I placed a hand on her arm. “This isn’t a game for me. I did feel guilty that night at the bar—”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Evie whirled, her eyes flashing with distrust. “Why did you let me make a fool of myself?”
“You didn’t make a fool of yourself.”
“I kissed you on my front porch! I went on and on about the color of your eyes, spewing nonsense about connection while stuffing french fries into my mouth, and then freaking kissed you.”
“And I loved every second of it.”
Evie scowled. “Sure. Right. I should have known that, ‘cause you’ve made your feelings for me impeccably clear over the last couple weeks. I definitely got the feeling you liked kissing me and have always known exactly where I stand with you.” She folded her arms over her chest. “In case you can’t tell, my sarcasm is fully engaged at the moment.”
Oh, I could tell, and despite the fact that I started this conversation intending to grovel, frustration flared. “You aren’t exactly easy to read, yourself. First, I think you’re flirting, then I think we’re just friends, but even then, you won’t open up to me. You’re shy, but you’re not. You’re bold, but you’re locked down so tight I can’t figure you out. You won’t tell me why you won’t write and if you can’t trust me with that, then how am I supposed to know what I mean to you? You’re so freaking hot and cold, it drives me crazy!”
Evie glared. “I must be driving you crazy if you thought breaking into my house was a good idea…especially since you don’t even know if we’re friends or not.”
I let a long breath out through my nose, closing my eyes and fighting for composure. “Did you read the poem I wrote?”
Her features softened and she offered a faint smile. “I did and it’s beautiful, and if that’s how you really feel about me…” She flared her hands and closed her eyes. “That’s why I’m here. To find out if I’m the woman in that poem or if I’m the asshole you laugh with your friends about at the end of the day.”
“You’re the woman in the poem, Evie.” My voice was low. Raw.
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “And you’re not going to break into my house anymore?”
I fished in the pocket of my sweats for the key and handed it to her. “Never again.”
“Then I have something for you.” She shifted so she could reach into her bag and pulled out a three-ring binder stuffed with paper. “You asked me why I don’t write anymore. I dodged, but it’s time I shared this with you.” She put the binder into my hands. “You don’t have to read it all.”
Eager to glean everything I could about Eveline McAllister, I plopped onto the couch and dove in. Inside the pages I found quick wit, razor-sharp pacing, prose that felt like poetry without the pretension…
“How are you not published?” I glanced up, then went right back to the manuscript. “I’ll call my agent right fucking now. You’re sitting on a bestseller. This story…”
What in the world happened that someone this talented fizzled before she took off? This was the kind of stuff I expected from the girl who escorted me to my car at Brown. It was emotional. Real.
Fearless.
“That’s the thing.” Evie pulled a book out of her bag and dropped it into my lap. “It is published.”
I stared at the cover of a title I’d been avoiding like the plague. Despite its success and high praise, the author had been a pompous prick on Twitter, not just bragging about his success, but belittling everyone else in the industry. After I watched that train wreck of a debut, I wrote the guy off. He’d kill his career with that attitude and I’d be smart to steer clear.
I ran a finger along his name—Drew Stephens—then flipped through the pages, stopping at the dedication page.
To em. Thanks for the springboard. You’ve been very useful.
I frowned at the lowercase initials. The book was too successful for a typo in the frontmatter. “I don’t understand.”
“Drew was my boyfriend. We started dating in high school. Went to Brown together. Then, I wrote this. He stole it, published it, and wiped all record of it from my computer so I couldn’t file a copywrite claim. The only proof I have is that binder.”
“Are you serious right now?”
“I wish I wasn’t.”
I stared at the book in my lap. That prick. That no good, low life, thieving prick. No wonder she was afraid to write. Afraid to open up. If she’d been with this slithery snake since high school, she’d committed herself to him and he repaid her by stealing her whole fucking future.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you, but you know what? This guy? This asshole Stephens? He’ll never be able to pull this off again.” I waved the binder in the air then put it on the coffee table. “His career was over before it started, especially if I have anything to say about it. But you? You own the magnificent mind that came up with this story. You have a career ahead of you. I promise.”
Evie shook her head, her gaze on her lap. “I can’t…”
“But you can! You can write another book. It’s as simple as getting your butt in your chair and your hands on the keyboard. And I’ll call my agent—”
“It’s not that simple and you know it.” Evie glanced up, frustration
