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Chapter 1
Hazel
I pull my car’s sun visor down and flip the mirror open to check my makeup one more time. Nice and natural, nothing attention-grabbing. My makeup looks pretty good—just a quick lip gloss touch-up and I’m ready to go.
Okay, Summers. Get in, find him, hand it over, slip back out. Easy.
The holidays have been especially difficult since Tom passed away just after Christmas a few years ago. That’s why I’ve wanted to keep this little mission private, even from my friends. I owe it to myself, and to Tom, to get this done.
I just have a single photo to work with—an older snapshot with crinkled corners from my constant handling. My husband, Tom beams at the camera next to his best friend, Callum Locklear. Callum looks tall—about five or six inches taller than Tom’s five-ten frame—and has longish curly brown hair, a beard, a wide smile, and a slim, athletic swimmer’s body. All I have to do is find a tall guy with curly brown hair. I shouldn’t have any problem with this.
This party isn’tthatbig.
Shivering inside my long coat, I pick my way up the recently-shoveled sidewalk, careful not to get snow or salt on my plain black pumps or splatter it on the hem of my black dress. Through the many windows, I can see that the party is in full swing. Perfect—nobody will notice a late arrival, I hope.
I swing the door open and close it soundlessly behind me. There’s a long portable coat rack by the door, and I slip my coat on a hanger. Then, clutch in hand, I merge into the crowd.
This is a beautiful house. I’ve never been to Ruthie Locklear’s famous estate before, just seen pictures from magazines and interior design websites. I know my friend Stella has been planning this event for months, but it’s mind-blowing in person. High ceilings, hardwood floors and trim, artwork everywhere—I’d love to stand around and drool over every detail. I don’t have time, though.
I move from the foyer and into the formal sitting room, snagging some champagne from a nearby waiter and scanning the crowd while I sip. Ruthie Locklear herself stands near the fireplace, chatting animatedly with my friend Esther, but I’m still trying to keep this private so I head the other way. Other guests are gathered in little clusters around the room. I peer at the unfamiliar faces, and none of them look like the tall, bearded guy in the picture with the blinding grin.
My chest tightens when I think about the unopened letter tucked inside my clutch. Before he grew too weak to hold a pen, my husband handed me a stack of sealed letters and asked me to deliver them personally. His mother. His medical school mentor. A couple of old fraternity brothers. His favorite uncle. I delivered every letter by hand, looked in every tearful face when they saw their names written in his distinctive handwriting. Doctor’s handwriting, I teased him.
There’s just one left.
“Can I help you find something?” a deep voice says in my ear.
I startle at the sound.Shit.Somebody knows I don’t belong here. Maybe I can bluff my way through this.
I turn around with a smile and a seat-of-my-pants plan to charm this stranger into leaving me alone.
And freeze.
A tall, muscular man stands in front of me. He looks fit, but it’s more than just a gym-honed physique. It’s heavy muscle from a hardworking, active life, with sun-browned skin and crinkles at the corners of his smiling eyes. His hair is dark brown and cropped close to his head, above piercing blue eyes, a straight nose, and a sensual mouth.
“I—uh, what?” I say, flustered.
“I said, can I help you find something?” he repeats.
I feel nearly naked under that inescapable gaze. I didn’t plan to talk to anybody but Callum tonight, and I’m a little flustered about this stranger drawing me into an unwanted conversation.
“No thank you,” I say quickly. “Just looking for the bar.”
“I can help you with that,” he says. “What would you like? There’s champagne, your standard liquor assortment and a spiked eggnog thing that’s so sweet that it makes me want to die.”
I snort. “Scotch, neat, if they have it.”
Ruth Locklear doesnotcheap out on the open bar, I decide as I take my first sip of the rich, peaty top-shelf scotch. Delicious.
“Are you having a good time tonight?” my new friend says as he sips his own glass of amber-brown liquor.
“I don’t really know very many of these people,” I say. It’s the truth, I guess. “Plus I just got here. But things are looking up.”
“Have you tried the egg nog? A couple glasses of that and things will be looking alotbetter,” he jokes.
“Maybe I’ll have one later,” I say, returning his smile.
Ten minutes later, I realize that my new friend is incredibly funny. I’m wiping away tears from laughing before long, and my stomach muscles burn. It’ssonice to have this kind of interaction with someone, and it’s been all too rare for the last two years.
