Coming into Focus, page 27
When Toby called and said he needed a reason to bring Chelsea to New York, I caved. Toby and I hadn’t had as much time together as I’d like. I wanted to see Chelsea too. Odds were good she was going to be my sister-in-law, and I’d finally stopped pretending I didn’t adore her. She was perfect for Toby, yes, but mostly I loved her because she was smart and funny and always up for a repeat viewing of Jane Eyre, minus the running commentary I’d get from the guys.
Now the big night was here, and the wheels were coming off. I couldn’t get my dress zipped on my own, I’d broken the buckle on one of my lucky garters, my loft wasn’t as party-ready as I’d have liked, and my damn phone would not stop buzzing. With a muttered curse, I gave in and picked it up. I had about a million missed messages.
Oliver: IMPORTANT. Please do not speak to Jimmy until I’m there and you and I have talked. I’m serious.
Jimmy: I need to talk to you right away. Call me.
Jimmy: Srsly, darling. Call me stat. You’re not answering your phone. Did you break it? Is it in another toilet?
Jimmy: I’m joking. I know it’s not. The stalker app shows me you’re right where you should be, snuggled in your loft in New York.”
Oliver: Promise me. Do not speak to Jimmy.
Jimmy: Is your ringer broken? Call me.
Toby: Be there in an hour! Bringing Mom. Surpriiiiiiiise! She wanted to see your place, and she’s never been to NYC! Can you believe it? Tell Jimmy to be good. There will be grown-ups in the room.
Hawk: My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail, but I’m in town and got your address from the lads. See you tonight.
Oliver: We’ll be there soon. Keep not answering your phone. I want to talk to you before Jimmy does. Please. It’s important.
Jimmy: If you don’t respond right now, I’m going to call the police. I can only assume the reason you’re not answering is because you’ve fallen down those ridiculous stairs, which are not EVEN stairs, more like a ladder. I knew you wouldn’t be safe. We must learn from the past or be doomed to repeat it, my sweet.
Jimmy: I’m referring to the other time you fell down the stairs, remember?
Jimmy: I HAVE TO TALK TO YOU BECAUSE I HAVE NEWS. Oliver wants to surprise you, but I know you hate surprises. Call me RIGHT NOW.
Hope: Ken and I will be there soon. We’re coming together, no big deal. Don’t ask about it, just be cool.
Ken: Caught up with Hope in the airport. We’re sharing a cab for no other reason, no big deal. I just didn’t want you to get any ideas, ha ha. Be there soon.
Benny: Did you get my delivery? Make sure it’s displayed prominently, Willa. Nothing puts me in the mood to celebrate like an enormous picture of my own face.
Chelsea: Willa, I’m nervous to meet Corporate. Toby and I are going to get there early so I can hide before Jimmy, Oliver, and Eric are there. I might puke.
I let myself fall facedown into my bed. This. This right here was why I didn’t want to have a party. Disaster already, and it wasn’t even supposed to start for another hour.
What did Oliver have to tell me that was so important I’d need a heads up? Something good? Probably. It would be weird to bring me bad news the night of the party, but Jimmy’s messages were freaking me out.
I picked my phone back up. He was right. I didn’t like surprises. I’d call him and get the scoop so I didn’t have it weighing on me when people got there.
As my thumb hovered over his name, someone knocked on my door.
Shit.
If it was a guest, they were early. I wasn’t ready. “Hang on!” I called. “I’ll be there in a minute!”
Oh well. Whoever it was could zip my dress.
~ * ~
The room was overcrowded and chaotic, and my neighbors were probably going to call the police if they hadn’t already. The guests shouldn’t have mixed well, but they did. My mom was uncomfortable at first, but Hawk went out of his way to put her at ease, employing a charm I’d always suspected he possessed underneath it all.
Uncle Ken and Hope made eyes at each other all night. Jimmy, Eric, and Oliver put on their full charm for Chelsea until Toby dragged her away. Even Benny was on his best behavior. He kissed me on the cheek when he got there, then kept his distance out of respect for Oliver.
The copious amounts of champagne probably helped. I somehow failed to remember I didn’t have champagne flutes, so we drank from mismatched joke mugs. I was bombarded with hugs and kisses and champagne toasts. Everyone in the room loved me. Even Hawk. And I loved all of them. A lot of them loved each other too, sometimes in a literal sense, as evidenced by Jimmy and Benny disappearing in my darkroom/closet for about half an hour.
In the chaos, Jimmy forgot what he was going to tell me. I forgot to ask Oliver about it until everyone had gone to sleep it off in their respective hotels, and he had unzipped the dress he’d zipped earlier. We spent some time reminding each other why this semi-long-distance relationship was more than worth it and then snuggled under my pink chenille bedspread.
“I love those garters.” He sighed happily.
He was on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. I was resting on his chest, tracing the outline of a new tattoo on his chest . . . a lasso in the shape of a heart, with a cursive “Willa” in the middle.
“This is my favorite of your tattoos,” I said, kissing it.
Then it came back to me. “Hey! What was it Jimmy wanted to tell me? He said you had a surprise for me.”
Oliver smiled in a way that made me suspect he’d been waiting for me to bring it up. He slid out from under me and got up. I enjoyed one of my favorite hobbies, watching him be naked.
He picked up his pants and retrieved something from the front pocket, then crawled back under the covers with me.
He snuggled back in and rested his forehead against mine.
“I love you, Willoughby Reynolds,” he said. “I want to be with you for the rest of our lives, however we can make it work. It won’t be easy. I’ll be on the road sometimes; you’ll be on the road sometimes. Sometimes we can be on the road together even when we’re not home. We’ll have to be creative, and that’s okay. We’re up for it. I want this life with you, and I want it as your husband. Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I whispered, my eyes brimming over.
He slipped the ring on my finger. It was perfect. A plain, heavy gold band. “I’ll get you diamonds if you want,” he said. “This seemed more like you.”
“I will be your wife, Oliver, because I love you with everything I am and ever will be. But listen to me.”
“I’m listening, sweetheart.”
I put my hands on either side of his face. “It’s not fair that you asked for it with your voice.”
“What other voice would I ask for it in?” His smile was so adorable that I wanted to lick his face.
“I don’t know, but if you said, ‘Willa, do you want to go swimming in a pool full of live sharks’—”
“Was that supposed to be my accent? Honey, no.”
“—I’d probably say yes just from being bamboozled. But you don’t have to bamboozle me because there is nothing I would rather do than be married to you.” I held my hand out and admired the ring. “I love you, Oliver. I’m going to be the best wife in the world.”
“You’re pretty good at whatever you set your mind to. So that’s probably true.”
“I’m setting my mind to something right now, actually. How convenient you’re in my bed, and we’re both naked.” I pushed him onto his back and then crawled on top of him.
My phone buzzed.
“Don’t you dare answer,” Oliver said, gripping my thighs. “He’ll wait.”
~ * ~
Later, I put on Oliver’s discarded T-shirt and crept downstairs so I wouldn’t wake him when I called Jimmy.
His voice was quiet when he answered. He sounded peaceful. “Are you happy, darling?”
I sniffed. “So happy.”
“Don’t do it,” he warned. “I can’t take it when you cry with your southern accent. Tell me you’re as happy as you can stand. That’s all I need to know.”
I wiped at my eyes. “I’m as happy as I can stand.”
He sighed happily. “Ahhh, it’s so beautiful. My tied-for-best mate and my best girl, making it official. You’re going to be good for each other. I’m glad I arranged this for you both.”
I laughed. “Thank you. We’re both blessed to have you choreographing our lives and making it all work. Listen, will you be my maid of honor? I mean my . . . whatever, my person of honor?”
There was a startled silence. “What?”
“I mean, I know Oliver will ask you, but I asked first. You’re my best friend. Eric can stand up with Oliver. Okay?”
His voice was thick when he answered. “Fucking hell. You just wouldn’t be happy until you made me cry. Well, congratulations.”
I laughed. “Don’t cry in an English accent. I won’t be able to take it. Anyway, that means yes, so I’m hanging up now. Love you, Jimmy!”
“I love you too, Willa.”
I went back upstairs and slid in next to Oliver. He was lying on his back, his face relaxed and peaceful as he slept.
I snuggled in against him and rested my head on his chest.
He was still the best pillow ever.
Acknowledgements
This book would never have left my head and lived on the page without the help of a community of people for whom I’m grateful.
Thank you to the whole Pitch Wars organization, and especially to my mentor and friend Michelle Hazen, who saw what I was trying to do with this book and helped me get there. Michelle, you taught me so much about how to write and how to find my own voice; my life is better because you’re part of it.
Jana Hanson, who is clearly the best agent in the world. I appreciate your kindness, your directness, and your infinite patience. Thank you for believing in me and being part of this journey.
Cassie Knight and the whole team at Champagne Books, thank you for turning this story into a proper book and making a lifelong dream come true. Lindsay Flanagan, thank you for being such a patient, encouraging, wonderful editor. It was a pure joy to work with you.
My First Readers: Beka, Cookie, Sara, Stephanie. You put in the work, friends. Reading multiple drafts (so many drafts), brainstorming, solving problems, and fixing commas. For talking me up when I got discouraged, for caring so much about these figments of my imagination, for laughing with me, for encouraging me to keep going. This wouldn’t be worth it if it wasn’t fun, and it wouldn’t be fun without you.
My brother, Jeff, who was appalled that I’d write a whole ass book and then not try to publish it. Thanks for the push, and thanks for believing in me.
The Slackers. Everyone always says “oh, it’s the community you gain from Pitch Wars.” Here to repeat it. It’s the community you gain from Pitch Wars. I challenge anyone to find a group of funnier creative geniuses with bigger hearts and stronger feelings about mayonnaise. You all made me feel safe and surrounded during some really painful days, and I love you.
Gwynne, for being a friend, a tireless advocate for love stories, and for helping create and run such a supportive, inclusive group of writers. Cass, for reading and insisting there should be a sequel. Meryl, for encouragement, bonding, soap-making, and drinking coffee with me while a baby giraffe was born. Maria, for hours on the phone, and very specific and flattering feedback. Falon, for your thoughtful feedback that came right at the time I was ready to give up.
Jesse, Sam, and Gillian. Thank you for all the hours you helped me write, and the time we spent in the car brainstorming. Thank you for believing in me, grieving with me, and celebrating with me. You guys are my real world, and it’s better than anything I could make up. I love you infinity (numbers don’t stop).
About the Author
Eagan Daniels has a Master’s degree in Literature, and a Bachelor’s in Photography. If there were such a thing as an advanced degree in fangirling, she would certainly have earned that, as well.
Her interests include sports photography (but only of hockey), live music, literature, and male musicians who wear eyeliner. She lives in Michigan but spends about half her time in her head with imaginary friends.
Real life has gifted her with a wonderful husband, two amazing children, three naughty dogs, an arrogant cat, and a small tortoise who bullies them all.
Eagan loves to hear from her readers. You can find and connect with her at the links below.
Website/Blog: http://eagandaniels.com
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/eagandanielsauthor
Pinterest: https://pinterest.com/eagandaniels/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/eagandaniels
Thank you for taking the time to read Coming into Focus. If you enjoyed the story, please tell your friends, and leave a review. Reviews support authors and ensure they continue to bring readers books to love and enjoy.
And now for a look inside Some Assembly Required, a fun and quirky story about a woman embarking on the new stage in her life after a divorce by Robin Winzenread.
Can Ro Andrews, an overworked, undersexed, exasperated single mom, find love with Sam–a man allergic to chaos and crumbs—and make it stick, not sticky?
When new divorcee Ro Andrews moves her pack of semi-feral children to a run-down farmhouse, helping her brother restore the moldering homestead and living an authentic life—per the dictates of Instagram and lifestyle blogs everywhere—tops her to-do list. But romance? Hell, no. Between hiding from her children in baskets of dirty laundry, mentally eviscerating her cheating ex, and finding a job, Ro has a full plate.
Until she meets Sam Whittaker, a hunky Texas transplant with abs of steel and a nameplate that reads Boss. Clad in cowboy boots and surfer curls, this child-free stud has Ro on edge—and rethinking her defective Y chromosome ban. Somehow, this overworked, undersexed, exasperated single mom needs to find time to fall in love with a man allergic to chaos and crumbs and make it stick, not sticky.
Chapter One
As my young son’s cries echo through this diner, I’m reminded again why some animals eat their young.
It’s because they want to.
“Hey, Mom! Nick farted, and he didn’t say excuse me!”
Normally when Aaron, my spunky six-year-old, announces something so crudely, we’re at home, and his booming voice is muted by the artfully arranged basket of dirty laundry I’ve shoved my head into in hopes of hiding like an ostrich from a tiny, tenacious predator.
This time, however, Aaron yells it in the middle of a crowded diner in the small, stranger-adverse, southern Illinois town we’re about to call home and, frankly, we don’t need any more attention. Thanks to my semi-feral pack of three lippy offspring, we’ve already lit this place on fire, and not in a good way.
Despite our involuntary efforts to unhinge the locals with our strangers-in-a-strange-land antics, this dumpy, dingy diner, minus its frosty clientele, has a real comfortable feel, not unlike the ratty, stretched-out yoga pants I love but no longer wear because a) they don’t fit any more and b) I burned them—along with a voodoo doll I crafted of my ex-husband (see my Pinterest board for patterns), after I forced it to have sex with my son’s GI Joe action figure (see downward-facing dog for position).
Crap. I should have put the pictures on Instagram. Wait, I think they’re still on my phone.
“Mom!” Aaron bellows again.
Right now, I’d kill for a pile of sweaty socks to dive into, but there’s nary a basket of tighty-whities in sight, and that kid loves an audience, even a primarily rural, all-white-bread, mouth-gaping, wary one.
Frowning, I point at his chair. “Sit.”
More than a bit self-conscious, I scan the room, hoping for signs of defrost from the gawking audience and pray my attempt to sound parental falls on nearby ears, earning me scant mom points. Of course, a giant burp which may have contained three of the six vowel sounds just erupted from my faux angelic four-year-old daughter, Madison, so I’ll kiss that goodwill goodbye. I hand her a napkin and execute my go-to look, a serious I-mean-it-this-time scowl. “Maddy, say excuse me.”
“Excuse me.”
*belch*
Good lord, I’m doomed.
“Listen to me, Mom. Nick farted.”
I fork my chef salad with ranch dressing on the side and raise an eyebrow at my youngest son. “Knock it off, kiddo.”
“You said when we fart, we have to say excuse me, and he didn’t.” Finally, Aaron sits, unaware I’ve been stealing his fries, also on the side.
Kids, so clueless.
Nick, my angelic eight-year-old, is hot on his brother’s heels and equally loud, “We don’t have to say it when we’re on the toilet. You can fart on the toilet and not say excuse me. It’s allowed. Ask Mom.”
Aaron picks up a water glass and holds it to his mouth. “It sounded like a raptor.” He blows across the top, filling the air with a wet, revolting sound, once again alarming the nearby locals. “See?” He laughs. “Just like a raptor.”
I point at his plate and scrutinize the last of his hamburger. “Thank you for that lovely demonstration, now finish your lunch.”
Naturally, as we discuss fart etiquette, the locals are still gawking, and I can’t blame them. We’re strangers in a county where I’m betting everyone knows each other somehow and, here’s the real shocker, we’re not merely passing through. We’re staying. On purpose.
We’re not alone, either. My brother, Justin, his wife, Olivia, and their bubbly toddler twins kickstarted this adventure—moving to the sticks—so we’re eight in total. Admittedly, this all sounded better a month ago when we adults hashed it out over too much wine and a little bit of vodka. Okay, maybe a lot of vodka. Back then, Justin had been headhunted for a construction manager job here in town, and I was in a post-divorce, downward-spiral bind, so they invited the kiddies and me to join them.
