Chapter 1
Hannah had despised Hayden for two years, one month, four days, and fifteen—no, sixteen—minutes.
She remembered the exact moment he’d walked into the office, his suit impeccable, not a hair on his head out of place. She knew because she’d been glancing—okay, staring—at the clock that hung above her desk, counting down the minutes until her boss’s next meltdown.
She’d already heard more than she wanted to about this new hire, a graduate from Yale Law who also held an MBA from Penn. No one else at the firm had multiple advanced degrees, and Hannah knew this thrilled the partners; the trio of salt-and-pepper-haired men in the swanky corner office.
Hannah, however, was a little less thrilled. She was on track to be made partner, and she wasn’t about to let this multiple-degreed hotshot get in her way. Not when she’d given the firm sixty, seventy, eighty hours a week for the past five years of her life. She hadn’t gone on a vacation or a second date since law school, but it would all be worth it when she had a swanky corner office too.
If Hayden Walker didn’t get in her way.
So she watched as he flicked raindrops off his jacket and made his way toward his desk, which happened to be right across from hers.
He gazed down at her with electric-blue eyes. “Are you my secretary?” he’d asked.
Of course he had a British accent.
9:20 p.m.
“YOU CAN STOP there,” I say softly.
Without missing a beat, he passes my phone back to me. He doesn’t try to read ahead or hang on to it any longer—he listens. He didn’t put on a voice, not even when he was reading the dialogue. He read it like he was in front of the classroom, giving a presentation. When I finally regain enough composure to look at him, his cheeks are flushed.
I liked how my words sounded in his voice.
“That was…”
“Horrible? Should I quit? I’ll quit.”
“No. God, no. Not at all. Artoo, that was really, really good. You should have used a comma in that third paragraph, not a semicolon—”
“I sincerely despise you.”
He offers a sheepish smile. “You’re a great writer. I mean it. That was so… tense.”
Now I’m blushing too. Neil McNair likes my writing. More than that, hearing him read it made me realize how much I like this story and these characters.
“Nothing even happened between them,” I say.
“It’s the anticipation, though. The reader knows something will happen.”
“The anticipation is great, don’t get me wrong. I love it. But I love the happily-ever-after that a romance novel almost always guarantees. Even if it’s not realistic.”
“Happiness is, though,” Neil says. “Or it can be. Maybe not ever-after kind of happiness, but that doesn’t make it any less real. My mom and Christopher have gone through a lot. Shouldn’t you want that other person to help you through difficult stuff?”
“That kind of stuff doesn’t happen after the epilogue,” I admit. “Most of Delilah’s books end with a marriage or a proposal and the assumption that everything’s going to be perfect. I know sometimes it really is just a fantasy. Obviously, Spencer and I weren’t perfect.”
Spencer, the boy I tried to force into the role I’d dreamed up. What would the past semester have looked like if I’d broken up with him, given myself permission not to have a PHSB by the end of it? I could have had more fun, I’m sure. I could have spent more time with Kirby and Mara instead of trying to interpret Spencer’s latest cryptic text.
“I’ve never felt that way about anyone either,” he says, and I sit a little straighter, ready for more Neil McNair Relationship History. “The relationships I had… They were nice, but not earth-shattering. I don’t know. Are relationships supposed to feel that way?”
“Earth-shattering?”
“Yeah. Like every moment you’re with them, your head is spinning and you can’t catch your breath and you just know that this person is changing your life for the better. Someone who challenges you to be better.”
“I—I think so,” I say, because he’s caught me off guard, and I really am unsure. Spencer didn’t challenge me—he wasn’t a question on an AP exam. What I don’t tell Neil is that I’ve been looking for that earth-shattering love too, and sometimes I want it so badly, I’m convinced I could wish it into existence.
“You’re going to think this is bonkers, but Bailey and I… We broke up because she thought I had a thing for you.”
I snort. Loudly. It’s so ludicrous. “Oh my God. Kirby and Mara—they think I’m obsessed with you.”
“My friends think I’m obsessed with you!”
This sends us into a fit of laughter for a solid couple minutes.
Neil recovers first. “I really thought romance novels were just…” He waves his hand. “Sex.” Though he says it a little less awkwardly this time, he still leaves plenty of space around the word.
“Well. That’s often part of it, but not all the time. And… I definitely don’t hate that part. But they’re so much more than that. They’re about the characters and their relationships. How they complement and challenge each other, how they overcome something together.” I break off, then add: “Although they did lead me to believe my first kiss would be more magical than it actually was.”
“Now I’m curious.”
“Gavin Hawley. Seventh grade. We both had braces. We were doomed.”
“I’ll do you one better. You know how I get nosebleeds in the winter?”
“Oh. Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” he says. “Chloe Lim, eighth grade. In the cafeteria, which in hindsight was absolutely the worst idea I’ve ever had. Everyone called it the Red Necking.” This makes me snort-laugh, and he shakes his head. “I was traumatized. I didn’t kiss another girl for two years after that.”
But he’s laughing too. I love the sound of his laugh, and the way he looks when he’s laughing. It’s like he lets himself go, forgets that he’s supposed to be stiff and smug. I don’t think I’d ever really seen it until today.
“Will you finally sign my yearbook now?” he asks when we quiet down. “I have to have a Rowan Roth autograph for when you get famous.”
A waterfall of relief. “I’ve been feeling like garbage ever since I said no.”
I write the nicest message I can muster, one that recounts some of our past rivalries and wishes him all the best next year. Neil takes his time. The pen stops and starts, and he taps it on his chin, smudges his hand with ink.
When we swap back, I make a move to open mine up, but he lunges for it.
“Don’t read it until tomorrow,” he says.
“It’s almost tomorrow.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just don’t read it while I’m here, okay?”
Naturally, it makes me more curious, but given that I only just let someone read my writing, I can’t blame him. It can be awkward to read a yearbook message in front of the person who wrote it.
“Fine. Then don’t read mine, either.” I tuck the yearbook into my backpack. “We should go. Unless there are any clues we could find here?”