Page 17 of Unwrapped
“Well, it’s been a struggle.”
“Why?”
“Aside from my usual lack of focus, I’ve kinda had writer’s block.” Sure, I’ve been adding words to my document, but I haven’t truly connected with them. Or much of anything else in my life.
“How come?”
“Because writing is personal, and it’s really fucking scary to pour your soul into something.”
“I’m sure it is, but you’ve always been brave.” He pulls out another stool and settles beside me. “Tell me more.”
“What do you want to know?” I ask, equal parts warmed and confused. Brave is the last adjective I’d use to describe myself, but it feels good knowing he thinks of me that way. Ryan never wanted to hear about my story. He thought my time would be better spent advancing my career, instead of having myhead in the clouds, chasing a childish dream.Funny how he’s the one who cost me the credentials I tried to add after my name.
“What’s the premise? Is it fiction or nonfiction? What inspired you to write? Tell me everything.” Genuine interest shines in his deep blue eyes.
I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I’m ready to be vulnerable this early in the morning. Then again, he witnessed my meltdown last night, so it’s not like I have an image to uphold.
“It’s fiction,” I finally murmur, fiddling with my necklace.
He smirks. “That’s pretty broad. Can you maybe narrow it down a little?”
My cheeks heat. “Well, um, it’s a love story.”
“Nice.” He gives an appreciative nod. “Everyone enjoys a good happy ending. Or at leastIdo.”
“Oh, I bet you do.” I laugh and gently shove his shoulder. “Pervert.”
Chuckling, he holds up his hands in surrender. “For once my punwasn’tintended.”
“I’m truly shocked.”
“No, really. I didn’t realize how it sounded until it came out, but it made you smile so I don’t regret saying it.” He scoots his stool closer. “Tell me about your characters.”
I launch into a full description of my pharmacist heroine, complete with her demographics, physical traits, wounds, quirks, and goals. Dean listens intently, nodding and smiling at my level of detail.
“So, what are the tropes?”
“Listen to you, Mr. Romance Book Expert.”
He laughs. “Hey, now. Sometimes I know things about stuff.”
“To answer your question, it’s what they call a second-chance romance. As I said, the heroine is a bit of a dreamer. She sees the beauty in life and the good in people—even when they don’t deserve it.”
“Kinda like you,” he murmurs, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “No matter how stressed you were in school, you always stopped to appreciate the little things. Like that time we went to the Tulip Festival. Remember how hard it rained?”
“We were drenched,” I agree with a smile.
“But even so, you didn’t get pissed off, or run toward the car like we’d melt. Instead, you admired the way the raindrops clung to each flower. You stared at Washington Park like it was the most beautiful place you’d ever seen and told me it reminded you of a misty day in Ireland. You said the weather made you want to sit in front of a fireplace in a thatched-roof cottage and drink herbal teas. Then we went to your job—soaking wet—to have chai lattes and cinnamon biscotti.”
I blink a few times and stare at his face, shocked he remembers that day with such vivid detail. And that he picked up on the fact that I based the heroine on myself. Here I thought I was being stealthy.
“What?” He squeezes my knee like he always did back in school, and it sends a flare of heat between my thighs. “Did you think I’d forget?”
“No, um. I guess I’m surprised you’re able to quote something I said eleven years ago.”
“I’ve got plenty of your quotes in my Camille cache. As you mentioned last night, we were pretty much inseparable.” Clenching his jaw, he closes his eyes for a moment. Regret glows in his gaze when he reopens them. “I’m really sorry for hurting you. I swear it was never my intention.”
I want to ask him what he thought would happen when he cut ties, but that would lead to more tears. I’ve already cried enough on this trip.
