Page 16 of The Write Midlife

Hannah returned to her pasta dough. "Ouch. That's like telling Marco to make his grandmother's marinara more like Ragu."

"Exactly!" Melody's voice carried across the kitchen, earning curious glances from their classmates. She lowered her volume. "I mean, I get it. They're a business. But my stories... they're like these recipes, you know? They're real. Authentic."

"Of course they are.” Hannah’s hands continued working the dough. "That's what makes them so good. Like Marco always says - you can taste the truth in every bite."

Melody looked up at her friend, feeling a surge of gratitude. "Thanks, Han. I just... I don't know how to work with him. It's like trying to collaborate on a recipe when one person wants farm-fresh ingredients and the other wants instant mix."

The blonde sprite beside her dusted flour off her hands. "Well, let's break this down like a recipe. What are the baseingredients of working with Nate? Ignoring the whole sexy-times situation."

"He... he actually seemed to have read my books. Like, really read them. He mentioned specific scenes, characters. That's more than most of the suits at Carlisle have done."

"Okay, that's a good start. And personally? I mean, besides the obvious physical attraction. What flavors are we working with here?"

Melody felt her cheeks heat up, and not from the stovetop. "He's... intriguing. Sharp. There's more to him than just a pretty face and a trust fund. But he's also frustrating as hell."

Hannah grinned. "Sounds like the perfect recipe for a Melody Archer novel, if you ask me. A little sweet, a little spicy..."

"Not helping, Han!" Melody flicked water at her friend.

"Ladies," Marco called out, "less playing, more cooking. The sauce won't reduce itself."

They returned to their stations, but Hannah wasn't finished. "Seriously though, Mel. Maybe you should give him a chance. Professionally, I mean. If he's actually read your work and engaged with it, that's like finding a critic who appreciates authentic Italian over Olive Garden."

Melody sighed, testing her sauce. "I know. But what if he tries to change everything? What if he wants me to write those cookie-cutter romances where everyone's perfect and problems are solved with a kiss?"

Hannah adjusted the heat under her sauce. "Anyone who's read your books knows that's not your style. From what you've said, it sounds like Nate gets that. Like he understands the difference between processed and authentic."

"Maybe.” Melody reached for more basil. "But I've worked so hard to maintain my voice, my vision. Remember what happened with my first publisher?"

"God, how could I forget? That guy tried to turn your beautiful, complex story into 'Fifty Shades of Beige'. But Mel," Hannah paused to taste her sauce, "not every editor is going to water down your recipe."

Melody nodded, memories of that first disastrous publishing experience flooding back. The editor who'd wanted to strip away everything unique about her writing, who saw her characters as cardboard cutouts rather than living, breathing people. It had nearly made her quit writing altogether.

"Ladies," Marco interrupted, appearing between them. "Your sauces are reducing nicely, but remember - like good stories, they need attention. Stir, please."

As they returned to their respective pots, Hannah continued. "You know what your mom would say about this situation?"

Melody's hand stilled on the spoon.

Even three years later, mentions of her mother could still catch her off guard. "She'd probably say something wise about how the best recipes can handle adjustments without losing their soul."

"Exactly. And she'd tell you to trust your instincts. You always know when something's not right for your stories, just like you know when a sauce needs more garlic."

"Speaking of which," Marco said, suddenly materializing beside Melody's station again. He tasted her sauce and raised an eyebrow. "Two more cloves, I think. And perhaps a pinch more courage to trust your own palate?"

Melody laughed with a resounding snort. "Is this about the sauce or my life, Marco?"

"In my experience," he said with a knowing smile, "they are often the same thing." He moved on to inspect another student's work, leaving Melody to ponder his words.

"You know," Hannah started plating her finished pasta, "maybe this whole situation is like one of Marco's fusion recipes.Traditional elements meeting modern techniques. Sometimes the unexpected combinations create something amazing."

Melody looked at her—unblinking. “Just how many cooking metaphors are you going to throw at me tonight?"

"As many as it takes until you stop catastrophizing and start seeing the possibilities." Hannah brought her plate over to Melody's station. "Think about it, Mel. You've always said you wanted to write a story that really challenges the romance genre. Well, here you are, living it. A successful author, forced to work with her one-night stand who happens to be her new editor and the heir to a publishing empire. It's got all the ingredients of a bestseller!"

"You're certifiably insane,” Melody said, but she was smiling.

"Maybe, but I'm also right. And I make better pasta than you."