Page 3 of Rage Finish

I’m about to agree that Emma would insist I go tomorrow when Melanie slides into the booth with us.

The music is a little too loud, so Mel has to shout over it. “Hey, Wyatt! I thought you’d be spending the evening visiting with new friends.”

“He has cold feet,” Ethan chuckles, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and kissing her temple.

Crossing my arms, I scoff. “I do not. I’m just worried that I’m going to be the only independently published romance author there.” It’s not a lie, but it’s also not the reason I’m avoiding the welcome event tonight.

“Not the only indie,” he corrects. “Amanda Storm is leading one of the workshops.”

“True, but the rest are traditionally published and write historical fiction”—I wave my hand dismissively—“or whatever.” I really shouldn’t have dropped the genre so flippantly, but it’s only a matter of time before they pry the real reason I don’t want to attend out of me.

“Since when is historical fiction boring?” Mel harrumphs.

“Speaking of…” Ethan signals for the server to bring us another round and Melanie’s usual—a glass of red—then pins me with a glare. “This isn’t about that woman who ghosted you a few years ago, is it?”

I think back to the fleeting conversation I had with Sloane. Most women I’ve dated find it endearing that I read and write romance. I hadn’t even admitted that I was working on my first novel at the time, and she bolted. Talk soon? She fell off the face of the planet. It wasn’t until I saw the attendee list with headshots for the event this weekend that I considered not going. It isn’t as if Sloane would remember the twelve-second conversation. Besides, I write under a pen name and keep my social media pages anonymous, so I doubt she knows I’m an author, let alone one attending this weekend. I always send my author logo in lieu of a photo, so she won’t be expecting to see me. Not that she’d recognize me if I did. Would she back out if I had included a headshot? Doubtful. I was probably one of fifty guys she talked to that night.

“Earth to Wyatt,” Ethan taunts, waving his hand in front of my face. “Did you hear me?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I was just thinking.”

Melanie offers a warm smile. “What’s this about being ghosted?”

“It’s nothing.” I swirl the straw in my glass, focusing on the soft clink of the ice instead of the memory of a stranger’s hazelnut-brown eyes. I shouldn’t be obsessing over it, but the moment I found out she would be here, I couldn’t stop replaying the brief conversation, wondering what could’ve gone wrong.

Ethan lets out a full laugh. “Don’t think you’re going to get off that easily.”

“It really was nothing. I was on a dating app,” I explain, blowing out a long breath before continuing. “There was this fucking gorgeous woman who swiped on me. I immediately matched with her, and we talked about books for a few minutes. That’s all.”

“And she’s going to be here this weekend,” Ethan adds.

Eyes wide, Mel gasps. “No.”

“He’s right. I was looking at the attendee list, and there she was.” Same raven hair, black glasses, that smile… I quickly shake away the thought of her pouty, crimson lips. “Anyway, I don’t think I should go.”

The server brings over a refill for Ethan’s empty Old Fashioned and my half-full gin and tonic, then places Melanie’s generous pour of wine in front of her. Once he’s gone, Melanie takes a small sip and probes, “You just had a short online conversation. Why wouldn’t you want to go this weekend? It isn’t as if you dated or… you know.”

“He’s just embarrassed,” Ethan replies before I can.

“Am not,” I grumble. As Ethan retrieves his phone from his back pocket and types something, I add, “It’s a bunch of authors who write very different stories than I do. What can I really learn anyway?”

“Not true. I personally made sure Merlot Bennet would be there. Even if it were a romance-only event, you’d still come up with some bullshit reason to bow out,” he muses, not looking up from his phone. “Which is why you’re going. Go get a massage and sneak a workout in. Whatever will get your head on straight.” He glances up. “You’re a bestselling author. If anything, they should be learning from you.”

I appreciate the confidence he has in me, but I’m far from the most knowledgeable author in attendance. I only hope that if I go tomorrow, Sloane doesn’t recognize me—or at least pretends she doesn’t. Regardless, I shouldn’t hide from a woman I’ve never even met.

2

WYATT

As I’m checking in, the receptionist informs me that I’ve been upgraded to a suite on the same floor as a few other authors. I should’ve anticipated Ethan meddling while we were having drinks, but I was too preoccupied with avoiding a full-on word salad about someone I’ve never even met. Taking his advice, I settle into my obnoxiously large hotel room, locate my swim trunks, and head to the pool.

After a few laps, I’m feeling refreshed. Imposter syndrome is still getting the best of me, but Ethan’s right—I deserve to be here. Sloane likely won’t recognize me, and if she does, she’ll probably avoid me. I can easily spend my time working on my manuscript or attending workshops without running into her.

It’s too late for a massage, so the hot tub or sauna will have to do. Swiping the pool water off my face, I pull on the sauna door, but it appears to be locked. After a few quick glances around, my squinted eyes land on a small sign—out of order. With dry heat nowhere in my future, I resign myself to the fact that fate has other plans and locate the hot tub on the far side of the indoor pool area. There’s someone already in it, but without my glasses, I can’t make out if they are male, female, or neither. Just a blob of what appears to be black hair tied on top of their head. I make my way over and step in.

“Hope you don’t mind if I join you,” I hedge.

They sit up straighter and reply, “Oh, no. You’re fine.” Her voice is soft, nervous even.