Chapter 3

The Elliott Bay Book Company smelled like old paper and fresh coffee—a combination that had always felt like home to me. Tonight, though, I felt anything but comfortable as Gwen dragged me through the crowd at Elena Martinez's book launch party.

"You need this," she insisted, her eyes scanning the room. "Your first social event since the breakup that isn't a pity dinner."

"I'm not ready," I whispered, tugging at the hem of my green dress—another color I'd rediscovered in my closet. "What if someone asks about Jeremy?"

"Then you'll say you're doing great without him," Gwen replied, steering me toward a display of Elena's new memoir. "Which is true, by the way."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help smiling. Two weeks had passed since I'd walked away from Jeremy, and each day felt like rediscovering a piece of myself I'd forgotten existed.

"There you are!" Elena spotted us and waved us over. My literary agent looked radiant in a fitted black dress, her silver jewelry catching the light as she moved. "Sutton, you made it! And you're wearing color—I approve."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "Change of pace."

"Elena, have you met Westley?" Gwen asked, her voice taking on a matchmaker's edge that I recognized immediately.

A tall man with warm brown eyes and a genuine smile stepped forward. "Westley Holmes," he said, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Sutton Torres," I replied, taking his hand. His grip was firm but gentle—nothing like Jeremy's dominating handshake.

"I'm an architect," he continued, his eyes never leaving mine. "Just got back from London a few months ago."

My heart stuttered. London. Where Fiona had been.

"Gwen mentioned you're a writer," he said, thankfully unaware of my thoughts. "What do you write?"

The question was simple, but the way he asked it—with genuine interest rather than the polite curiosity most people showed—made me pause.

"Contemporary fiction," I said. "I'm working on a novel about a woman who loses herself in a relationship and has to find her way back."

Westley's eyebrows rose slightly. "That sounds... personal."

"It is," I admitted, surprised by my own honesty.

"I'd love to hear more about it," he said, and I believed him. There was no condescension in his tone, no hint that he thought my writing was just a cute hobby.

We moved to a quieter corner of the bookstore, where Westley asked thoughtful questions about my manuscript—the themes, the characters, my inspiration. For five years, Jeremy had barely asked about my writing, dismissing it as "your little project" whenever it came up.

"I was in London for three years," Westley said as we sipped our wine. "Working on a sustainable housing project."

"That must have been amazing," I said, trying not to think about Fiona.

"It was... educational," he replied with a small smile. "London taught me a lot about what I want—and don't want."

Something in his tone made me study his face more closely.

"I had to firmly but kindly turn down someone who was quite persistent in her romantic pursuits," he continued, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "She was attractive and intelligent, but..."

"But not right for you," I finished.

"Exactly." He nodded, seemingly unaware of the bomb he'd just dropped. "Some people can't take no for an answer."

Fiona flashed in my mind—her perfect makeup, her possessive arm around Jeremy's waist, the scarf that had once been mine.

"Sutton?" Westley's voice pulled me back. "Everything okay?"

"Yes," I said quickly. "Just thinking about your story."

He smiled, and for the first time in years, I felt a flutter in my chest that had nothing to do with anxiety.

We exchanged numbers before the night ended, his fingers brushing mine as he handed me his phone.

"Maybe we could continue this conversation sometime," he suggested.

"Maybe we could," I agreed.

I was still floating from our conversation when my phone buzzed the next morning. Unknown number.

"Sutton?" Jeremy's voice was tight with barely controlled anger. "Marcus said you were flirting with some guy at Elena's party last night."

My stomach dropped. "How is that any of your business?"

"Who is he?" Jeremy demanded, ignoring my question. "Are you seriously moving on already?"

"Jeremy—"

"You can't just replace me like that," he interrupted, his voice rising. "After everything we've been through?"

I gripped the phone tighter, Westley's business card still on my nightstand.

"Goodbye, Jeremy," I said firmly.

"You can't hang up on me!" he shouted as I ended the call.

My phone immediately started buzzing again.

And again.

And again.

Six calls in five minutes.

Then texts began flooding in:

*We need to talk*

*You're making a mistake*

*Please answer me*

*I miss you*

*Come home*

I silenced my phone and stared at Westley's card, wondering if I'd just traded one complication for another.