Chapter 1

HANNAH

Peace and quiet. At last.

I inhaled a deep breath of warm, pine-scented air as I leaned against the balcony, taking in the view. Through the dense green leaves of the oak and fir trees that surrounded my new home, I caught glimpses of the Hudson River sparkling in the sunshine.

After avoiding human contact for months, interacting with three burly and unexpectedly chatty movers had sent my anxiety—already at high levels—spiking. But now they were gone, the tension in my chest had released. Apart from the occasional boat traveling down the river at a safe distance, there were no signs of human life.

I’d choose this over our—I mean, Tania’s—fancy Upper West Side apartment any day of the week.

A small blue bird with a fluffy white chest flew overhead and landed on the gutter of the roof behind me.

“Well, hello, little fellow,” I murmured.

He looked me directly in the eye, tilted his head, took a gigantic poop onto one of the deck chairs, and then flew off.

“Thanks for the housewarming present,” I called after him, laughing, as he disappeared out of sight over the trees. Still chuckling, I turned my attention back to the view.

My phone rang faintly, interrupting the tranquility of the moment. I tensed. Shit, who could that be? Tania? My stomach flipped at the thought. We did need to talk about splitting our assets so we could finalize our divorce, but I’d hoped that could wait. Or was Barb calling for an update on my move? That would be infinitely more preferable. I frowned. Where the hell is my phone, anyway?

I ran inside to my tiny new living room, covered with boxes, and scanned the chaotic scene for my red phone case. Could it have fallen into one of the boxes I was unpacking? I’d managed to misplace my hearing aid for my left ear in the move, and its absence made it more difficult to locate sounds. My right ear, although unaffected by hearing loss, struggled on its own.

I frantically searched through the open boxes. Not there. What did I do with it? Surveying the room, I spotted a familiar flash of red poking out from under a pile of underwear I’d left on the coffee table. My hands shook as I threw the underwear away and disentangled a lacy black bra from my phone. I looked at the screen.

A video call from Emma. Well, at least it isn’t Tania.

But I didn’t relax. Emma was a wonderful literary agent and a close friend, but I didn’t want to talk about books—specifically, my book—right now. My very much non-existent book. I sighed, took a deep breath and accepted her call.

Emma’s smiling face appeared on my phone screen, framed by her long blonde hair. “Hannah! How are you doing?”

“Good, good! I just moved in. How are you?”

Emma’s gaze shifted. She narrowed her eyes and gave me a playful grin. “Ohhh! What have you been up to?” she asked.

I frowned in confusion and then realized she could see the lacy black bra I’d thrown off my phone on the armchair behind me.

I rolled my eyes, laughing. “Unpacking, Emma. Not having an orgy with my movers or wherever your mind just went.”

“Sorry, sorry. This is what happens when half your clients write spicy romance. Congratulations on the move, by the way.” Emma paused for a second before launching into agent mode. “Look, let me know if now isn’t a good time, but I had a chat with Michael and the sales and publicity team today, and there were a few things I wanted to talk to you about.”

I’d had an awkward coffee with Michael, my new editor, in Midtown Manhattan a month ago. While very serious, he seemed like a pleasant enough guy, but awkwardness was inevitable given the situation with Tania. In light of that, I’d asked that Michael and the publicity team funnel communications through Emma for now.

Emma continued. “They wanted to know if they should push the launch date for book four. The sales and publicity team would prefer to stick with March next year but if they push it back, they’re talking about releasing it in February or March the year after next instead.”

Panic rose in my chest. “What? Why would they push it back a whole year?”

“They’ve got their release schedule planned out and don’t want to release too many big fantasy books in any one month to avoid cannibalizing their sales.”

Shit. Maybe my publisher could wait another year, but I couldn’t.

“If it’s any consolation, they don’t think you’ll lose readers if you wait another year, especially given you’ve got The Realm of Furies releasing at the end of June.”

Frowning, I rubbed my forehead with my free hand.

I had some savings in the bank, and the launch of The Realm of Furies would hopefully give my finances a welcome boost, but without another book release next year, there was a real risk I wouldn’t be able to keep paying Barb’s nursing home bills or even my own health insurance, which I’d had to procure for an eye-watering amount now that I was no longer on Tania’s plan. The royalties from my earlier books wouldn’t be enough, and they were slowly reducing. My throat constricted. Barb could not move back to the horrific nursing home she used to live in. I could cut back on costs, even go without health insurance, but I wasn’t willing to sacrifice my beloved former nanny’s comfort as well.

I pressed my lips together. I loved a lot of things about being an author, but the lack of guaranteed, predictable income was not one of them. People assumed that The New York Times bestselling authors would be millionaires, but that was far from the case—at least for me. Advances were paid in instalments and royalties, which only amounted to a couple of dollars per book sold, were only payable once I’d earned out the advance. After Emma took her cut and the IRS took theirs, it wasn’t as lucrative as you’d think.

Before Tania and I split, it hadn’t worried me. Tania owned her apartment outright, and I earned enough to pay my share of expenses and Barb’s bills. And while I’d never had to rely on it, Tania’s trust fund had always given me comfort. Comfort that, thanks to the prenup and our impending divorce, I didn’t have anymore. Comfort Barb didn’t have either.

“If we don’t move the release date, you’ll have to submit the book by mid-July at the latest, which I know will be tight.” Emma’s voice softened. “You’re dealing with a lot at the moment, so let me know if it’s not realistic, and I’ll manage them.”

I swallowed. I hadn’t been completely honest with Emma about how much progress—or lack of—I’d made on book four. It was late May now, and mid-July was only seven weeks away. Not a lot of time to write an entire 100,000-word fantasy novel. But pushing back the release date by twelve months was also not an option.

I walked back onto the deck, hoping the fresh air would help me think.

Writing had always been my escape. Having this deadline and Barb’s future on the line would force me to get my butt in the chair and stop dwelling on recent events. Assuming I can write without Tania…

“Nope, July will be fine!” I blurted. I wrote before Tania. I can do it again.

“That’s great. I’ll let them know,” Emma said, her face bright.

I sat down on the deck chair and immediately felt something damp on my ass.

“Shit!” I squealed, inwardly kicking myself.

“What’s wrong?” Emma asked, concerned.

“I just sat on bird poop,” I groaned.

Emma grinned. “That’s what you get for abandoning me and moving to the country. Speaking of which, could you come into the city next week? The books for the pre-order promotion are ready for signing.”

I closed my eyes. This call was not going well.

New York used to be my favorite place in the world. Broadway. Incredible art galleries. Amazing cocktails. Mouth-watering bagels stuffed with lox and an inch of cream cheese. But right now, you’d have to drag me kicking and screaming back there. Tania and I had been together for five years. Five years of making memories all over the city. Five years of memories I’d just fled New York to escape.

“Could we get them sent up here?” I tried to think of a good reason why I couldn’t make the hour-and-a-half train trip back to the city and failed, leaving the question hanging.

Emma paused. “Let me check. I suspect, given you’re one of their top-selling authors at the moment, they should be able to deliver eight hundred copies to your doorstep.”

I blinked. Surely I’d misheard. “S-sorry, how many?”

“Eight hundred and”—Emma paused, presumably confirming the numbers—“forty-one.”

“Wow, okay.”

I shook my head, forgetting my troubles momentarily as the number sunk in. It still blew my mind that people wanted to read my books, let alone pre-order special signed copies.

Eight hundred and forty-one copies. Incredible, but also a logistical nightmare. I surveyed the small living room, which led into an equally small kitchen/dining room. My bedroom wasn’t exactly spacious either, nor the tiny second room, which I’d planned to use as a study. There was no way eight hundred and forty-one books would fit in my new abode.

“Um, I don’t think there’s enough room for them here.” I racked my brain, trying to think of an alternative solution that didn’t involve me catching the Metro North back to Manhattan, and came up blank.

“Let me check… There might be a local bookstore or library we could deliver them to.” There was another pause as Emma’s manicured nails clacked on the keyboard and her eyes skimmed across the screen. “According to Google Maps, there’s a café-bookstore in Sapphire Springs called Novel Gossip. Let’s see if I can pull a few strings and get the books delivered there,” Emma said.

I breathed out. “That would be amazing. Thanks, Emma.” While venturing into Sapphire Springs wasn’t part of my plan to live life as a recluse, it was infinitely preferable to stepping foot back in the city.

But my relief was short-lived as realization dawned on me. Shit. If I signed the books locally, I’d have to divulge my identity to at least one new person. My heart plummeted.

It’s still better than going back into the city—just.