Page 2 of The Roads We Follow

“Sure, of course,” I say cheerily, even though I feel a twinge of disappointment for Allie’s sake at the revelation that Chip has a girlfriend. When I saw them together last December, their chemistry had been off the charts. I figured it was only a matter of time before they started dating. Guess I was wrong.

“Thanks. Charity’s borderline obsessed with that new remix song—the one about the bridge.”

“‘Crossing Bridges,’” I supply.

“That’s the one.” He points with a grin. “I swear I hear it everywhere—the grocery store, the gym, my dentist’s office, and somehow it’s playing in every rideshare I climb into. Pretty crazy how a song written decades ago has the power to take today’s music fans by storm.”

Due to years of living under the scrutiny of the public eye, I nod politely at his unassuming observation. But it wasn’t only music fans that had beentaken by stormwith the resurgence of “Crossing Bridges” these past eighteen months. My family had been stunnedto watch a song Mama cowrote decades ago with her ex-bandmate soar to the top of the charts—skyrocketing there from the remix version used on a popular mini-series, a show that’s now been streamed millions of times over. Seemingly overnight and without warning, the spotlight on Mama—and our family-run music label—had brightened considerably. Unfortunately, the bright lights of fame aren’t always flattering.

I banish the thought trail before it can gain traction and instead tap into the camera app on my phone to grant Chip his favor. Nothing saysicebreakerquite like cautioning a business professional on how to avoid papercuts from posing with a cardboard replica of your mother. Then again, after living nearly three decades as the youngest child of a famous entertainer, this moment ranks low on the weirdest-things-I’ve-been-asked-to-do-for-a-fan list.

Back at our table, I’m halfway through my first sip of iced coffee when Chip abandons all things country and pulls an about-face in conversation. “I loved your book, Raegan. More than loved it, actually. And I sincerely hope I can convince you to let me pitch it to my publishing board next month.”

My straw slowly sinks back into my plastic cup as I blink up at him for a full three seconds. “You ... you want to publish it?”

He laughs as if this isn’t the most serious question I’ve ever asked another living soul.

“Let me put it this way, I thinkThe Sisters of Birch Grovehas the potential to be the modern-dayLittle Womenof our time. It hit all the right notes for me—nostalgic, moving, witty, romantic. It’s an expertly paced family drama and exactly where I suspect the market will be trending by this time next year. Don’t tell Allie I said this, but she was spot-on in her recommendation when she said I’d regret not asking you for your manuscript that night. The entire time I was reading, I kept forgetting it wasn’t yet a published work.” He plants his elbows on the table and drums his fingers. “Please tell me you have ideas for a sequel—and perhaps a book three, as well? I guarantee readers are going to want more from Birch Grove.”

A modern-dayLittle Women?I bring a trembling hand to my mouth and release a sound that’s something between half sob, half laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m ... you think readers would want a series of Birch Grove novels?”

He nods demonstratively.

“This is surreal,” I whisper and fall back against my seat.

“In a good way, I hope?”

My eyes turn watery. “In the best possible way.”

His smile softens as he reaches for his laptop. “I have a whole list of questions and comments I jotted down while I was reading, but first, I’ve been dying to know if Birch Grove was inspired by a real town.”

I shake my head and work to regain my composure. “Not unless you count my internet travels. I’ve never actually been that far north.”

“Then that’s even more remarkable.” He opens his laptop and scans whatever document he’s opened. “Before I get too far ahead of myself with story questions, I should ask if you have a literary agent you’d like me to reach out to on your behalf. It’s best I touch base with them as soon as possible so we’re all in the know at the same time.”

“I don’t have an agent,” I say quickly. “I’d like to represent myself.”

He stares at me for a beat before he nods. “Okay, that’s not a problem. We have several authors at Fog Harbor who are self-represented. Typically they opt to use an entertainment lawyer for contract review and negotiations, but if you’d rather use one of your family’s attorneys, that’s understandable. I’ll just need their contact information within the next couple weeks. If my pitch to the publication board goes as well as I hope, things could move pretty quickly after that.”

The euphoria I experienced from moments ago is placed on pause, making way for my climbing anxiety. “Actually, my preference would be to handle as much of this process on my own.” And as far away as possible from certain sisterly opinions.

“With all due respect, Raegan, the legalities involved in a publishing contract can be difficult to navigate, seeing as each contract is drafted for the individual author. Given your unique background and high-profile family, I’m certain your legal team will require specific provisions for your—and their—protection.”

He relaxes into his seat as if I’m a totally reasonable individual who will simply accept his sound logic at face value. Only, it’s not his logic that has my insides churning. It’s the lack of one small, but absolutely critical, detail.

A detail I fear has somehow been lost in translation.

The pulse in my throat moves to my ears, muffling the sound of my own voice. “I’m sorry, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I realize now I never should have expected Allie to relay my wishes for anonymity to you but ... I have no intention of publishing under my own name.”

His brow crimps slightly. “Meaning ... you were hoping to use a pseudonym?”

“That’s correct.”

At my confirmation, the confusion in his eyes deflates to an understanding I can feel in the depths of my soul. So he didn’t know, then. Chip came here expecting to sign a book deal with a celebrity’s daughter. Not an anonymous nobody.

He opens his mouth twice before he manages to speak. “May I ask why?”

And it’s right then the phone I left face up on the table after picture-taking vibrates. My oldest sister has the most impeccable knack for poorly timed communication. As soon as Adele’s name appears on the screen, I flip it over, knowing the action will in no way silence her for long.

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