“Who the hell is Olivia?” I asked.
Click.
We entered the page that Gillian had tagged for Olivia Davies.
I froze when I saw the shadowy headshot on the page. The woman was wearing a wide-brimmed hat and wide sunglasses. She wasn’t quite looking at the camera, but she was smirking while remaining in the shadow. It was clever. No one would be able to guess who was in that picture.
Except for the hair.
Even if I couldn’t pick out her face in a lineup, I knew that hair anywhere.
Silvery-white locks that fell in long tresses to her waist.
Hair I’d run my fingers through and grabbed in fistfuls and worshipped.
Natalie was Olivia Davies.
“Whoa,” Rowe said. “Didn’t see that coming.”
Click.
The book cover filled the screen. Bet on It in stark white letters against a blue background with the words Based on a true story in a corner. I pored over the attached synopsis. My eyebrows rose and rose as I continued to read.
“What the fuck?” I breathed.
This sounded familiar. Beyond familiar. It sounded like I’d lived this.
Holy fuck.
“Looks like she wrote about us,” Rowe mused.
“Fucking fuck, fuck,” I spat.
He scrolled through the page and then clicked over to Amazon. “And it’s got great reviews. Dude, I wonder what my character is like!”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You wonder what your character is like?”
Rowe shrugged. “We already know what she’s going to say about you.”
Yeah. We sure as hell did.
I stormed across the room. If I’d been at my place, I probably would have shattered something. As it was, I was this close to letting the characteristic Kensington fury boil over, setting it loose on Rowe’s monitors. I needed to rein it in, control it. Figure out why this set me on fire and compartmentalize it.
“She wrote about us,” I growled.
“Yeah, dude.”
I put my hands down on his desk and leaned over. “Why am I even surprised? She’s a writer. That’s what she does. She puts her own experiences onto paper. And who can blame her for taking a pen name when Katherine Van Pelt would skin her alive if she found out?”
Rowe nodded. “Could be worse.”
“How?” I snarled.
“She could have forgotten you.”
I stilled. My blue eyes lifted to meet Rowe’s. “What do you mean?”
“You think a girl who spent the last year writing and releasing a book about her time with you has forgotten you?” He snorted. “I thought you were the one who was good with women.”
I slowly straightened. Rowe was incredibly right. He’d somehow seen what I hadn’t. I’d only seen the slight. How she’d clearly expunged all of her anger onto the page. Her last-ditch effort to get back at us all.
“I have to see her,” I said at once.
Rowe grinned. “You’re in luck. Looks like she’s still in the city. Having a book signing this afternoon.” He gestured to the computer.
“That’s right now.”
“I’ll watch Aristotle,” Rowe said.
“Why does this feel like a conspiracy to steal my dog?”
Rowe just grinned.
“Okay. Okay. The Strand. See Natalie.” I nodded to myself and was about to walk out when another thought struck me. I turned back to Rowe. “If this was published with Warren, does Lewis know?”
“What do you think?”
A shudder of anger shot through me. No wonder the asshole had been acting so strange around me. I’d have to deal with him later.
“Can you wipe all of this? I don’t want Katherine to find out.”
“Easy.”
“Thanks, Rowe.”
He was already back at his computer, hiding all the connections we’d made that led us to this moment. And damn, I was thankful for him. I just hoped that Katherine didn’t ever discover this. I couldn’t imagine the fallout.
I was out of his place and in another cab in a matter of minutes. The Strand Bookstore in the Village was packed with customers even though the space was ten times as big as it looked on the outside. I’d thought it was a cozy little independent bookstore, but this was a behemoth, storied structure with miles of books on its shelves.
I didn’t see anything resembling a book signing though. Just floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, tables and tables piled high with books and recommendations, and bookish swag. A display showed Bet on It at the front of the store, and I picked up a copy.
“Are you here for the Olivia Davies signing?” a female employee asked enthusiastically. She gestured to the book in my hand.
My head popped up. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Wonderful. She’s signing on the third floor.”
I thanked the woman and then carried my book up to the top floor. I had no idea what I was going to say. A year ago, I’d rushed from New York to Charleston to sweep her off her feet. I’d thought that, if I put myself on the line, then all would be right between us. But it hadn’t worked.
Now, a year later, I had no idea if she would even want to see me. All I had was this book that said she hadn’t forgotten me. That she might still want this.