Is It Any Wonder (Nantucket Love Story #2) - Courtney Walsh Page 0,132

mother, whose expression was a cross between amused and apologetic. “I guess you can call me Miss Ackerman.”

“Miss Ackerman,” Andrew said. “Nice to meet you.”

Emily decided she liked this boy. She hoped he didn’t lose his charm as he got older, and she hoped even more that he remained genuine. So many men she’d known were the exact opposite. Not a single one worth holding on to.

Especially not Max, who, she was convinced, had never told her one honest thing the entire time they were together. Not that it mattered really. Emily’s rules were set up to protect her from getting too attached. She’d never stick around long enough to find out if a man’s motives were impure—three months and she was off. Max had taken their breakup harder than she’d expected. He’d actually cried.

Ugh. The memory of it made her feel like such a jerk.

Emily exhaled. She’d been doing so well. Why did she have to go and think about Max?

The regret wound its way back in, and she could feel her cheeks flush at the memory of him. Maybe he’d actually loved her? Maybe she should’ve given him more of a chance?

But no. She’d taken Mom’s advice to heart, as she did in all things, but especially about this. Her mother knew something about heartache, after all.

Be passionate in other areas, but in matters of the heart, be mindful to use caution. Your heart isn’t something to give freely and without thought. It should be protected at all costs so you can ensure your whole world doesn’t come crashing down around you. Hear me on this, Emily. I know what I’m talking about.

Without thinking, Emily slid her hand inside her bag until it found the soft, worn cover of the book of letters. In all her travels, it was the one thing she always made sure to keep close.

While Emily didn’t know all the details, she knew that Isabelle Ackerman had suffered a great heartache. She only wished her mother had gotten a bit of closure before she died.

The letters were unspecific about so many things, but this was not one of them. This was not an area where she had to wonder what her mom would say—Isabelle had found a way to get her message to her only daughter, and Emily had fully embraced it.

She’d kept her heart safe. When someone got too close—and they did sometimes—she knew it was time to run. Also time to run when she could feel herself liking someone too much, which was what had happened with Max. He was charming and handsome and wealthy, and Emily knew if she hadn’t been careful, she could’ve convinced herself he was worth a little rule breaking.

Thank goodness she wised up before there was permanent damage to her heart.

She had enough damage to deal with, and sadly, none of that could be blamed on Max or anyone else. It had been her own stupid mistakes that had landed her here—penniless and reeling. She hated the way this felt.

An utter failure. That’s what she was.

When she’d finished writing her play, she’d been so confident in it. She’d seen so much potential, and nothing could’ve dissuaded her—not even the rejections from several big-name directors who wanted nothing to do with the project. They’d left her no choice but to produce and direct it on her own.

She should’ve listened. She should’ve started small. She didn’t. Instead, she sank everything she had into the show.

She’d given all her blood, sweat, and tears to her work—and yes, most of what was left of her trust fund. So when the play opened to terrible reviews (“A meandering disaster that doesn’t know what it’s trying to be”) and folded in two weeks’ time, she was left with nothing but people to pay and a humiliating professional failure.

She’d bet on the wrong horse, so to speak. The show had so much promise—she’d been so sure it would be a huge hit. She’d been so wrong.

Worse, everyone in the theatre world now knew that she was a failure—there was a huge article about it in Backstage magazine. A cautionary tale of sorts.

“Former Child Star’s Directorial Debut Is This Year’s Worst.”

At least she could take comfort in the fact that her grandparents didn’t read Backstage.

She supposed it was the one blessing in GrandPop’s dying when he did. He never found out she’d lost everything with her poor business decisions or her short-lived creative endeavors. He’d never known just how incompetent his granddaughter was, even after