Page 43 of Plotting Summer

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.” I hold his gaze. “And if you won’t tell me, I’ll ask Tristan.” And this time I’ll get an answer.

“Let’s just say neither of us treated you like you deserved.” I narrow my eyes, trying to make sense of his comment, but before I can ask for clarification, he takes a step away and starts toward the door. “Night, everyone. I’m headed out.”

A muffled set of goodbyes sounds from the family room, but I just stand there, wondering what in the world that was all about.

When I get to the guest room, I open my laptop to distract myself. Seventeen email requests from publishing houses since yesterday, over a dozen agents, marketing companies promising to bring Sunny Palmer’s books to the next level (no, thank you), and some foreign distributors asking about book and audio rights. Oh, and one from a screenwriter. Interesting. I forward a couple that seem legit to Maven for her to respond to, then delete the others, when a new email comes in from my editor.

Ms. Palmer,

I’m pleased to inform you that your developmental edits are complete for A Lease on Love. Once we receive the updated manuscript with all incorporated changes, I will begin on the proofread. Let me know if you have any questions. Otherwise, I look forward to hearing from you.

Susan K.

Pencil to Ink Edits

P.S. It was such a fabulous book! I allowed myself a quick readthrough first so I could concentrate on the actual editing.

Susan’s the best. I hit the attached file and start reading the write-up with her broader suggestions to see how much work I’m in for. My heart drops a little when I read over a few of the things she’s listed, including tweaking my main character's arc and adding in a whole side character. Which makes sense now that she says it, but it’ll definitely take me longer to implement the changes than I’d hoped. And I’m already cutting it closer than usual to my submission deadline, considering it'll still need to be proofread. If I hadn't already made commitments for the next few days, I’d be tempted to rent a car to get me back to Naples. My dual monitor setup makes editing so much quicker, but since there’s no way I’m missing out on my last outing with Tristan (despite knowing that it’s just setting me up for a bigger disappointment) and I told him I’d be at the swim night, I’ll just have to make do with my laptop for now.

As we pass the Belacourt Resort sign, my gaze flies to Tristan in the driver’s seat of the golf cart. “Why are we at the Belacourt?”

Tristan just smiles.

“This place is ridiculously expensive.” The palms overhead are interspersed with banyan trees that give a nice even shade covering. “Not that I’ve been here before, but I’ve heard the prices for everything are astronomical. Even the restaurant,” I say, assuming that’s where we’re headed. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

“When it comes to our competition, are astronomical prices a bonus point?”

I look at him wide-eyed. “You can’t spend that much on one of our outings.”

“First, the way you just said outings, I’m offended. And second, sometimes you just have to know the right people.” He grins at me, and I realize that he’s referring to Noah Belacourt. Talk about knowing the right people.

Tristan pulls in front of the resort, and an eager young man in the most comfortable-looking uniform I’ve ever seen—a soft-woven purple shirt and loose-fitting tan pants—takes Tristan’s place to park the cart for him. Tristan grabs both of our bags and hands him some folded bills. I can’t help but think about how much just parking here probably cost him. For Tristan’s sake, I hope his connection with Noah comes through. Otherwise, this is going to cost him a pretty penny.

As we approach the sliding glass door, I catch a glimpse of my windblown hair and overly casual clothing. “I can’t go into the Belacourt looking like this,” I say, taking a step back.

“You look great.”

“No, I don’t. I look as if I’m ready for a beach camping trip. Or more like I’m mid-camping trip.” I appraise my reflection in the door again, discreetly trying to smooth down the flyaways in my ponytail. “Three or four days in, if I had to venture a guess.”

He smiles. “No one here cares how we look.”

I’m sure Tristan understands rich people a lot better than I do, but that’s not what I’ve been led to believe through my immense study of fiction. And the people at the Belacourt are uber-rich. I glance down at my romper thrown over a swimsuit with flip-flops. “Do you have specific wording you want for that dedication page or does it just have to say your name? Like for instance: This book is dedicated to Tristan: The man that made me walk into the Belacourt Hotel looking like a vagabond he found wandering on the beach.”

Tristan’s laughing when he steps next to me. “You’re not forfeiting.” His gaze slowly trails down the length of me, and it’s as though he has laser vision with the way my body heats wherever his eyes touch. Then his eyes meet mine. “And like I said, you look great.”

I pin him with a stare that says I very much disagree with his conclusion. “Just so you know, you’ve lost two points for allowing me to enter the Belacourt for the first time looking like this.” My only consolation is that Tristan’s similarly dressed, though even in swim trunks and a plain tee, with our bags slung over his shoulder, he still looks as if he belongs here.

He takes another step, causing the door to open, and he gestures me inside.

The lobby isn’t like I expect. Instead of some posh, marble hall with chandeliers and gargantuan vases of fresh-cut flowers, its opulence is understated. You can still see it in the details of the light-colored furniture and rugs that contrast the wood and wicker, but the space is surprisingly inviting.

“Can I help you?” A man in khaki pants but this time a soft blue shirt watches us expectantly from the front desk, probably assuming we accidentally stumbled into the world of the rich and famous. Tristan sets his hand on the small of my back, leading me forward. My heart nearly stops at the simple gesture. It’s so insignificant, and yet my writer brain translates it as a sign of possession. Not the bad kind, but the ‘this is my woman’ kind that makes readers’ hearts patter and involuntary smiles come to their lips. I know because it does the same thing to me when I read. And it’s doing the same thing to me now, despite that I’m entirely aware he’s simply being a gentleman.

“We have a reservation for Tristan Palmer.”

A reservation? Confused, I glance at him, and the smile he has waiting for me is full of sheer mischief.