Page 1 of The Last Autograph
1
Fuck Valentine’s Day.
Jake Sinclair couldn’t quite pinpoint why the day pissed him off so much, but piss him off, it did. All that buildup, the pressure, the overpriced red roses and crass greeting cards for sale on every other street corner. Come to think of it, perhaps his pinpointing skills were better than he’d given himself credit for.
Now, on that threatening-to-rain February morning, one of the patisserie’s busiest of the year, Jake woke late, showered in haste, and barely had time to guzzle a cup of coffee before running out the door and kicking his Vespa into life.
As Jake sped down the hill toward the CBD, a mild panic surfaced when he contemplated the number of mille-feuille,éclairs, and macarons they had to finish, not to mention the two hundred heart-topped cupcakes some guy from a local department store had ordered just the day before.
Jake checked his watch. Five to six.His pastry chefs started baking over two hours ago, and he hadn’t even managed to shave. It wasn’t until he turned onto Seaview Road that he realized he wasn’t wearing a helmet. Although he seldom wore one in Europe, Clifton Falls was no Paris, and here, it was the law. One the police strictly enforced.
Jake had returned to his hometownseveral months ago, but settling back into the local culture was proving harder than he’d expected. Now here he was, waiting at a red light—his helmet still on the hall table at home—while in his rearview mirror, a cop car slowed to a stop one car behind him.
Gripping the brake while waiting for the light to turn green, Jake looked up as a group of women stepped onto the crossing from the opposite side of the road. At first, his interest was half-hearted at best—although, if asked to rate the one closest to him on that absurd scale that some of his mates used, she’d be a solid nine. Tall, fit-looking, and with a figure that filled out her activewear with generous curves, she’d be a welcome addition to his dating roster—if and when he ever got around to making one.
Jake glanced up at the lights and then back to Number Nine. She seemed vaguely familiar, but as she moved closer, he frowned as he tried to slot her into a space in his mind.
Déjà vuwasn’t something he often experienced, but as he watched her happily interacting with her friends, he struggled with the uncertainty of where, what, and when.
So close now that he could almost reach out and touch her; she looked over at him and caught his stare. She froze momentarily, her eyes widening beneath the peak of her baby-blue cap. Under any other circumstances, he would have smiled, but her startled expression told him a smile was inappropriate. He had no idea why. After all, Kiwis were generally considered a friendly bunch.
Not today.
Just as quickly, the woman averted her gaze and followed her friends across the road. It wasn’t until they reached the curb that she glanced back—the exact same moment the guy in the car behind him sat on his horn. If it weren’t for the cop car, Jake would have flipped him the bird. Impatient jerk. He knew the light had turned green, but as the walkers skipped down the steps into the sunken garden and out of sight, he needed a second to gather his thoughts.
As Horn Guy changed lanes and overtook him, the police car sounded one blip of their siren. Jake pulled into a parking space and balanced his Vespa to a stop, muttering a curse under his breath. Today of all days.
A few minutes later, with an annoying fifty-five dollar fine in his pocket, Jake continued his journey—on foot. And as he pushed his Vespa along Seaview Road and into the alleyway beside the patisserie, the South Pacific Ocean pounding the nearby shore with urgency, he couldn’t get the image of Number Nine out of his head.
When he opened the back door and noticed a large bunch of red roses propped up in the sink of the back counter, he stilled. “What’s with the roses?”
One of Jake’s staff, a budding pastry chef named Ari, looked up from his task and grinned. “The couriers started early today. They dropped them off a few minutes ago.”
“So, they’re yours?”
“Um, no, Chef. Your name’s on the envelope.”
“What the…?”
Jake searched amongst the blooms and pulled out a small envelope. Inside, written on a single sheet of white card, were the words “I’m so sorry. A xx.”
2
On those moody Mondays when alone in her tiny apartment in New York, Molly had often pondered how she’d react if she ever saw Jesse Sinclair again. Cool and unaffected? Composed and detached?
After all, it had been no more than a fling. A summer flirtation where, obviously, she’d been just another girl from the rowdy crowd, one who meant nothing to the drummer who’d reminded her of every rock-star crush she’d ever had.
Apart from their last night together, Molly’s recollection of that fateful summer was vague, or so she’d repeatedly told herself over the years. So the heat coiling in her belly and flutter in her chest when she spotted him astride a Vespa as she crossed the road that morning took her completely by surprise.
His outfit of khaki shorts, a casual linen shirt, and boat shoes was very different from his tight jeans and branded T-shirt look of eight years before. Less band guy and more relaxed businessman—the kind Clifton Falls seemed to attract as work-weary corporate types sought a more balanced lifestyle in the provinces.
On any other day, Molly probably wouldn’t have noticed him. She’d had enough unwanted attention from men to know not to stare at strangers. But when she glanced his way and caught him looking, her step faltered. Because even though eight years had passed, their once-shared intimacy—every expression, every nuance—had remained in her thoughts for those times when she’d asked herself why. The long hair was gone in favor of a more conservative cut, but otherwise, with maturity gently seasoning his features, he looked good. Extremely good. Jesse had never been a traditionally handsome man, but his magnetic personality and easy smile had drawn her in from start to finish.
And, oh, what a finish it was.
There’d been many times over the years when she’d wondered if he’d recognize her if their paths ever crossed by chance, but there was no mistaking his reaction. Jesse Sinclair recognized her, even if he struggled to put a name to the face.
And now, on yet another Valentine’s Day where there’d be no cards or chocolates or red roses—not that she cared, of course—all Molly could think about was the drummer from her past who, despite telling her he loved her, had ended their association almost as soon as it began.
