserved for the big-name authors who could make or break a publisher’s entire quarter. An extension would screw up everyone. “I don’t dare even ask. I know they have high hopes for my second book.”

“Has she heard about the state of your marriage?”

That was, no doubt, what had prompted the email. Megan had already let her know she was eager to see some sample chapters or, barring that, a synopsis giving the basic premise of her next book. But Charlotte still needed to decide on what that premise would be.

She ate slowly, putting off the inevitable until after she’d pushed her plate away.

“Finished?” her mother said.

She glanced up to see Penny watching her and nodded before opening her editor’s message.

Megan told her how sorry she was to hear about her split with Cliff. She didn’t act as though losing one of the most famous shooting guards in the NBA would hurt Charlotte’s career, but Charlotte knew she had to be afraid it would. Charlotte was afraid of that herself. So now was not the time to admit she hadn’t even started her next manuscript, that she was entirely blocked. She knew the panic it would cause at her publisher—and that it would only bring more emails and unsolicited suggestions for what her new story should be. She’d welcome that if she thought it would truly help, but she couldn’t write according to someone else’s vision. The premise had to stir her imagination—had to call out to her.

Taking a deep breath, she wrote a brief reply:

It’s so nice of you to check in. I’m sure, with time, I’ll be fine. I’m staying with my folks, so I’m in good hands despite what you may see online. And don’t worry about my work in progress. I’ll be putting my nose to the grindstone over the summer. At least now I won’t have Cliff’s busy schedule to distract me. Ha!

After reading that email several times, just to make sure it struck the right tone, she hit Send. But she was painfully aware of the words she’d chosen. “Work in progress” wasn’t really accurate. All she had was a work that had yet to be started.

She sighed, lifting her glass of orange juice.

“Everything okay?” Penny asked.

Nothing was okay, but she offered her mother a feeble smile. “It will be eventually.”

“I’ll finish cleaning up in here while you get your makeup on,” Penny said, taking the empty glass from her. “Are you sure you don’t want to buy a house? Should I call my Realtor friend, Jenny?”

“I’m definitely not ready for that kind of commitment. I don’t even know where I want to live.”

“So how will we find any apartments you’d like to see?”

“I’ll look online. Maybe I’ll rent a townhouse or condo.” She was just getting up when her computer dinged, signaling a text message. She’d left her phone in her room, but since her phone was synced up with her laptop, she could receive messages on either device.

Hoping it was Julian—she could already use a little more of his resilience and strength—she sank back into her seat. But it wasn’t Julian; it was Cliff.

Hey, hope you’re doing well. You have a shit ton of mail piling up over here. Are you ever going to come get it?

Why didn’t he just box it up and send it to her? Didn’t he have her parents’ address?

He’d had it at one time. Maybe he’d deleted it. It had never really meant anything to him.

She almost told him to ship her the mail, but he hadn’t mentioned the clothes she’d left behind—or asked when she planned to collect the rest of her belongings. That gave her enough hope that she couldn’t deny herself the opportunity to have another conversation with him. Even if they never got back together, maybe they could gain some closure which would make the next few months easier. (…)