Chapter 10 - The First Page
March arrived with the kind of sudden, brutal thaw that only Chicago knew how to deliver—grey slush turning into rushing rivers along the curbs, the smell of damp earth mixing with the exhaust of city buses, and the sun finally breaking through the overcast sky with real, unyielding warmth.
The launch party for Grace's book—now officially titled The Concrete Shore—was held at a packed independent bookstore in Wicker Park, just three blocks from the park bench where she had once sat freezing during her first winter in the city.
The store was so full people were spilling out onto the sidewalk.
Grace sat behind a wooden signing table stacked high with fresh hardcovers, her name embossed in elegant silver foil against a matte-grey cover. She signed copies for old women in winter coats, college students with backpacks, and literary reviewers from the Tribune.
Near the back of the store, leaning casually against a bookshelf with a copy of her book in his hand, stood Nathan.
He wore that same dark wool coat, unbuttoned, his grey eyes watching her with a quiet, unwavering pride that made her heart skip a beat every time she looked his way.
As the last person in line walked away with a signed copy, Grace closed her Sharpie pen, stood up, and stretched her shoulders.
Nathan walked over through the thinning crowd, stopping right in front of her table.
"Well, Mr. Sterling," Grace said, a playful spark in her eyes as she leaned against the edge of the table. "Looks like your corporate investment paid off. We're currently number four on the regional indie bestseller list."
Nathan smiled, reaching across the table to gently brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "My investments have always been entirely sound, Miss Holloway. Especially the ones involving stubborn bookstore clerks."
Grace laughed, stepping out from behind the table and closing the distance between them. "Is that all I am to you? A sound investment?"
Nathan slid his arms around her waist, pulling her close against his chest, right there in the middle of the bookstore with the afternoon sun streaming through the front windows.
"You're the only story that ever mattered," he murmured against her hair.
Grace looked up at him, her hands resting against the lapels of his dark wool coat—the same coat that had shielded her from the cold on a miserable Red Line train four months ago. She wasn't running anymore. She wasn't hiding in the shadows or waiting for the other shoe to drop.
May you like
She was home.
And as the bell above the bookstore door chimed with the arrival of new readers stepping in out of the spring air, Grace smiled, turned the page, and let the rest of her life begin.
