He tapped the screen a few times and handed her his phone. She scanned the email from his brother, looking for Nash’s good news. It wasn’t until the third sentence that she realized this email wasn’t about Nash at all. It was about her. More specifically, her books.

I know the perfect editor for Chelle’s book. I went ahead and had an off-the-record discussion, and they are rabid to get their hands on it. I gave the editor a few sample chapters and they’re ready to make a six-figure offer—more if Chelle agrees to sign a deal without taking the book to auction. We need to set up a meeting ASAP.

Everything inside Chelle turned cold and quiet, as if she’d just jumped into the icy lake behind Gable House and had sunk to the bottom. The Christmas music went away. The happy yapping of the pugs silenced. Even the sound of her furiously beating heart and the pounding of her pulse in her ear was muted. Emotional muscle memory honed by a lifetime with her father and his men-know-best ways took over at that moment. The coldness insulated her from the fire-hot pain of Nash doing what she never thought he would.

How could you be so stupid, Michelle? You knew better. From the very first moment you met him, he told you exactly who he was—a mansplainer.

But she’d seen him up close for weeks now, and she’d let herself be fooled. All this time she thought Nash was different—better—than the other men in her life, the ones who tried to control her life right down to her ability to do the job she loved at the foundation that made a difference for so many people. Now Nash was trying to control the other part of her life that had always only belonged to her. Her stories. Her fantasy worlds. Her escape.

A weary sigh escaped as she handed Nash his phone. “You gave your brother my book?”

“I knew he’d love it!” He wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug, lifting her up off the ground and spinning her. “This is amazing, right?”

“Yeah, amazing,” she said, a hot ember of anger starting to defrost the numbness.

Nash put her down, shooting her a double dimpler as he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the kitchen. “So, you don’t have to sign with Macon as your agent, obviously, so don’t stress about that.” He stopped in front of the fridge, opening it and getting out a bottle of champagne that she hadn’t bought. “If you want to stay with him, though, he’s really good. He reps a lot of big authors. If you don’t, I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to worry about anything.”