Page 24 of The Now in Forever

L eaving Anh cuddled up on the couch with her mug of hot chocolate and an Emily Henry book , I check my phone on the way to the lobby. I have three missed texts, all from Ed.

Ed: I can wait if you want.

Then two minutes later.

Ed: Or I can meet you there.

Then five minutes later.

Ed: I’ll meet you there.

A Lyft picks me up, my nerves crackling.

I open the purse I borrowed from Anh and remove the contents, searching for my lipstick.

Why is it that the smaller the purse, the harder it is to find anything?

Finally, I find the lipstick and swipe on a fresh coat, but it doesn’t have the desired calming effect I was hoping for.

I don’t need to be so nervous. It’s just a book launch party for a famous author, with a bunch of other famous authors and industry professionals.

I wipe my hands on the soft fabric of the seat as the car drives up, up, and up.

I’m equal parts dreading and hopeful that we can find a moment alone so Ed can explain why he stood me up ten years ago.

I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t been in the back of my mind ever since I saw him standing in the kitchen.

Before that, even. But what could he possibly say?

My mind runs through the familiar loops on the track of possible reasons Ed couldn’t come that day.

He had an accident. He was sick, so sick he was in the hospital.

He was in jail for robbing a convenience store, only he was the getaway driver, and he didn’t know his friend was robbing it.

But they all got busted. He had a terrible head injury that caused amnesia. Or he didn’t and just forgot.

What if his reason is stupid and I can’t forgive him?

The Pittock Mansion comes into view. It’s massive, almost more a castle than a house, gray stone with two spires on either side.

There is a balcony that wraps around the bottom, littered with men in tuxedos and women in flowing chiffon and shimmering silk, all chattering with drinks in hand.

I exit the car and make my way down the winding path, through a luscious green yard, the scent of roses wafting through the air. I keep my eyes peeled for Ed.

As I walk through the entryway, a server hands me a glass of champagne. An enormous marble staircase with more fancy people takes up the entire entryway. But still no Ed. I continue wading through the sea of people up the stairs. I go to pull out my phone from my purse and send a quick text.

Me: I’m here. Where are you?

To the left of the stairs is astunning library, all dark wood, row after row of leather-bound books, a crystal chandelier and a large carved wood and stone fireplace.

They set up a bar in the corner, and that's where I spot Ed. He’s leaning one elbow on the bar, the other holding a crystal tumbler of whiskey.

Ed’s brow is puckered, his mouth a stern line. As he sees me, his forehead relaxes, and his ears rise with his smile. He crosses the room in a black tuxedo with a green satin bow tie that makes his eyes leap from his face. He’s smiling, looking me up and down and sending tingles down my legs.

“You clean up nice,” I say with a smile.

He lets out a breath, like he’d been holding it, and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “You look… Wow.”

I smile, butterflies fluttering erratically in my chest.

Ed grabs my hand. “Let’s go meet some people. ”

He leads me through the mansion. We explore the rooms, much of them with placards explaining what’s original to the house.

Along the way, we meet two agents, three editors, and four authors.

One agent asks about my book, and I tell her the basic premise.

She leans in as I tell her and gives me her email, saying she’d love to read it when it’s finished. My smile is so big it hurts.

By the time we make it to one of the bedrooms, I feel a little dizzy. The room has a tiny bed, so small it almost looks like it’s for a child.

Ed moves through into the attached bathroom. “Whoa, look at this!”

I go in. There is a walk-in shower with a crazy number of pipes. It looks more like a torture device than a shower. “That’s intense.”

Leaning in to get a closer look at the contraption, I can feel Ed’s eyes on me. He reaches out and touches the soft fabric of my skirt. “That’s an awful lot of fabric for a very revealing dress.”

I gasp. “Is it too skimpy?”

“No,” he says quickly as he moves his hand to my waist and pulls me into him. “It’s just skimpy enough.”

His palms move up my bare back, sending shivers down my spine. He gazes into my eyes.

“Hattie, about December…”

He wants to talk about this now? In the antique bathroom of a mansion at a literary party. With his hands on me and his citrus scent wafting around us like a spell. Whatever the reason, once he tells me…there’s no going back.

One kiss. Before we talk, before he explains, I just want one kiss. As I lean in, my mind fills with flashes of that day, anticipating the feel of his lips before I press mine to them.

Our lips meet. His kiss is soft. It’s different than I recall— he’s different.

I’ve remembered and re-remembered that day so many times, playing the scene of us together over and over, like rubbing my thumb across a worry stone, softening the sharp details to a smooth vague surface. Polished and safe.

What am I doing? This man is more back and forth than a see-saw.

I should push him away, but instead, I push into him.

The pressure of my lips increases. I open my mouth, and so does he, his hand still on my bare skin.

He runs his fingers up my spine, then through my hair, my scalp tingling at his touch, the sensation traveling down to my thighs.

I put my hand on the taut muscles of his back, pulling myself closer to him, our bodies flush against each other, his stiff jacket almost rough against my chest through the flimsy layers of chiffon.

At the contact, my body melts into a puddle of lust.

Our kiss ends, but Ed still holds me close. “Hattie…”

My heart tries to leap out of my throat and cover his mouth. What if he says something neither of us can take back? What if he was with another woman and didn’t think I deserved an explanation? What if he just forget?

“We should go.” I pull away, brushing off my dress. “Let’s find somewhere quiet to get a drink.”

At the very least, I don’t want to cry in front of all these literary professionals.

His eyes sparkle. “Okay. I know a place.”