Chapter 13
It’s not him.
I hardly believe my eyes as I walk into the ARC room two days later.
It has been two days since Will left.
And here, in our secret room, I discover a candle sitting in the middle of the floor.
And worse, lit.
The candle gives off a strong smell of gardenia. I inhale deeply, and while I should be smiling, while part of me wants to be thrilled, the emotion doesn’t come. The string lights are on, giving the room a romantic glow. And yet I know for a fact Will Pennington is approximately 885 miles away this very minute on yet another business trip to the City.
So. It’s not him.
It’s not him.
It takes a while to digest that thought.
Will Pennington is not the mystery editor.
Which means somebody else is my mystery editor.
Who has added a beautiful array of string lights around the room.
And lit a candle.
And gone to great lengths to support me as I pursue this project.
And is witty and charming and strong and . . . wonderful.
And may be Sam.
Sam.
I chew on that thought until a gust of wind clatters the old sparrow glass and brings me back.
Sam.
Sam isn’t so bad. I did like him enough that first week to go on a date with him. And sure, that date didn’t go well enough to pursue another one, but that could be for any number of reasons.
Maybe he’s too shy to show who he really is. To reveal on a first date the man I’ve been seeing on the pages these past few weeks. Who knows? Maybe Giselle terrified him so much he got used to repressing who he really is in favor of keeping the peace, and has gotten stuck there, talking about weather and groceries and nothing of actual substance. Nothing with passion.
But this Sam, I think, flipping over the next page of the manuscript and skimming the words. This Sam is a treasure. This Sam, if it truly is Sam, is someone I should certainly want to know more.
I see a new comment and pause. The question I left for him the other day, the one I’ve checked for a response to a dozen times, finally has one.
Beneath my question, Why are you helping me? are the words: Because I believe in this story. I believe in Cecilia. Cecilia is real. Flawed. Human and yet, still, one of a kind. You have written a story that gives readers hope that they, too, despite all their own blemishes, can and should be valued the same way. This is a story the world needs to hear.
I read and reread the paragraph a dozen times.
He loves my story. He believes in Cecilia. Likes her. Gets her.
And if he values Cecilia, he values . . .
No. I can’t make assumptions.
I stand up, and with it, my resolution is clear.
Sam or not, I am falling for my mystery man.