The Casanova (The Miles High Club 3)

“Then go to her and bring her home. You know where she is, what are you waiting for? This isn’t like you.”

“You don’t know her. She’s too stubborn and if I push her, I’ll lose her in the end anyway. I’m giving her the time she deserves.”

“Or the time to get over you.”

My eyes rise to meet his.

“Come on, lunch. We can go send your love letter on the way.”

I exhale heavily. “Fine.” I open the top drawer of my desk and pull out a red envelope. He snatches it off me and reads who it is addressed to and he frowns.

Miss Pinkie Leroo

98 Grosvenor Street

Mayweather, Oahu.

“Why the hell do you call her Pinkie Leroo?”

“Long story.”

He turns the letter over and reads who it’s from.

Edgar Moffatt

Garbologist Extraordinaire

Enchanted Kingdom

“Huh? Who the hell is Edgar Moffatt?”

I snatch the letter from him. “I’ll explain on the way.” I put the envelope safely inside my suit jacket pocket. “Let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later I stand in line at the post office, Christopher next to me on his phone.

“Next,” the cashier calls, and she looks up. “Oh, hello Mr. Moffatt.”

I cringe. She knows me by name now. “Hello.” I slide my letter over the counter.

“Same as always? International tracked and signed to Oahu.”

“Thank you.” I take out my wallet.

“I hope these are love letters.” She smiles dreamily as she puts it through her computer.

Just ring it up, stupid.

“I mean, it’s so romantic, you sending a letter to Pinkie every day for a month.”

I glance back at Christopher and he gives a subtle shake of his head in disgust. “Loser,” he mouths.

I twist my lips in disapproval as I turn back to her. Why don’t you tell the whole post office, bitch?

“I wish I had an admirer as devoted as you.” She smiles.

Shut the fuck up.

That’s it, tomorrow I find a new post office.

KATE

I struggle up the road with my new canvas, which is huge. Like the ones I used to paint when I was just a girl.

I’m addicted to my new hobby and every day is better than the last.

The sun, the sea, my life here . . . Edgar’s letters.

I have a new thirst for life, my old self is returning day by day.

There’s no pressure, no grief . . . only happy memories and freedom. I’m going to call Elliot soon; his quirky letters have made me feel closer to him. I read them constantly and may even sleep with the box I keep them all in.

I want to fix this; he’s worth trying for.

I come around the corner to see Richard’s van parked out the front and I wave and smile. “Hi, you’re early today?”

He holds up three red envelopes. “It’s Monday, three letters today.”

My broad smile nearly splits my face. Elliot writes to me every day.

And I know we didn’t have a romantic beginning, but he’s definitely making up for it. Not that his letters are romantic, they’re weird and funny little stories from his day. He sends me photos and clippings. Each one makes me smile, each one makes my day that much brighter.

“Wow, that’s a big canvas. You paint?” Richard asks.

“Oh.” I shrug, slightly embarrassed. “Abysmally, but it relaxes me . . . so that’s the main thing, right?”

Richard chuckles. “Paint a picture of me delivering your letters every day.”

I laugh. “Okay, although you wouldn’t be able to tell what it was.”

“I’m sure you’re underestimating yourself.” He smiles, I sign for my letters and bounce up the stairs.

I read through the envelopes to find Saturday’s letter, as I like to read them in order.

My dearest Pinkie,

In light of my inability to call you, and not wanting to stalk you, serial-killer style, I have decided to go old school and write you a letter.

To receive a total package experience, please spray this letter with the spray that is enclosed in the envelope.

I smile as I imagine Elliot pouring his aftershave into these tiny bottles. I wonder, does he use a funnel? And who makes these tiny labels?

I notice a photograph wrapped in white paper and I tear it open.

It’s a picture of an open hand, palm facing up. It has terrible huge blisters all over it.

What the hell? What’s he done?

I read on.

Actual footage of my right hand.

I burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”

My love, things are grim.

My body needs you.

It’s been eight weeks since you touched me, it feels like forever.

I waited thirty-five years to find you.

How much longer must I wait to hold you again?

Forever yours,

Elliot.

xo

Emotion overwhelms me and I blink through tears.

I walk outside and put my canvas on the easel and pour myself a glass of wine, turn up Taylor Swift’s song “Style” on repeat, and begin to fill my canvas with paint. I smile as I listen to the words.

ELLIOT

I sit on my deck and stare out over Enchanted. It’s late, near midnight . . . but I can’t sleep.