“She doesn’t want it to have a happy ending,” I growled, killing the music pumping through my phone.
“So you’ve said,” Adam noted, lifting his hands to the top of his head. “As a matter of fact, I think you’ve mentioned that almost every day since you got back.”
“I’m going to keep saying it until I can wrap my head around it.” We reached a bench near a fork in the path and stopped to briefly stretch, as was our routine.
“Great. I look forward to reading it once you do.” He braced his hands on his knees and leaned over, drawing in gulps of air.
“I told you we should run more often.” He only joined me once a week.
“And I told you that you’re not my only writer. Now when are you sending the Stanton portion of the manuscript? This thing is a tight turnaround.”
“As soon as I finish it.” A corner of my mouth lifted. “Don’t worry, you’ll have it by the deadline.”
“Really? You’re going to make me wait three months? Cruel. I’m wounded.” He slapped a hand over his heart.
“I know I sound like a kid, but I want to see if you’re able to tell where Scarlett’s writing leaves off and mine begins.” I hadn’t felt this excited about a book in the last three years, and I’d written six during that time. But this one…I had that feeling, and Georgia was tying one hand behind my back. “She’s wrong, you know.”
“Georgia?”
“She doesn’t understand what her great-grandmother’s branding was. Scarlett Stanton is a guaranteed happy ending. Her readers expect it. Georgia isn’t a writer. She doesn’t get it, and she’s wrong.” One thing I’d learned over the last twelve years was not to screw with readers’ expectations.
“And you’re so certain you’re right because what? You’re infallible?” There was more than a hint of sarcasm there.
“When it comes to plotting? Yes. I’m comfortable saying I’m pretty fucking infallible, and don’t start on me about my ego. I can back it up, so it’s more like confidence.” I leaned into a stretch and smiled.
“Hate to check your confidence, but if that was the case, you wouldn’t need your editor, would you? But you do need me, so you’re not.”
I ignored the obvious truth in his argument. “At least you read my book before suggesting changes. She won’t even let me tell her my idea.”
“Well, does she have one?”
I blinked.
“Did you ask her?” He lifted his brows. “I mean, I’d be happy to offer some suggestions but, since you haven’t even shown me the existing portion yet…”
“Why would I ask her? I never ask for input before something is finished.” It ruined the process, and my gut instincts hadn’t failed me yet, anyway. “I cannot believe I actually signed a contract giving someone who’s not even in the industry final approval.” And yet I’d do it again just for the challenge.
“For having dated as much as you have, you really don’t understand women, do you?” He shook his head.
“I understand women just fine, trust me. And besides, you’ve had what? One relationship in the past decade?”
“Because I married her, jackass.” He flashed his wedding ring. “Screwing your way through New York isn’t what I’m talking about. The milk in my fridge is older than the length of your average relationship, and it’s not even close to the expiration date. It is harder to truly know and understand one woman than it is to charm your way through a thousand nights of a thousand different women. More rewarding, too.” He checked his watch. “I need to get back to the office.”
The thought made me shift uncomfortably.
“That’s not true. The relationship part.” Fine, the longest relationship I’d had was six months, involved a lot of personal space, and had dissolved the way it had begun—with mutual affection and an understanding that we weren’t going the distance. I saw no reason to emotionally entangle myself with someone I couldn’t see a future with.
“Okay, let’s clarify. I don’t think you understand Georgia Stanton.” Adam smirked, leaning into a calf stretch. “Have to admit, it’s fun watching you struggle over a woman who doesn’t automatically fall at your feet.”
“Women don’t fall at my feet.” I was just lucky that the ones I was interested in usually felt the same way. “And what’s not to get? From where I stand, this is a case of publishing royalty becomes wife of a Hollywood elite only to be thrown over for the younger, newer, pregnant model and goes home with her millions to sign another deal that makes more millions.” Was she mouth-wateringly gorgeous? Absolutely. But it also felt like she was being difficult just for the fun of it. I was starting to see that dealing with Georgia might be more challenging than getting the book actually written.
“Wow. You’re so far off the mark, it’s almost funny.” He finished stretching and stood, waiting for me to do the same. “You know much about her ex?” he asked with a head tilt and poignant stare.
“Sure. Damian Ellsworth, the acclaimed director, and resident of Soho, if I’m not mistaken.” I stopped at a food cart and bought us two bottles of water. “Always given me a slimy, creepy vibe.” I was confident, but that guy was a pompous prick.
“And what’s he most known for?” Adam questioned after he’d thanked me and twisted the top off his.
“Probably The Wings of Autumn,” I guessed as we continued our trek, freezing as it hit me.
Adam looked over his shoulder, then paused. “There it is. Come on.” He motioned me forward, and I found my footing.
“Scarlett never sold her movie rights,” I said slowly. “Not until six years ago.”
“Bingo. And then she only sold ten books’ worth of rights for almost no money to a brand-new, no-name production company that’s owned by…”
“Damian Ellsworth. Fuck me.”
“No thanks, you’re not my type. But do you get it now?” We reached the edge of the park and threw our empty bottles into the
