Chapter 154: An Unexpected Invitation

Chapter 154: An Unexpected Invitation

For several minutes, we walked side by side without saying a word. The sidewalks were comfortably busy, filled with people carrying coffee cups, walking impossibly energetic dogs, and living their perfectly normal lives. Meanwhile, I was strolling through Manhattan beside one of the world's bestselling authors after he had voluntarily waited outside my apartment building because he wanted to see me. Objectively speaking, my life had become deeply unreasonable. Every few steps our shoulders almost brushed before one of us instinctively shifted half an inch away like two magnets suffering from commitment issues. I kept stealing quick glances at him, mostly because he looked suspiciously thoughtful. Grayson wasn't usually this quiet unless he was plotting a novel, solving a manuscript problem, or preparing to say something capable of permanently increasing my blood pressure. After another minute of silence, I finally sighed dramatically. "You're being mysterious." He glanced at me. "Am I?" "Yes." "I thought I was walking." "You are. Mysteriously." "I wasn't aware there were different styles of walking." "There are." I nodded wisely. "Normal walking. Angry walking. Airport walking. Grocery-store walking. And whatever you're doing right now." One corner of his mouth lifted. "Which is?" "The kind where someone is obviously planning to say something and is pretending they're not." He considered that. "...That's surprisingly accurate." "Thank you. I majored in overthinking."
A quiet laugh escaped him before he looked ahead again. "Do you remember," he asked after another few moments, "when my manager mentioned my overseas schedule?" I frowned thoughtfully. "The one he kept emailing you about?" "Yes." "The emails that became progressively more desperate?" "Those." I nodded solemnly. "I remember one that contained four exclamation marks." "There were five." "Good grief." "He was under pressure." "He sounded like a hostage negotiating his own release." Grayson chuckled. "You're not entirely wrong." "Did he finally win?" "Eventually." "Congratulations to him." He shook his head, amused. "The schedule was finalized this morning." "Meaning?" "Next week  I'll be in Scotland." I blinked. "Scotland?" "Edinburgh first. Then Glasgow." "Wow." I looked at him with genuine excitement. "That's incredible." Then another thought struck me. "Wait..." I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. "...does this mean your manager actually convinced you to stop arguing?" "Apparently." I nodded approvingly. "Remarkable. I underestimated him. I should send flowers."
He laughed again, the sound carrying lightly through the quiet street. "There'll be several events," he continued. "Interviews. Reader meet-and-greets. Independent bookstores. A large signing in Edinburgh." My editor instincts immediately woke up. "How many readers are expected?" "Around a thousand." I nearly tripped over absolutely nothing. "A thousand?" "Approximately." "That's not a book signing." I stared at him. "That's population management." He smiled. "I've survived before." "Barely." I pointed dramatically toward him. "Your hand is going to file a formal complaint after autograph number six hundred." "Probably." "Someone's going to cry." "Usually." "Someone will ask if one of your characters was based on their ex-boyfriend." "That has happened." "Someone will bring homemade cookies." "Also happened." "Someone else will hand you a seven-hundred-page fan theory explaining why your villain is secretly three raccoons in a trench coat." He actually stopped walking to laugh. "That... has not happened." "Yet." I folded my arms confidently. "Give readers enough imagination and enough free time. Nothing is impossible." He shook his head, still smiling. "You spend far too much time inventing scenarios." "Occupational hazard. Editors prepare for every possibility."
We continued another few steps before he slowed to a stop. I took two more strides before realizing he wasn't beside me anymore. Turning around, I found him watching me with an expression that immediately made me suspicious. Calm. Serious. Entirely too composed. Oh no. Serious Grayson usually meant Important Conversation Grayson. I pointed accusingly at him. "That face worries me." "Which face?" "That one." I gestured vaguely. "The thoughtful one." "I'm always thoughtful." "Exactly." "Is that a problem?" "Historically?" I nodded once. "Yes." He looked genuinely curious. "Why?" "Because every time you look like this, you either announce a life-changing decision, hand me a manuscript that destroys my sleep schedule, or casually drop information that requires at least three business days to process." A faint smile appeared. "That's oddly specific." "I've collected data." "Scientific data?" "Emotionally traumatic data."
He held my gaze for another moment before speaking.
"I'd like you to come with me."
"...Where?"
"Scotland."
I stared.
He waited.
"...I'm sorry."
Another blink.
"I think there was interference."
"There wasn't."
"You definitely said Scotland."
"I did."
"The country?"
"Yes."
"The one with castles?"
"Yes."
"The one across an entire ocean?"
"Also yes."
I slowly looked around the empty sidewalk.
"Is there perhaps another Scotland hidden somewhere in New York that nobody told me about?"
"I don't believe so."
"Hm."
I nodded thoughtfully.
"That's unfortunate."
"Why?"
"Because the local version would've been significantly less stressful."
He laughed softly while I placed both hands on my hips.
"You can't just invite people to another country."
"Why not?"
"Because there are... procedures."
"What procedures?"
"I don't know."
I waved both hands dramatically.
"Emotional paperwork."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Emotional paperwork?"
"Yes."
"You've invented that."
"I absolutely have."
"And what does it involve?"
"Oh, several stages."
I began counting on my fingers.
"Stage one: mild confusion."
I held up another finger.
"Stage two: denial."
Another.
"Stage three: staring into the distance while questioning every life decision that somehow resulted in international travel."
"And stage four?"
I sighed dramatically.
"Finding out whether I even own a passport that isn't hiding in a drawer judging me."
By now he was openly laughing.
"You make everything more complicated."
"I make everything realistic."
"You make everything entertaining."
"I'll accept that as a compliment."
"It was."
The laughter between us faded naturally, leaving behind a comfortable silence. It lasted only a few seconds before my smile slowly disappeared. Completely without warning, another image forced its way into my mind. Elliot. Wrapped in three blankets like an aggressively judgmental burrito, pointing a tissue at my face with all the authority of a dying emperor. Stay away from Grayson Hale. At the time, I'd dismissed it as another one of Elliot's melodramatic speeches, filed neatly alongside Soup is a government conspiracy and Flu medicine is a social experiment. But now, standing only a few feet away from Grayson, with Scotland somehow becoming a real topic of conversation, Elliot's words returned with startling clarity. Not because they suddenly sounded reasonable. Elliot rarely sounded reasonable. But because this... this was exactly the sort of situation he'd been warning me about. First came editing a manuscript. Then coffee. Then birthday parties. Now international travel. I stared down at the sidewalk. "Well," I thought grimly, "this escalated with terrifying efficiency." Somewhere inside my head, Imaginary Elliot folded his arms triumphantly. I TOLD YOU SO. Wonderful. Even my conscience had started using Elliot as a spokesperson.
I drew in a slow breath before looking back at Grayson, who was still watching me patiently, waiting for an answer instead of filling the silence himself. That somehow made everything harder. If he had kept talking, I could have interrupted him. If he had joked, I could have hidden behind sarcasm. Instead, he simply waited, giving me all the time I needed. Which was deeply inconsiderate of him because now I actually had to think. "Grayson..." I began carefully, offering him an apologetic smile. "Scotland sounds..." I searched for the safest possible adjective. "...amazing." That much was true. "And I'm honestly flattered that you even thought to ask me." Also true. "But..." There it was. The dangerous word. The word responsible for approximately eighty percent of disappointing conversations throughout human history. "...I don't think I can go." His expression didn't change. He didn't look offended or disappointed. He simply tilted his head slightly. "You can't?" he asked quietly. "Or you don't want to?" I immediately looked horrified. "No!" I answered much too quickly. "It's not that." Then, realizing how enthusiastic my denial had sounded, I cleared my throat and attempted to recover some dignity. "I mean... of course it's not that."
He remained silent, waiting. I sighed dramatically. "First of all," I announced, raising one finger as though presenting evidence before a jury, "there's work." Another finger joined the first. "Lots of work." A third finger. "An unreasonable amount of work." A fourth. "Mountains of work." I looked down at my own hand. "...I may have run out of fingers, but the work continues." Grayson folded his arms, his expression suspiciously thoughtful. "The manuscript will already be finished." "Yes, but..." I waved vaguely through the air. "...other manuscripts exist." "They do." "Books never stop arriving." "True." "Editors disappear for one week..." I lowered my voice dramatically. "...and when they return, there are approximately six hundred unread emails waiting to destroy their spirit." One corner of his mouth lifted. "Six hundred?" "Possibly more." "That's oddly specific." "Experience has made me cautious." "Or dramatic." "Editors prefer the term professionally traumatized."
Unfortunately, Grayson still looked unconvinced. I quickly reached for another excuse before he could ask another question. "There's also the expense." I nodded decisively, feeling considerably more confident. "Scotland is very far away." "It is." "Airplanes are expensive." "They are." "Hotels are expensive." "Sometimes." "Food." I pointed dramatically toward the sky for absolutely no reason. "International food." He blinked. "...International food?" "It sounded more convincing in my head." A tiny laugh escaped him despite his obvious effort to remain serious. I continued anyway. "My point is..." I folded my arms. "...I can't possibly spend that kind of money on myself." "You wouldn't be." "What?" "It would be a business trip." I frowned. "Business trip?" He nodded. "The publisher is already covering the travel expenses for my promotional tour." My carefully constructed financial argument immediately collapsed into a smoking pile of debris. I stared at him accusingly. "...You weren't supposed to answer that so easily." "I noticed."
I refused to surrender. "Fine." I straightened my shoulders with renewed determination. "Then here's another problem." He waited patiently. "I've never been to Scotland." There was a brief silence. "...Isn't that generally how first visits work?" he asked. I ignored the question. "I don't know anyone there." "You'd know me." "That's not helping my argument." "I suspected it wouldn't." I continued anyway. "What if I get lost?" "I'll help you." "What if I accidentally offend someone?" "By doing what?" "I don't know!" I threw my hands into the air. "What if I pronounce Edinburgh incorrectly?" "Most tourists do." "Exactly!" I pointed triumphantly. "I'd embarrass both of us before we even left the airport." He shook his head, smiling now. "Liela." "Yes?" "You're running out of excuses." I gasped dramatically. "How dare you." "You've changed reasons four times in five minutes." "That is merely evidence of my flexibility." "It's evidence of panic." I opened my mouth to object... then closed it again. Unfortunately, he wasn't entirely wrong.
The smile faded from my face as I looked away toward the busy street. The traffic continued flowing, people hurried past carrying shopping bags and coffee cups, and somewhere nearby a child laughed loudly enough to echo between the buildings. Everything around us felt wonderfully ordinary. Scotland didn't. Scotland sounded enormous. Exciting. Dangerous in a completely different way—not because of the country itself, but because accepting that invitation would mean stepping even farther into Grayson's world than I ever intended. I tightened my grip on the strap of my tote bag before quietly shaking my head. "I'm sorry," I said softly, finally meeting his eyes again. "I really can't." This time there was no joke to soften the words, no exaggerated complaint, no dramatic gesture. Just an honest, apologetic smile. "I think..." I let out a slow breath. "...it's better if I stay here."