He walked past my desk without a word, not realizing I was following him into his office until he nearly shut the door on me. I could tell he was trying to sound polite, but his patience was thin. “What is it?”
“Natasha,” I said then realized I had to clarify. “My friend who works for DuBois’s agent, sent me a text. His publisher just announced preorders for the book.”
He ushered me into his office and closed the door while I tapped my screen to forward the image to his phone. The cover was sharp and slick, with the title in a strong, bold font that stretched from one side to the other, and the subtitle beneath it smaller and italicized.
ABOVE REPROACH: How the Powerful Families of Cape Hill Reign
He stared at the screen for a long moment, his expression cryptic.
“This is good, right?” I asked. “It says ‘families,’ so it’s definitely not all about the Hales.”
He nodded and looked pleased, but not as happy as I expected. He was still concerned about how much mention his family was going to get.
“When will it publish?” he asked.
“October twenty-sixth.” I smiled. It’d be tight, but that should be enough time for word to get out to voters how much of a ‘family man’ Damon Lynch really was.
“That’s soon.” His eyebrows pulled together, creating a crease between them. “I’d expected it to take him a while to write it.”
“I think it did. He started doing research back in February, right after you got—” He never talked about prison and actively avoided the word, so I did the same. “Right after you came back.”
“Yes,” he said, sounding distant.
He was worried he hadn’t had enough time to transform into the redeemed Macalister Hale, and I understood that. But we’d done everything we could in the time we’d had, and the rest was out of his hands.
“Are you nervous about what it’s going to say?” I asked.
“No,” he answered quickly. “Whatever it is, I’m confident I can handle it. I don’t have any other choice.” He set his phone down on his desk and gave me an evaluating look. “You’ll join me at the marina on Saturday for lunch.”
His abrupt shift in gears made it hard to keep up. “I can’t. I have tickets with some friends to the Harvard football game.”
“Cancel,” he said.
I was dubious. “So I can have lunch with you?”
“Yes.” His expression softened into one I rarely saw. He was anxious for me to agree to this. “Please. It’s important.”
Please was a word I heard less often from him than profanity, and it was unnerving. I felt off-balance.
“Okay,” I said.
If he wanted to dine with me out in the open where all of Cape Hill could see, that certainly was important.
Seagulls called to each other and swooped overhead, darting between the boats tied to the docks, and I stared at the end of the pier with anxiety building a stone in my stomach, weighing me down. It made it impossible for me to move.
Macalister stood at the edge of the dock, discussing something with a man onboard one of the boats, but he must have sensed my eyes, because he turned toward me, and the bright sunlight glinted off his sunglasses. He wore khaki pants and a navy sweater, with the collar of a red check patterned shirt peeking out at his neck, and he looked effortlessly New Englander as he strolled down the pier.
He hadn’t finished his approach before he spoke. “Is something wrong?”
“I thought we were dining in the clubhouse.”
“No, I’ve arranged for us to have a private lunch onboard.” His head tilted as he studied me. “Is this a problem?”
I pressed my lips together. “It might be.” I watched the wind ruffle his hair. “I don’t do so well on boats.”
He straightened, and although I couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, it was clear this was unexpected. “Do you usually get seasick?”
Two years ago, Marist had invited me to join her, along with her husband, brother-in-law, and Tate, on Vance’s boat. I’d spent much of the afternoon queasy and eager for it to be over. I hadn’t set foot on a boat since.
“Not . . . every time,” I answered.
He relaxed and gestured for me to come along with him. “You’ll be fine. It’s a beautiful day and supposed to be calm.”
Macalister didn’t wait for me to argue, and I trudged across the boarded walkway behind him, listening to the water crash against the pilings. It didn’t sound calm, and we were in the Cape. It’d be worse out in open water.
At least this boat was bigger than Vance’s.
Macalister stepped out of his shoes and pulled off his socks, tossing them one by one into the basket beside the gangway that led to a large, white sailboat. It had a teak deck and a sleek design that made it look fast, even when it was tied down. It bobbed in the water, and the gangway creaked with the rise and fall, making my stomach churn.