The Wonder of Now Page 4

  “Thank you.” Mitch took both and handed the bottle to Peyton. “To a productive, successful trip.”

  “Cheers.” She clicked her bottle with his cup before taking a sip.

  Mitch chugged his wine in one gulp and then twisted the empty cup around in his hands. He stretched his neck side to side and then in a circle, and drew a deep breath. Then he glanced at the book on her lap. “Good Luck with That, by Kristan Higgins. Is it good?”

  “So far. I’m behind on my TBR pile, but this one came highly recommended.” The story was about learning to love yourself as you are in order to be happy. A perfect book for Peyton after the amputations and reconstruction to her body and soul. “Did you bring anything to read?”

  “Not for pleasure.”

  “See? Robot.” She twisted her lips. “Maybe I should call you Optimus Prime instead of Mitch.”

  “I promise I’m human, although that comparison is somewhat of a compliment, I think. Moral, smart, strategic. I can live with that.” For a second, a bit of levity lit up his eyes.

  Peyton smiled and finished her water. “I guess we’ll see how well you live up to your namesake, then.”

  Enzo came to collect the trash. “We’ll be taking off soon.”

  Mitch nodded at him while handing over his cup, but his mouth tightened into a straight line.

  Overhead, a heavily accented female voice began droning on about seat belts, oxygen masks, and the other basic flight-safety equipment. Peyton sighed, planning to read for a while, eat her sesame-covered almonds, and close her eyes by nine o’clock. Six or so hours of sleep would suffice to help her body sync with Rome’s time zone.

  The plane lurched from the gate and taxied to the runway. Peyton had flown so many times it never occurred to her to worry, but she diagnosed the fear imprinted on Mitch’s face as it drained of color.

  The cabin jiggled as the plane picked up speed. Mitch stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, neck tense and straight. At liftoff, he clutched the armrests in a death grip.

  Without thinking, Peyton reached for his hand and squeezed it. He snapped his head toward her in surprise, but she simply smiled. “Don’t worry. After going through what I have, it would be wicked unfair of God to kill me off in a plane. We’ll be fine, I promise.”

  He chuckled before his gaze dropped to their hands. He didn’t release hers until the plane leveled off. “Sorry.”

  She reluctantly settled her hand on her lap. “For what?”

  “Being unprofessional.” One shoulder lifted. “Being a sissy . . . very un-Optimus of me.”

  She laughed, glad to detect a hint of humor beneath all the buttoned-down parts of him. “We all have our flaws. That’s what makes us human, right?”

  “So my fear means I’m not a robot?” Those full lips twisted into a wry smile, prompting a delicious quiver in her stomach.

  “Seems not.” Absolutely not. Mitch was very much flesh and bone. Just her damn luck.

  He’d tried. He’d really tried to relax enough to sleep. He might’ve drifted off for forty-five minutes once or twice . . . maybe. The wide, fully reclining seats had promised better rest. And the flight hadn’t been as bumpy as the one he’d taken to LA last winter. All around him, most of the other passengers had slumbered like bears in hibernation. But panic’s tight fist had his throat, leaving him to stew in his thoughts about the book tour and Peyton.

  At least being awake had given him one advantage. Throughout the night, he’d turned on his side and stared at Peyton while she lightly snored. Well, it was more of a breathy little puff bursting from her lips than a snore.

  Up close and personal, she didn’t look anything like her book cover. Her skin was almost luminescent in the cabin’s bluish light. A peaceful expression made her appear innocent and defenseless, unlike when she speared him with inquisitive gazes and snarky quips.

  They’d only just met, but he already suspected she hated being vulnerable, which made her memoir all the more puzzling and courageous. Not for the first time, he pondered the origin of her mettle. Did being born with the safety net of extreme privilege make it easier to take risks, or was there something more to it?

  A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth in anticipation of spending the coming weeks in her company. He’d planned this journey determined to succeed for his own selfish reasons. As night waned, he folded her needs into his goals, too. She deserved something good after all she’d overcome and everything she’d put herself through to bring this story to market. He wanted her to earn that bestseller label many authors craved more than he’d wanted it for any prior client.

  He hadn’t wakened her for breakfast service, knowing she’d need her rest whenever she could catch it. Plus, he doubted she’d eat the sausage, given her stance on a healthy diet. One would think the reminder of her fragile health would help him keep her at arm’s length, yet it didn’t seem to be working.

  The pilot’s accented, static-riddled announcement that they’d be landing in thirty minutes stirred all the sleepers.

  Peyton stretched and raised her seat. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” He sipped the last of his coffee and then pushed his yogurt cup, croissant, and cheese toward her. “I saved these for you.”

  She read the label of the plain yogurt. After peeling back the foil cover, she sniffed it. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Her grateful smile took a sudden turn into a frown. “You didn’t sleep.”

  “I did.” Were his eyes bloodshot on top of being itchy? “A bit, anyway.”

  She shook her head. “What time is our first appointment?”

  The fact that she hadn’t committed the schedule to memory shouldn’t have come as a shock. She didn’t seem like much of a planner. Not his preferred type of client, but he’d already made an exception for her. “Four o’clock. It’s a simple meet and greet with the publisher. The real work begins first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, normally I don’t recommend napping, but I think you should try to catch an hour of sleep when we get to the hotel. Tonight, stay up until eleven or so. Get on the time zone as soon as you can.”

  “I can’t nap. We need to prep for all the interviews tomorrow.” Winging it would not be wise, so he pressed.

  “I’d bet my bank account you’ve made outlines and notes on everyone we’re meeting. Email the relevant ones to me and I’ll review them on my own until you wake up.” She touched her breastbone. “Trust me. I’m the best bullshitter around. I’ll be fine.”

  “You can’t bullshit through this, Peyton. You’ve written a memoir. A serious one about a serious topic. If you aren’t authentic, you won’t get the bloggers and reviewers on your side. You need to be real. Very real.”

  She paled, her voice dropping to a low pitch as she croaked, “Okay.”

  He touched her forearm. “Are you up to this?”

  A stupid question because canceling wasn’t a viable option.

  She glanced at her lap before meeting his gaze. When she did, the devilish glint had returned to her eyes. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing Logan is halfway around the world right now or he’d be in serious danger.”

  And in an instant, she’d secured her armor again.

  “Siblings can be a handful.” Like with the many ways Lauren had tested his mom—and him.

  “From what I could tell, your sister sounds younger. Do you have other siblings?”

  “No. And it’s just you and Logan, right?”

  “He’s enough. I’m lucky. We’ve always been close.” She spooned some yogurt into her mouth. When she licked her lips, he had to look away.

  Client. Client. Client.

  “I figured, considering how you shared the experience of documenting your treatment and recovery.” He could never manage that with Lauren.

  “I guess people will be curious about that . . . about how I let him see me in every raw, intimate, vulnerable way possible. Maybe some will even find that
uncomfortable.” She averted her gaze for a moment, giving a little sigh. “But the truth is that I trust him more than anyone. He’s never judged me, shamed or shunned me, or done anything but love me, accept me, and make me feel safe. I couldn’t have let anyone else as close. It had to be him.”

  “And yet, now it sounds like you want to kill him,” he teased to lighten the mood.

  An impish grin appeared.

  “Well, yeah. I can be irrational that way.” She cocked a brow and pointed the spoon at him. “Watch out.”

  “Duly noted.” He crossed his arms as she tore into the croissant without any apparent appreciation for the magnitude of what she’d done while facing down death. He’d spent the past decade working with a lot of different women, none of whom had Peyton’s combination of strength and vulnerability. Or her smile. “If you get nervous, remember, working on your memoir while undergoing treatment was harder than anything you’ll encounter in the next two weeks. You’ll be fine.”

  She stilled for the briefest moment, her entire face tightening even as her gaze looked like it lost focus. He expected some backlash, but she snapped back from wherever she’d gone. With a shallow grin, she said, “Look at us—such a team already. I’ll get you through the flights, and you’ll talk me off the ledge before meetings.”

  “Yin and yang.”

  Her smile broadened. “We should get T-shirts made.”

  “We could design a whole line—Taoist Tees.” He knew something of Taoism because it had been one of Lauren’s many phases—along with bottle flipping, dubstepping, and frozen yogurt—and she’d shared her insights with their mom and him on a regular basis.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Pick a saying. Maybe the one about contentedness: ‘When you realize nothing is lacking, the whole world belongs to you.’”

  Only people with way more than they needed could make that statement with a straight face. Anyone who’d duct-taped his torn sneakers for a few weeks so he could pay the electric bill on time or worn two layers of socks and clothing to bed to keep the heating bill down hadn’t the luxury to consider, let alone comprehend, it. When things were that tough, no state-of-mind mantra inspired feelings of safety and happiness.

  “How about ‘Who knows what is good or bad?’” He could wrap his head around that debate, at least.

  Her eyes twinkled with humor. “I would’ve never figured you’d be into this stuff.”

  “My sister made it a mission to educate me,” he embellished, leaving out the failure part.

  “Did it take?”

  “Maybe some.” He smiled at the memory of Lauren’s attempts to bully him into going with the flow. After a lifetime together, she still didn’t get him. Since fifteen, he’d been the man of the house. That role required discipline, not a “go with the flow” attitude. “You?”

  “Well, I started reading some stuff during chemo. Tried meditating—epic fail on that—but I find I do appreciate the here and now more. I’m far from a Taoist, but I’m all about baby steps. Little goals are easily accomplished, and progress makes you feel good.”

  “There’s a certain kind of logic to that.” He nodded.

  “Oh no.” She tittered. “More admiration for logic. Back to being a robot, I guess.”

  He would’ve smiled, but the plane engine shifted and the tin bird took a decided dip. With a sharp inhale, he clutched his seat. Peyton remained annoyingly calm.

  “Apparently not.” He smirked. “Fear keeps me human, I’m told.”

  She chuckled, adding a little shake of her head.

  “I like you, Mitch.” She shoved the last bit of croissant into her mouth and washed it down with water. “This is not necessarily a good thing.”

  “Oh?” How should he take that? “Would it be better if you disliked me?”

  “Better for me, anyway.” She shrugged, wearing a slight smile. He fought the urge to reach out and touch her jaw. “Okay, now. Don’t freak out, but we’re going to touch down in a few seconds.”

  Reality crashed in on his daydream. He nodded and closed his eyes. When the plane bumped against the runway, the entire cabin shuddered like a dog shaking off water. The brakes’ deafening screech filled his head, but he breathed deeply. They were on terra firma. All was right with the world. Once his tension ebbed, exhaustion hit him, making each eyelid seem ten pounds heavier. A giant yawn escaped before he could control it.

  “Oh boy, you need some sleep.” Peyton patted his thigh.

  He came alive at her touch. I like you, too. He kept that to himself. Uttering those words would blur the line before this trip had even begun.

  She was right. This budding affection wasn’t a good thing.

  Chapter Four

  Peyton stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel, catching her reflection in the mirror. The steamy air that had collected on its surface softened the harsh truth normally revealed by the morning sun. From a distance, the dappled glass hid her breast scars. Her Vinnie Myers nipple tattoos looked so real she mindlessly brushed her fingertips over them.

  Nope. Not real.

  She’d picked such a pretty pink color, too.

  Most people probably thought the fake boobs (a.k.a. “foobs”) made everything better—or at least close to normal. Wrong. Hers were no simple augmentation—more like postamputation prosthetics. A poor substitute that would neither replace the sensation of the real things nor breastfeed a child.

  In no way did the hard, nipple-less reconstructed breasts give her the same feeling about her body and sexuality as real breasts. A year later, she still fought tears when thinking too much about all she’d lost.

  After drying herself, she slipped into the hotel’s luxurious dual-layer microfiber robe—a cozy barrier between her and that mirror. With less than twenty minutes to dress and meet Mitch for a quick breakfast before they took off for a day of interviews, she hadn’t time to mourn what once was.

  Why she still used a wide-tooth comb for her now-short hair, she couldn’t say. She tossed it on the vanity and tousled the damp waves with her fingers. Silver lining—no need for a hair dryer.

  Moisture still fogged the mirror, so she went to dress. She thumbed through the few items she’d hung and steam-ironed, choosing the cream-colored sleeveless dress with a mock turtleneck. Classy and sedate except for the flirty three-inch slits on both sides of its skirt.

  It had taken all year to fit back into this one, but this morning she tugged that zipper all the way up. She stepped back in front of the now-dry full-length mirror and opened her makeup case. A little shimmer powder dusted over her face, a swipe of raspberry lipstick on her lips, and after a dramatic sweep of black eyeliner, a bit of mascara for the big finish. Voilà.

  A woman who looked like someone she barely remembered stared back at her. Magic. If not for the shorter hair and low-heeled shoes, she’d think herself a mirage.

  Her phone pinged from the other room.

  Mitch, no doubt. Optimus had been a hasty nickname. Butters—from South Park—would be more apt, given their shared penchant for anxiety.

  She glanced at the text he’d sent.

  Ready when you are.

  What a polite way of asking where the heck she was. Still . . . She grinned while typing her reply.

  Jumping into the shower now.

  She counted one one thousand before dots exploded on her screen. To head him off, she sent a second text.

  Kidding. See you in two minutes.

  A pause. Then his reply.

  Great.

  Given the amount of time it’d taken to receive that short note, he must’ve deleted whatever he’d first planned to text before choosing to go monosyllabic.

  When she got to the lobby, she found Mitch intently typing on his phone. Sister? Work related? A girlfriend, perhaps? He must have one . . . or more.

  He looked up. “Why are you frowning?”

  Oh man. As embarrassing moments went, this wasn’t too bad. But she hadn’t ever thought about whether he had a gi
rlfriend, so the phantom woman had triggered an irrational sense of loss. Don’t you dare ask!

  “Am I?” She brushed the sting of envy off with a sultry laugh. In her experience, she could count on the laughter ploy to redirect any conversation with a man, especially when followed by a suggestion or segue. “Must be hunger. Shall we eat?”

  “Of course. I scoped out the buffet while waiting for you. It’s remarkable.” Without pressing for an answer to his earlier question, he gestured toward the double doors that led to the dining room, confirming for her that her deflection skills were still intact.

  She knew this buffet, of course, from her Globejotter days. It was one of the reasons she’d selected this hotel. He opened the door and held it for her.

  The delightful tinkling sound of silverware, the whir and sputter of cappuccino foam, and the scent of salty cheese greeted them.

  “Divine.” She surveyed the choices of prosciutto, salami, and bresaola, the egg and waffle station, Macedonia and fresh sliced fruit, assorted pastries, and Taleggio and Parmesan cheeses, among others. “Divide and conquer? Meet you at the small table in the corner.”

  “Fine.” He wandered toward the cheese spread.

  She went to the egg station and ordered a spinach-and-tomato omelet before flagging down a waiter to order a caffelatte. A whole pot of coffee would be better, but she’d settle for a full cup. Thank God research had not declared it a carcinogen.

  When she arrived at the table, Mitch stood and waited for her to take a seat before sitting again and spreading his napkin across his lap. She smothered another grin. So fastidious and polite, almost like he’d memorized an old Miss Manners manual.

  He glanced at her omelet. “That looks good.”

  “Doesn’t it?” The rich golden egg creation, topped with a dash of salt and chive, glistened with butter. In contrast, his plate contained fruit, yogurt, and a sampling of muffins and pastries. She smeared fresh butter on her croissant and took one glorious bite before Mitch ruined the perfect moment by speaking about work.