Steven Womack - By Blood Written

His eyes widened. “You mean?”

She nodded. “Yep. You made it.”

Michael jerked upright, carrying her with him. She almost bounced off him and landed on the balls of her feet.

“When’s it come out?” he yelped.

“There’s a newsstand over on Houston that gets them in around nine.”

Michael stood, a look of incredulity on his face. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” Taylor said. “It’s real. It’s happened.”

“Number one on the New York Times best-seller list,” he said in wonder, as if it were a dream, an illusion.

The look on his face almost made her want to cry. “I’m so happy for you,” she said.

Michael bit his lower lip. “I wish my mother were alive to see this,” he said. “She would have been proud.”

Taylor nodded. “I know she would have. I’m proud of you.”

Michael stepped toward her and threw his arms around her waist, then lifted her up in the air and twirled her. They shouted and giggled and yelled.

Then they got dressed as fast as they could and headed out into the bitterly cold Manhattan night.

Sunday morning they slept in late, partially out of fatigue, partially to recover from the hangovers they were shouldering after the previous night’s celebration. Michael had bought twenty copies of the Sunday New York Times , which turned out to be a load of newspaper to carry in the wet weather. They’d found a cab and gone to N’s, the trendy Manhattan bar where they’d had their first date. The place was packed and they had to wedge into a corner table, made all the more difficult by the nearly four-foot-high stack of newspapers. Michael ordered a bottle of champagne, and while waiting for it, opened the book review and simply stared at the page for a long time. Then he turned the page to the paperback best sellers and held it there in front of him.

Michael Schiftmann, Taylor thought, had done it. It was the culmination of a life’s dream. The Fifth Letter was the number one book on the New York Times hardcover best-seller list, and four of the fifteen slots on the paperback list were Michael’s as well.

Taylor wondered what lay in front of him. But then the champagne came, and the thought left her head.

One bottle of champagne was followed by another, and part of a third. By the end of the evening, Michael and Taylor had hooked up with the people at another couple of tables, and soon there was a party going on. They laughed and drank and danced and, in the end, went home with one copy of the complete Sunday Times and nineteen copies of the book review, the rest of the newspapers dumped in a wire litter basket on the sidewalk.

Taylor realized as they got to her co-op that she was dizzy from a combination of fatigue, excitement, and champagne.

Michael was still wired, still animated. All she wanted was sleep.

And now, at nearly noon on Sunday, she rolled over in bed, faced a sleeping Michael, and smiled at the thought of what he had wanted. The act of smiling, though, made her head hurt even more. She hadn’t had a pounding head like this in years.

“You’re insatiable,” she whispered. He stirred, moaned, and shifted beneath the sheets. She eased herself out of bed, slipped into the bathroom, peed, and swallowed three Ad-vils. She threw on her thick bathrobe and slippers and padded downstairs without waking Michael.

She started a pot of coffee and, while waiting, managed to down half a glass of cranberry juice. She didn’t drink much, ordinarily, but if there was ever a reason to celebrate, this was it. She opened the Sunday Times book review and turned to the best-seller page again. She stared down at it, almost wistfully, and realized that this was as big a day for her as it was for Michael. That night in Bonaire, the night he proposed, he said that finding her had been the thing that turned everything around in his life. Taylor realized, as she stood there staring down at the pages, finding him had been the biggest break she’d ever had as well. She was already the star agent at Joan Delaney’s agency. Now this would elevate her several notches further.

Maybe, she mused, it was time to open her own agency, hang out her own shingle. Maybe she could use this as a stepping stone to lure even more heavy hitters to her own shop. At this moment, standing in her chilly New York kitchen on a cold day in March, it seemed to Taylor as if her options were unlimited.

The world had opened for her.

The shrill chirp of the cordless phone brought her out of her reverie. She picked the phone up quickly and hit the talk button.

“Hello.”

“Hey, beautiful! You’re back!”

Taylor smiled. “Good morning, Brett.”

“Morning, hell, there’s precisely ten minutes of morning left.”

Taylor glanced over at the clock on the microwave, which read eleven fifty-three.

“Not even that much,” Taylor said. “And I’m just getting out of bed. I should be ashamed.”

Brett Silverman laughed. “That depends on what you were doing in bed.”

“You’re terrible,” Taylor teased. “So what’s up?”

“I just wanted to make sure you got my message and picked up the Times .”

“Twenty copies,” Taylor said. “I thought we were going to have to hire a car to bring them home.”

“You could buy the car now,” Brett said. “A whole fleet of them. So tell me, girl, how was the Caribbean?”

“Unbelievable. Incredible. It was warm, balmy, sunny, romantic. We scuba dived-or is it scuba dove?-and ate and drank and slept late.”

“Either one, I think. Dived or dove. And what else did you do?”

Taylor hesitated. “What?”

“You know … Lots of?”

Taylor felt herself blushing. “Yes, plenty of that as well.

In fact, I’ve got a little surprise for you. Word’s going to get around anyway, so you may as well be the first. We’re engaged.”

Taylor jerked the phone away from her ear as Brett shrieked on the other end. The screeching went on for a full five seconds, and then evolved into an almost maniacal laugh.

“I don’t believe it!” she squealed after returning to the English language. “That’s awesome! Incredible!”

“Yeah, that was kind of the way I took it. It’s crazy, but I think we’re going to go through with it.”

“Where is he now?”

“Upstairs,” Taylor answered, cradling the phone in the crook of her neck so she could pour a mug of coffee. “Still knocked out.”

“That’s unbelievable,” Brett said again. “Have you set a date?”

“Haven’t gotten that far.”

“I’m really happy for you, Taylor,” Brett said, her voice suddenly serious. “I wish you nothing but happiness. Always.”

“I appreciate that. Really.” Taylor raised the mug to her lips and took a sip of the coffee without even adding her usual sugar and cream. The coffee was hot, strong, and she needed it now.

“So is this a big secret? Can I tell?”

“Sure. I’ll make the announcement at the office tomorrow.”

“Awesome … I mean, I can’t even find the words. But I do wish you luck. Marriage is hard, you know. I’ve been there three times.”

“Three?” Taylor asked. “I thought it was two.”

“Nope, there’s another one back there somewhere. I forget exactly where. I was young. It didn’t last long.”

“Wow,” Taylor said softly. “The truth is, I’m scared. I never saw myself getting married. Just didn’t think it was in the cards.”

“This was pretty sudden, wasn’t it?”

Taylor was silent for a moment, thinking. “Yeah, maybe a bit too sudden. But we’ll take it slow from here on out.”

“Good move, good thinking. Now, you got time for a little business?”