Page 1 of The Comeback Summer

One

LIBBY

I was two years old when my sister, Hannah, was born, so in theory I shouldn’t remember that day, but I do. Or maybe I’ve just been told the story so many times that it’s cemented itself in my memory. Whatever the reason, I can still see it clearly in my mind:

Walking down the long hall at the hospital, my black patent-leather Mary Janes clicking on the linoleum and my sweaty hand holding tightly to my grandmother’s. GiGi led me into the room, where my mom sat on the bed holding a little bundle in her arms. My dad stood next to her, a proud smile on his face as he gazed at his new daughter.

And it hit me: this small person had just replaced me.

But then GiGi helped me hold the baby, and something swelled inside me, warm and bright, as I stared down at her little red face and big brown eyes. My dad said,What do you think of your new sister?

And I smiled and said,I’m gonna take such good care of her.

Not that I’ve been doing such a good job of it lately. In fact, I’ve been struggling to manage all my responsibilities. Takethis morning: not only did I sleep through both of my alarms and wake up to find a present on the floor from Mr.Darcy, my cat, but thanks to the lead foot of the 146 bus driver, there’s a coffee stain the size of Lake Michigan on my shirt.

Not a good look for the dreaded “we need to talk” video call that I’m supposed to be leading in less than fifteen minutes with Mr.Rooney, CEO of a multimillion-dollar underwear company and one of our last remaining clients.

I wonder what GiGi would do—not that she’d ever be so clumsy as to spill. Although, knowing our grandmother, she probably kept an entire spare wardrobe at the office, “just in case.”

The woman was prepared for everything, and I’d give anything to be able to call and ask her for advice. Not about my unfortunate coffee mishap, but about how to save the business she built from the ground up more than fifty years ago.

The Freedman Group was our grandmother’s pride and joy. As the first woman to own a PR firm in Chicago, Ruth Freedman didn’t just break the glass ceiling—she shattered it, becoming “one of the most in-demand public relations experts in the country,” according to theChicago Tribune. But in the last three years since she died suddenly of an aneurism and left the business to my little sister, Hannah, and me, things have gone downhill. Fast.

Which is why we can’t lose the UnderRooney business. I glance down at my watch—a vintage Rolex GiGi left me—and I can practically hear her saying,More is lost from indecision than making the wrong decision, bubeleh.

Oh, screw it.

I take a quick detour into Bloomingdale’s and grab the firstscarf I see. The bright floral design is totally not me, but maybe Not Me will have better luck than I’m having today.

My palms and pits are sweaty with stress by the time I rush back outside. The sun is shining, there isn’t a single cloud in the clear blue sky, and only a handful of tourists are milling about on Michigan Avenue. It’s one of those late-spring days that hold the promise of summer just a few weeks away, which would make me happy if there wasn’t doom and gloom waiting for me upstairs.

I push through the revolving doors to our building and hurry over to the elevator bank as my phone dings with an alert: our ten thirty meeting is starting.

I’m officially late—at least Hannah will be upstairs already. My little sister wakes up every day at six o’clock on the dot (with only one alarm) so she can run for an hour before coming into the office. She says it helps her handle her nervous energy—which, I’ve heard, is a benefit of exercise. If only I was the kind of person who enjoyed breaking a sweat. Sweets are more my thing.

Just before the elevator doors close, a hand slips through the crack, forcing them back open. I glance down at my watch and curse—it’s 10:31.

When I look back up, I gasp.

“It’s you,” I accidentally say as Hot Office Guy steps inside. I’ve admired him from a distance since the first time we crossed paths in the lobby two months ago. And now he’s here, like a gift from the universe, looking like a snack in dark jeans and a fitted blazer. His brown hair is mussed; I wonder if he overslept this morning, too.

“It’s you,” he says back to me. His voice sounds even sexierthan I imagined it in all the conversations we’ve had in my head. He steps closer, and I can smell wintergreen on his breath.

Hot Office Guy’s blue-gray eyes drop down and I try to suck in my stomach. His lips quirk in a half smile as he picks up the tail of my new scarf. I hold my breath as he gives it a yank, pulling me toward him. I brace myself, hands on his broad chest, then slowly tilt my head up.

My heartbeat quickens as his lips find mine. They’re full and firm, and he tastes like coffee and vanilla—the real kind, not the sugar-free stuff I drink.

His hands are on the small of my back, pulling me closer as he deepens the kiss. I relish the sensation of his skin, rough with the stubble of a few days’ growth, and my mind wanders to how it would feel against other parts of my body...

The elevator dings.

“Is this your floor?” he asks, and I look up.

Hot Office Guy is leaning against the other side of the elevator, looking up from his phone with mild annoyance.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say, hoping my cheeks don’t look as red as they feel.

As I rush out, I scold my overactive imagination. This is what I get for staying up late last night to finish the latest CLo book. Alas, my life is not a romance novel, and I must accept that I’m not meet-cute material. I was born to play the role of the chubby, clever sidekick in someone else’s love story—and I’m damn good at it.

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