“You okay?” I ask, thinking back to the tense drive up here.
He glances at me, his mouth curving into a smile. “Yeah, beautiful. I am. I just—” He pauses, and apprehension pinches his brow. “I have to ask. What are you going to do about this column if you get offered it?”
Oh. Right.
I pull my hand away and turn to gaze out the window, watching the passing landscape. I’ve been trying not to think about this, because… I have no idea.
“What about your romance novel?” Michael tries again when I don’t answer. “Have you thought about what you’ll do with it when you finish it?”
“Not really.”
“I thought it was good.”
I blush, glancing at him from under my lashes.
“I don’t know the genre, so I can’t comment on that.” He shoots me a flirtatious grin. “But it certainly, uh, had the desired effect.”
“That’s only because you thought it was about you and me,” I say with a wry smile.
“It was about you and me.”
My blush deepens. He’s got me there.
“And I loved it.” He takes my hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Why do you think I made you give me a copy?”
A laugh tickles my throat. Yesterday Michael said he wanted to read it properly, since I’d finished the draft. I was nervous but then I figured, what the hell? The cat’s out of the bag—he knows it’s about us—and just quietly, if he reads the whole thing, we might even get to act out some of my favorite scenes.
He grins. “I can’t wait to read it all.”
“Just… don’t show it to anyone, okay? It’s not polished yet, and—”
“Of course. It’s for my reading pleasure only.” He emphasizes the word “pleasure,” wiggling his eyebrows up and down, and I laugh again. “But seriously. Which do you enjoy writing more? The articles or the novel?”
“The novel,” I admit.
“Yeah?”
I nod. “It’s fun, and I have total control over how I write it.”
“If that’s what you love the most, maybe focus on that.”
“Well… I don’t know if I want to publish that.”
“Why not? There’s a huge market for it.”
That’s true. But it’s not really that. What would my parents say about me publishing a romance novel? It would just confirm their belief that I don’t live in the real world, spending so much time “dreaming of Prince Charming,” to use my mother’s words. I know Michael said I shouldn’t be ashamed of who I am, and I’m trying not to be, but I had never intended to share my romance novel with anyone. It was just a side-project to let off steam over Michael. And while the thought of publishing it does give me a thrill, I don’t want to give my parents more ammunition.
But if I got a paid writing job on a big platform like Bliss Edition, that’s a bit more respectable. I’d have the reputation of the whole organization behind me, and maybe they’d finally take my writing seriously.
“Do you want to write the other stuff?” Michael asks. His gaze slides over and when it meets mine, he can read the answer on my face. “Right. Well, there you go.”
I heave out a sigh. “Yeah, but it’s not that simple. I’m not like you. I don’t already have loads of things published. This could be my only chance.”
“No. This would be your first chance. You’re a good writer and you’ll get plenty of opportunities. But maybe this whole single column…” he trails off and exhales, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in thought. Eventually, he sighs. “If you write about something you don’t want to write about, Alex, it will show. Trust me, I know about this stuff.”
I contemplate his profile as he drives. “What do you mean?”
“You know that book of mine you criticized?”
“Three Months on the Appalachian Trail?”
He nods. “You know why that book got terrible reviews? Because it was crap. I didn’t spend three months on the Appalachian Trail.”
“Honestly, the things I said about your book weren’t true,” I protest, but he shakes his head.
“You might not have known it at the time, but they were.”
I cast my mind back to the moment in the bookstore when he got so irritated by my comments. No wonder he was so sensitive about it. But—once I’d read it—I truly did love it.
“So, what happened? You didn’t walk the trail?”
“I walked it for like a week then went back to my cabin. I didn’t enjoy it and I didn’t want to write the book. But I had to.”
“Why?”
“I’d already spent the advance, a lot of it on expensive hiking gear. I had this idea of who I could be; some sort of outdoors man. And I lasted one week.” He chuffs an ashamed laugh.
I look down at my hands. Maybe he’s right. I don’t want to sign up for something that I’ll end up hating and make a mess of it. And if I’m honest, I am not excited at the prospect of writing a column about the single life, not since spending the week with Michael. Because this past week I’ve felt happier than I have in ages. And by that, I mean years. It’s not only the sex—which, frankly, is so good I can hardly walk—it’s being with someone who just gets me, who laughs at my silliness and makes me laugh too. It’s being comfortable with someone and knowing they like you just as you are. Warts and all. How can I tell people I’d rather be single when I feel like this? I can’t.
Still… if Justin were to call me and tell me I’d got the job, I’d struggle to turn it down. After all, this is what I’ve been working towards since I arrived in the city. I guess I’d have to tell
