Chapter 27

GEORGE

Max and I both bounded down the hallway to greet Hannah.

“Hey, babe.” I kissed her. “How did your writing go?”

“Good! I’ve only got a couple of chapters to review, and then I’m done.” Hannah grinned and wrapped her hands around my neck, drawing me in for another kiss.

I placed my hands on her hips, savoring the sensation of her soft lips on mine. Hannah hadn’t been scheduled to work today, so I hadn’t seen her since she’d left my apartment this morning, and I’d been missing her all day. I knew when Mom arrived tomorrow afternoon, I wouldn’t be able to spend as much time with Hannah as I was used to, and I was already bracing myself for it.

But despite my apprehension, I was excited for Mom to meet Hannah. Mom had had mixed feelings about Alexis, but I was confident she’d love Hannah. How could she not?

“That’s awesome, babe. Writing a whole book, a fantasy book at that, in basically a month is an enormous achievement,” I said, once we’d finished kissing. “I can’t wait to read it. You know, if you do want an extra set of eyes on it before you send the rest off to your editor…”

Hannah glared at me, shaking her head, but her lips were twitching. “How many times do I have to tell you that until I get edits back from Michael and have fixed the manuscript up, you’re not reading it? As much as I value your feedback, I also want you to read a half-decent book.”

I held up my hands in mock defeat. “Fine, fine. I’ll wait. It was worth a try.”

The glare softened, and she clapped her hands. “Okay, should we get this strawberry tart started? I’m assuming we’ll need to chill the dough.”

“Spot on, chef.” I laughed, impressed at how quickly Hannah was picking up baking. We’d started making the cake of the day together on the evenings it was my turn, and I hoped this would become a tradition. There was something so relaxing about us both being in the kitchen, working together to create something. Sometimes we’d just chat about random news articles or books we’d read, but my favorite was when we’d talk about the chapter Hannah was currently writing, and I’d help brainstorm plot points. Creative multitasking, in the best way possible. It was pretty incredible to know I was contributing to the development of one of my favorite series, even if the author wouldn’t let me read her drafts.

“What time is your mom coming tomorrow?” Hannah asked as she sifted flour for the pastry dough.

An uncertain note in her voice made me look up at her. She was biting her lip, which by now I knew meant she was either nervous or she wanted to kiss me. Given the context, it was safe to assume this one signaled nerves.

“Her train should arrive by six. How are you feeling about meeting her? I know it’s a bit weird to meet her this early in a relationship, but I think you’ll get along well.”

Hannah smiled weakly. “No, I’m sure it will be really nice. I just don’t have a great track record with parents. As you know, I’m not exactly close to my own. And Tania’s parents were extremely wealthy New York socialites who I had very little in common with.” She grimaced. “I never knew what to say to them. I always suspected they thought Tania could have done better than me.”

I bent over and kissed her forehead. “If they thought that, they were sorely wrong.”

“Hmmm,” Hannah said, clearly unconvinced.

I pulled back a few inches and held her gaze. “Hey, it’ll be fine. To be honest, I don’t think you’ll have a lot in common with my mom either—she’s not a big reader, loves gossip, and has terrible taste in television.” I chuckled, thinking of her obsession with The Bold and the Beautiful.

“Well, our tastes aren’t exactly highbrow either,” Hannah said smiling.

“True. But she’s a good person and excels at small talk, so you won’t need to worry about awkward silences. I think you’ll like her, even if she is very different from us.” I wrapped my arms around her waist and smiled at her. “Perhaps I’ll get you two to bake a cake for a bonding experience, just like how Mom and I used to bond over cooking when I was a kid.”

Hannah’s face softened. “Okay, sign me up for a bonding baking session. At least it’s not kayaking or cherry picking—all things we’ve established I don’t excel at. The last thing I want to do is make a bad first impression in front of your mom.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” I said, pulling my arms tighter around her to give her a squeeze. “Hey, I know it’s not the best timing with Mom coming, but I was thinking we should do something tomorrow to celebrate the launch of The Realm of Furies and also the fact that your new book is almost done.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry. You’ll be busy with your mom and everything.”

“Hannah,” I said gently. “I want to celebrate your successes. I know you like to keep things low-key, so I wasn’t planning anything too extravagant. Perhaps we could finish work a little earlier than usual, and we could have a glass of champagne down at Rivers’ Edge before Mom arrives?”

Hannah’s face broke into a warm smile. “That sounds amazing. It’s a date.”

I grinned. “Excellent. Now, let’s get to work on that strawberry tart. If we make good time, we might be able to fit in a few other activities tonight.”

I leaned in, giving Hannah a slow, sensual kiss so she had no doubt as to the type of activities I had in mind.

HANNAH

“Have you seen my phone?”

The strawberry tart was cooked, we’d enjoyed a mouthwatering pesto pasta dish George had whipped up, and we were getting ready for bed and the other “activities” George had alluded to if we made good time.

George, squeezing toothpaste on her toothbrush, looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and frowned. “I think the last time I saw it was in the kitchen?”

Now that I thought about it, that made sense. I didn’t remember having it while we were eating dinner. I wandered out to the kitchen, enjoying the lingering scent of strawberries and freshly cooked pastry, and found my phone under a dish towel on the countertop. I must have flung it there after washing up a couple of hours ago.

On autopilot, I tapped the screen, not expecting to see any notifications.

I frowned. Six missed calls and twenty-three unread messages. My chest tightened. What the…?

Oh god, I hope something hasn’t gone wrong with the book launch tomorrow. Or Barb? Or Mom and Dad?

I had two missed calls from my parents, one from my agent, Emma, and three from “friends” from New York who I hadn’t heard from in months. It was such a random selection of people. Why the hell did they all decide to call me today?

I clicked on my messages, hoping they’d shed more light on what was going on.

My stomach plummeted as I scrolled through the messages, most of which were from New York friends or acquaintances.

I can’t believe you never told us! I love your books. We should catch up. I’d love to hear how you are doing xxx Mel

Hannah! I just saw the article! How have you managed to keep this a secret from us all this time? Do you want to grab a drink next week? x Dana

My heart started pounding. What the hell was this article?

Hands shaking, I Googled my name and clicked on the top news article, titled “Best-selling author H. M. Stuart’s real identity revealed.”

Reclusive author H. M. Stuart took the fantasy world by storm four years ago with the publication of the first book in her Realms series, The Realm of Thunder. Since then, her novels have been climbing the NYT best-sellers list, and interest in the author’s identity has grown. A day before the publication of her fourth book, it has been revealed that H. M. Stuart is the pen name of Hannah Taylor, graduate of NYU’s English Literature program and daughter of Professor Douglas Taylor and Professor Genevieve Taylor of Chicago University. Ms. Taylor filed for divorce from her wife, editor Tania Haynes, in March. Divorce proceedings have not yet been finalized…

A photo of me accompanied the article. It has been revealed? Bile rose in my throat.

As it sank in that my carefully guarded identity was no longer private, my throat constricted. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Tears welled in my eyes and I let out a strangled sob, my mind racing.

Who the hell had revealed my identity? Possibilities raced through my mind. Tania? Surely not. She had her failings, but she wasn’t vindictive—at least, I didn’t think so.

I’d gone for so long without anyone finding out. Could it have been someone who’d learned my identity recently? My new editor, Michael? I didn’t know him very well, so that was possible. Chris? I couldn’t imagine them betraying my confidence. George or Blake? I shook my head firmly, annoyed at myself for even considering the possibility. No, they would never do this.

My hands still trembling, I checked my emails to see if they could provide any further insight into what the hell had happened. An email from my parents asking me to call them. And another from Michael from earlier today. Hoping it might shed some light on what was going on, I clicked it.

Hi, Hannah,

I’ve read the first part of the manuscript you sent through. Would you be free to meet up to discuss? There’s lots to talk about. I’m in the office Tuesday to Thursday.

Thanks,

Michael

Fuck. That didn’t sound good. If Michael wanted an extensive rewrite—or worse, if he wanted me to start again—we might miss the deadline to have it ready for publication in March of next year. And if that happened, then Barb’s future at her nursing home would be in peril. While George paid above minimum wage, even if I worked full-time at Novel Gossip, I wouldn’t be able to bring in enough to pay the bills. Shit.

First my identity being leaked, and now this. My chest tightened further as a stabbing pain took hold, and suddenly, I was gasping for air. I tried to regulate my breathing, doing my best to inhale slowly, hold, and then breathe out, just like my therapist had taught me, but it didn’t work. I sunk to the kitchen floor, wheezing. Pins and needles stabbed my face.

“Hannah?” George called. Footsteps followed. “Shit! Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

George crouched down beside me, studying my face with concern. “Do you need me to call Blake or an ambulance?”

I shook my head. “No,” I managed to say, my voice strangled. “Panic attack.”

The first time I’d had a panic attack—on the opening night of the high school play when I was fourteen—I thought I was having a heart attack. But while they weren’t a regular occurrence, I’d had them enough to recognize the symptoms.

“Would it help if I held you?” George’s voice was calm and low.

I nodded, and she sat next to me, wrapping her arms around me. Focusing on the warmth of her body, her comfortingly familiar woody scent, this time mixed with baked goods, the pain in my chest subsided, and my breathing and heart rate started to drop. I still didn’t feel like myself, but at least I could breathe.

“Do you want to talk about it?” George asked after a few minutes.

Feeling like I’d burst into tears if I explained what had happened, I pulled up the news article instead and gave it to George.

George’s brow furrowed as she scanned it. “Oh shit!”

“I’ve got a whole heap of messages and missed calls from people who saw the article, including my parents,” I said, my voice wavering. I felt completely overwhelmed.

“I’m so sorry, Hannah,” George said, handing my phone back to me.

“And to make matters worse, I also got an email from my editor about the first part of the manuscript I sent him that sounds really ominous. He wants to meet in person because there is ‘lots to talk about.’ He must hate it.” Tears pricked my eyes.

“Hey, we don’t know that?—”

My phone, still on silent, lit up with a call from Tania. Just what I need right now.

We both stared at it. I was in no state to speak to her right now, so I let it go to voicemail.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” George asked once Tania’s name had disappeared.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

Thoughts tumbled incoherently through my mind as I struggled to process what had happened and the implications. My carefully guarded pseudonym was now public and had already attracted the type of attention I’d been so desperate to avoid. My parents knew. Someone had betrayed my trust. And my new editor hated my manuscript.

My immediate instinct was to withdraw—to ignore the calls and emails, give up on my manuscript, and hide away in George’s apartment for the foreseeable future, with only George and Max for company. But even in my distressed state, I knew that wasn’t a real solution. It wouldn’t help me in the long run, and giving up on my manuscript sure as hell wouldn’t help Barb.

Perhaps my lawyers could take down the article. Maybe we could even sue for breach of privacy or something? I sighed. Realistically, though, I had to accept that the ship had already sailed. Even if we took down the article, the news would have spread, and it would be impossible to undo that.

The most practical course of action, rather than burning money on legal fees, was probably to sit down with Emma and my publicist to work out how best to limit the exposure. The three of us, all in the same room, could surely come up with some ideas on how to mitigate the damage. While I didn’t love the idea of returning to Manhattan, getting this addressed effectively and making sure my publisher took this seriously trumped those concerns. A teleconference didn’t have the same weight as showing up to a formal business meeting.

I could also kill two birds with one stone, since Michael had suggested an in-person meeting to discuss the manuscript. Meeting face to face might make it easier to convince Michael why my manuscript wasn’t as bad as he thought. If he didn’t see it, then—and my stomach flipped at the thought—I’d have to try to get Tania back as an editor. She’d get my manuscript, and as awkward as working with her again would be, that would be preferable to scrapping the manuscript and having to start again or trying to convince my publisher to find me a new editor. I didn’t have time to start all over again with a new manuscript or a new editor. And if I had to go begging to Tania, persuading your ex to work with you after she cheated on you and you ditched her definitely seemed like the sort of conversation you needed to have in person. I winced at the thought.

George and I sat in silence on the kitchen floor for a few minutes as my mind raced, George stroking my hair. I was desperate to get on top of the situation, to regain some control over this part of my life that had suddenly gone off the rails, and going back to the city to confront my problems seemed like the best way forward. I’d channel my character Esmae and fight for my privacy, my manuscript, and Barb.

“George,” my voice was croaky.

“Yes?”

George looked at me with such concern and care that guilt spiked in my throat. I inhaled shakily and then let out my breath. As much as I hated the thought of leaving George, I needed to face my issues head on.

“I’m really sorry, but I think I need to go to New York to try to sort this all out. Will you be okay without me for a few days?”

“Of course,” George said, her voice low and full of understanding. “Take as long as you need.”