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Tomorrow. I get to see him tomorrow.

I tamped down the glee that insisted on bubbling up my esophagus and tried to keep from skipping across the entry hall’s marble floor. When I stepped outside, Harrison was waiting behind the wheel of a sexy red Lamborghini Huracan coupe.

Of coursethat’s what Jack Bestia drives.

Harrison sat a little lower behind the wheel than Jack would have. I told him the name of my hotel and we set off for downtown Eastport Bay.

As the car glided along Oceanview Avenue at sunset, the warm wind whipped my hair behind me, and a strange thought came to me unbidden.

I could get used to this.

Immediately, I chastised myself. I wouldnotbe getting used to this. I would be here for two days—three tops, if tomorrow went late—and then it was back to my father and my life in New York.

Strangely, seeing Dad was the only part of that I really looked forward to.

Anyway, at least I had tomorrow here in Eastport Bay, and tomorrow was, as they say, a whole new day.

I had a feeling it was going to go far better than today had.

Chapter Eleven

Shave and a Haircut

Jack

Whyhad I told Bonnie I’d meet with her again? Maybe it had been the scent of all those roses going to my head or something, but now I regretted it.

The more time she spent with me, the more likely it was she’d discover the truth.

I was a fraud.

As soon as she’d left yesterday, I’d gone directly to my office, overcome with the desire to write. I hadn’t felt that way in a long, long time, and it had excited me.

I’dwantedto be the “incredibly talented” writer Bonnie thought I was. The writer I used to be.

After talking with her, I’d believed Icouldbe that guy again. And our walk in the rose garden had given me a plot idea I’d been eager to explore.

But as soon as I’d sat down with my laptop, the entire idea seemed stupid, the magic of it dissolving like sugar in boiling water. I’d banged the side of my fist on the desktop. What the hell was wrong with me? Where had all my inspiration gone?

I’d tried to force it, closing my eyes and chasing it down what felt like an endless dark tunnel. It used to be so easy, so effortless. The ideas used to flow almost faster than I could type them. That place seemed long ago and far away.

Maybe I really was washed up, as some of my so-called fans on Twitter had started to speculate lately.

Note to self. Stay off Twitter.

Okay, where was I? Washed up. Right.

Only when Bonnie had been here, and I’d actually started talking to her instead of treating her like week-old fish wrap, I hadn’tfeltwashed up. I’d felt like the old me. Writer me. Maybe the phenomenon would reoccur this afternoon.

I swam then showered as usual, catching myself humming a few times.

Hmmm. Haven’t donethatin a while.

Grabbing my bathrobe, I started toward my dressing room. But then I caught my reflection in the mirror and stopped.

This time I didn’t smile over my raggedy appearance. I certainly didn’tlooklike the old me. Maybe I’d feel more like him if I did?

My electric razor sat to one side of the counter, waiting forlornly on its charger, untouched for months. I grabbed it and went to work, first trimming the beard and then deciding to just lose most of it.