blatantly obvious that I needed to find something to fill my days. A job, volunteering…something. There were only so many times I could clean the house, especially since Lydia had come back to help.
“Hey,” Hazel snapped, forcing my gaze to meet hers before she softened. “I get leaving the production company. You hated all the movie stuff, but the charity was more than his connections. The blood, the sweat, and the tears that went into it? Those were all yours, and now your future is yours to do whatever you want with it. Go back to sculpting. Blow some glass. Be happy.”
“The lawyers are drawing up papers so I can start putting that money to work.” The only caveat in her will when it came to her fortune was that I give it away to what charities I saw fit. “And it’s been…years since I did anything with glass art.” My fingers curled in my lap. God, I missed the heat, the magic that came from taking something at its melted, most vulnerable state and reshaping it into something uniquely beautiful. But I’d given all that up to start the production company when I got married.
“I’m just saying that I know Gran didn’t throw away your tweezers—”
“They’re called jacks.”
“See, it hasn’t been that long. Where’s the girl who spent a summer in Murano, who got into her first-choice art school and put on her own show in New York?”
“One show.” I held up a finger. “My favorite piece sold that night. It was right before the wedding, remember? The one that took me months.” It was still in the lobby of an office building in Manhattan. “Did I ever tell you that I used to visit it? Not often, just on days I felt like Damian’s life had swallowed mine. I’d sit on the bench and just stare at it, trying to remember how all that passion felt.”
“So go make another one. Make a hundred of them. You’re the only person who gets to put demands on your time now, though I wouldn’t argue if you ever want to come volunteer at the center.”
“I don’t exactly have a furnace, or a block, or a studio—” I paused, remembering that Mr. Navarro’s shop had been up for sale, then shaking my head. “I could definitely volunteer with the reading program, though. Just let me know when.”
“Deal. You know Noah Harrison is going to turn that book into a pain fest, right?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“I’m counting on it.” It couldn’t end any other way.
…
Three days later, the doorbell rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was time.
“I’ll get it!” Mom called, already clicking her way to the door—which was fine with me, since dread had my butt anchored to Gran’s office chair, debating my choice for the thousandth time since telling Helen to send the final contract.
Three days. That was all it had taken them to hammer out the details. Helen had assured me it was more than fair, and we didn’t give up anything Gran wouldn’t have, including the performance rights—those, she’d only ever sold to Damian, and he sure as hell wasn’t getting any more. In fact, it was the best contract of Gran’s career, which was one of the reasons my stomach churned.
The other reason had just walked into the house.
I heard his voice through the door—deep and sure, tinged with excitement. The more I’d thought about this deal, the more I’d realized that he really was the only one who could do it. His ego was earned in this department. He was a specialist in gut-wrenching endings, and this story surely had one.
“She’s in Gran’s office,” Mom said as she opened one of the massive cherry double doors that had closed Gran off from the world while she wrote.
Noah Harrison filled the doorway, but it felt like he consumed the room. He had that kind of presence—the kind that other men paid thousands of dollars in acting classes to try to pull off for Damian’s films. The kind those actors had to have because they were playing roles Gran had written in her books.
“Ms. Stanton,” he said quietly, sliding his hands into his pockets, his eyes seeing far more than I wanted them to.
I looked away, tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear, and silenced the part of my brain that nearly corrected him. You’re not Mrs. Ellsworth anymore. Get used to it.
“I think if you’re going to be writing Gran’s