My Kind of Perfect (Trillium Bay #3) - Tracy Brogan Page 0,3

Tag back to Sacramento, and that retirement of his turned out to be just a temporary leave of absence. Projects multiplied, and as our time in California increased, I was left with little to do except wander around his house, looking at framed photos of his adult children—who were all older than me—and wonder if I had made a mistake in leaving behind everything I’d ever known just for the sake of a man.

Survey says . . . maybe?

Tag texted me at two o’clock that morning as I lay awake in Gigi’s guest room staring at the ceiling. Given the hour, I thought maybe his message would say something about missing me terribly and wondering if we should reconsider our breakup. But it only said:

WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU ARRIVED SAFELY. TAKE CARE.

Ten minutes later he texted again.

SORRY. FORGOT ABOUT THE TIME DIFFERENCE. HOPE I DIDN’T WAKE YOU UP.

Of course he hadn’t woken me, because my brain was still on California time. And besides that, it was full of rioting thoughts. All the happy, buoyant, effervescent thoughts about my sister and about being home, but also all the soul-crushing, emotion-twisting, domino-tipping, spaghetti-tangled, cyclone-swirling thoughts about Tag and our past. And about Tag and the future and whether we might figure out a way to share one.

Deep down I already knew my answer. Tonight, seeing Emily’s bride-to-be, baby-on-the-way joy had solidified it for me. I needed more than he was willing to give.

And then Tag sent one final text.

I LOVE YOU.

Yep, that one was the clincher. There’d be no decent sleep for me tonight. Because it would have been so easy to say it back, but what good would that do? I knew he loved me, and I loved him, too. I also knew it didn’t matter. Love wasn’t our problem. Timing was.

Chapter 2

“So this is the seat of power, huh? Are you drunk with it?” I asked as I stood in the center of the mayor’s office—my sister’s office.

Like her, it was tidy, well organized, and lacked any unnecessary adornments. I’m not saying she was boring. Brooke was just pragmatic and sensible and efficient to the point of being bossy. That didn’t bother me, though. With Brooke, you always knew where you stood and what was what. She was calm where Emily was far more emotional and unpredictable. At least on the outside. I liked to think I fell somewhere in the middle. Not too staid, not too irrational.

“Yes, drunk with power,” Brooke answered smoothly. “Every morning I insist Gertie bring me coffee at precisely 199 degrees with exactly fifteen drops of creamer. Otherwise she knows it’s off with her head.” She made a flicking gesture with her hand, and her black-haired, waiflike assistant, Gertie, chuckled from the other room, obviously not intimidated by this threatening piece of information. Probably because my sister was the least pretentious person imaginable and far more apt to get someone a coffee than to demand one.

I looked around, taking in the pale blue walls and framed photographs of Petoskey Bridge, our greatest local landmark besides the island itself, and the Imperial Hotel and its six-hundred-foot-wide front porch that sat on a bluff overlooking Lake Huron. There was a series of lilac photos, another claim to fame our island was known for. So much so that each June we held a festival to celebrate their blooming season, along with a parade and picnic and evening fireworks. I was voted Miss Lilac Festival as a senior in high school, my own personal claim to fame which, unfortunately, came with absolutely zero perks—other than getting to ride in the first carriage of the procession.

Above a black metal filing cabinet was a serious picture of Brooke wearing a navy-blue suit and white silk blouse. I’d never seen her in a suit, and her lack of smile in the photo made me smile back at it, as if to prompt her image to respond. It didn’t.

“Is it weird to sit in an office with your own portrait staring at you?” I gestured toward the wall.

Her gaze rolled over it. “I don’t really notice it anymore, but I made sure we chose the least flattering shot, just to keep me humble. You know.”

That was Brooke, downplaying everything and treating compliments like flies: something to be swatted away without much acknowledgment. She was the eldest of the Callaghan sisters and had all but raised me after our mother died. I’d been five at the time. Everyone around here felt sorry for