needed was one night and I’d show her exactly how satisfying it could be.
“They do.”
Had to give it to her; she’d doubled down. Guess I wasn’t the only stubborn one here.
The other woman in the room gasped, and both Chris and Adam murmured, reminding me that this wasn’t a social call.
“Noah Harrison.” I shook the older woman’s hand, taking in her features and coloring. This had to be Georgia’s…mother?
“Ava Stanton,” she replied with a blindingly white smile. “I’m Georgia’s mother.”
“Though they could easily pass for sisters,” Chris added in with a little chuckle.
I controlled the urge to roll my eyes.
Georgia didn’t, which made me bite back a smile.
We all took our seats, and mine was directly across from Georgia. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, somehow managing to look both relaxed and regal in a pair of jeans and a fitted black shirt.
Wait. Recognition tingled in the back of my brain. I’d seen her somewhere—not just the bookstore. Images of her at a black-tie event flashed through my brain. Had we ever crossed paths?
“So, Noah, why don’t you go ahead and tell Georgia—and Ava, of course—why they should trust you with Scarlett Stanton’s unfinished masterpiece,” Chris urged.
I blinked. “I’m sorry?” I was here to take delivery of the manuscript. Period. That had been the only condition of me nearly jumping out of my skin to say yes. I wanted to be the first to read it.
Adam cleared his throat and sent me a pleading look.
Was he serious?
“Noah?” His gaze darted meaningfully toward the women.
Guess so. I was caught somewhere between laughing my ass off and scoffing. “Because I promise not to lose it?” My voice pitched up at the end, turning my obvious statement into a question.
“Comforting,” Georgia remarked.
My eyes narrowed.
“Noah, let’s step out into the foyer,” Adam suggested.
“I’ll get everyone some drinks!” Ava offered, rising quickly.
Georgia looked away as I followed Adam through the French doors of the drawing room and into the vaulted entryway.
The house was modest for what I knew of Stanton’s estate, but the craftmanship in the woodwork of the crown molding and the banister of the curved staircase spoke for both the quality of the build and taste of its previous owner. Just like her impeccable, captivating writing had been detailed without falling into frilly, the house felt feminine without stumbling into the floral-print-from-hell category. It was understated and elegant…reminding me of Georgia, minus the temper.
“We have a problem.” Adam ran his hands over his dark blond hair and gave me a look I’d only seen once before—when they’d found a typo on one of my covers that had already gone to print.
“I’m listening.” I folded my arms across my chest. Adam was one of my closest friends and as level-headed as they came in New York publishing, so if he thought we had a problem, we did.
“The mother led us to believe that she was the daughter,” he blurted.
“In what way?” Sure, both women were beautiful, but Ava was easily a decade or two older.
“In the who-has-the-rights-to-this-book way.”
My stomach threatened to heave up my lunch. Now it made sense—the mother wanted me on the book…not Georgia. Holy shit.
“Are you telling me that the contract we’ve spent weeks negotiating is about to fall apart?” My jaw clenched. I hadn’t just made time for this project, I’d canceled my entire life for it, come home from Peru for it. I wanted this damn book, and the thought of it slipping through my fingers was inconceivable.
“If you can’t convince Georgia Stanton that you’re the perfect author to finish the book, then that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“Fuck.” I lived for challenges, spent my free time pushing my mind and body to the limit through rock climbing and writing, and this book was my mental Everest—something to push me outside my comfort zone. Mastering another author’s voice, especially one as beloved as Scarlett Stanton, wouldn’t just be a professional feat, either. There were personal stakes for me here, too.
“Pretty much,” Adam agreed.
“I met her earlier today. She hates my books.” Which didn’t bode well for me.
“I gathered that. Please tell me you weren’t your usual asshole self?” His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Eh, ‘asshole’ is a relative term.”
“Awesome.” His tone dripped sarcasm.
I rubbed the skin between my eyebrows as my mind raced, thinking of some way to change the mind of a woman who’d obviously sealed her opinion of my writing long before we’d met. I couldn’t remember the last time hard work or a little