Meet Me at Sunset (Evening Island) - Olivia Miles Page 0,1

with a bowl of ice cream on her lap and a box of tissues at her side. She could blame it on the way her mother had cried, “But what are we supposed to tell all our friends? They’ll be so disappointed!” when she’d finally broken the news, after three weeks of waiting for Sean to change his mind. But ultimately the blame was hers alone. She was in a funk. And she needed to snap out of it.

If only she knew how.

After all, who was she to write a romance novel when she knew nothing about love?

Quickly, she showered and dressed, cringing a little when she realized how tight the waistband of her jeans had become since she’d worn them last month for Hope’s thirty-fourth birthday celebration at a trendy restaurant in the suburbs, where Gemma had felt like a third wheel surrounded by her sister’s beautiful family and realizing that, not even three years younger, Gemma was in danger of never having the wonderful things her sister possessed at this rate.

Now the top button of the jeans pressed against her stomach, making it a little hard to bend over and reach for her shoes. Regardless, they would have to do, because she didn’t have any time to shave her legs for a skirt or a dress if she wanted to make the three-fifteen train to the bucolic suburb where Hope was throwing a birthday party for her twin girls.

Gemma grabbed the birthday gifts she’d ordered last week, paying extra to have them wrapped in bright pink paper because she knew that if she wrapped them herself, they would have tape marks and creases, whereas Hope’s gifts always looked professionally wrapped, even though they were not, and hurried to the elevator at the end of the hall, hoping that she would be able to flag down a passing cab.

They pulled up to Union Station with ten minutes to spare. Enough time for her to stand outside, on the edge of the Chicago River, and take in the view of the skyscrapers across the bridge. There, two blocks to the north and hugging the river to its west, was Sean’s office building—once her office building, where they’d first met, years ago, when the city was still new and life still felt full of possibility. His view, she knew, faced this way. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, and couldn’t even justify, she counted up the floors until she found the twenty-third, and stared until she liked to think he might just sense her presence, and then, she held up her hand, just in case he was working on a Saturday, which he sometimes did when he was working on a big campaign, and just in case he’d swiveled in his chair and turned to look down, catching her in that moment, she flipped him the bird.

She smiled as she hurried through the station and paid for her ticket. And she smiled as she boarded the train and pulled out her latest paperback (that she was reading, not writing), and she smiled when her brother-in-law picked her up thirty minutes later, even though she would have preferred a little one-on-one time with Hope instead.

“Hope would have come but she was busy with last-minute party preparations,” Evan said, giving her a wry look. They both knew, after all, how Hope could fuss over details. He turned onto their winding, tree-lined street where large, four- and five-bedroom homes sat beneath the eaves of old elm trees, their lawns professionally manicured, the grass forever green.

Hope’s house was not the largest on the block, but it was, in Gemma’s opinion, the prettiest: a Tudor-style common in the Chicago area, with original paned windows and a bluestone walkway leading to the arched front door. Inside, Hope had painted out the dark woodwork, leaving only the exposed beams on the ceiling in the living room, giving it a light and airy feeling even if those white sofas did seem a little impractical with twin girls. Still, they were always pristine, every pillow plumped, every surface bare aside from a few cozy touches: a vase of fresh-cut seasonal flowers, a few coffee-table books, a framed photo of the girls at the lakefront, looking absolutely adorable.

Sometimes Gemma didn’t know how her sister did it. Her house was perfect. Her kids were perfect. Her husband was perfect. She was perfect.

Whereas Gemma… Well, Gemma realized as Evan closed the door behind them that the top button on her jeans had popped