Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
I think I’ll name her… Tifani.
Gran pulls out peach pie with fresh whipped cream, while Tiffany drones on. I tune her out, imaging the outline for the rest of my book. Maybe there’s some way to work in an evil, killer peach who turns into sweet jam at the end of the book… thinking of my story makes me realize I haven’t worked on it in days. I’ve been so wrapped up in the drama of the news, my little running away stunt, the reunion that followed—I regret nothing.
I’ve got to find some time to squeeze in a few chapters. Even though Darius is paying me generously, I know firsthand how fast money runs out. Besides, I’d love to have a down payment on a home. Leave apartment life behind and maybe buy a little cottage in town, far away from the strip. Yellow, with black shutters and a white picket fence. Or maybe even paint it my favorite shade of pink and have a little garden in the back, like Gran’s.
A perfect place to cozy up by a roaring fire and write my books.
Somehow, Darius sneaks into my fantasy. But I just can’t picture his large, serious frame curled up on a red velvet couch in a pink cottage. I see him more in a home like this one, big and proud and timeless.
But do I see me there with him?
Sneaking a glance at him out of the corner of my eyes, I catch his darting gaze looking at Tiffany every so often, offering an ‘uh huh,’ or ‘yup,’ into the conversation—I mean, her monologue—every so often. That muscle in his jaw is twitching away.
He holds the end of his butter knife, twisting it over and over on the tabletop. Does he like being here? Does he like me being here with him?
I don’t realize I’ve let out a sigh until I feel his hand on my arm, his gaze locked on my face. “What’s wrong? Are you tired?”
He’s so quick to respond to my every need, my every desire, yet I still don’t know how he feels about me. Suddenly, I’m bone tired, emotionally drained, and need some space. Forcing a smile, I let out a little yawn, thinking of my computer and the cozy quilt I saw on Gran’s guest bed. “You know what. I am kind of tired and I have an email I need to send to my publisher.”
Tiffany’s brows dart sky high. “Publisher? You’re a writer?”
Oops. Shit. I didn’t mean to give her any more ammo to look down her nose at me—I mean, isn’t my lack of height and class enough—and I certainly didn’t want to bring up my career to his family. “I, uh… just… dabble.”
Her brows lower, knitting together. “Dabble in what, exactly? What kind of writing do you do? If you have a publisher, you must write something substantial.”
I look to Darius to save me, but I find his own face lined with curiosity. We’ve only had one or two brief conversations about my writing and I’ve always brushed it off, ready to change the subject. Of course he wants to know more.
Sensing my discomfort, Gran pitches in, “Katie, dear, if you’re tired, please feel free to head on upstairs. You’ll have to excuse our curiosity. In the South, we tend to get all up in each other’s business.” She shoots a pointed look at Tiffany.
Which the Queen of the Peaches conveniently misses. Leaning her elbows on the table, Tiffany stares me down. “No, really, Katie, I’ve never met a writer before. Please, tell us about it.”
In no way do I mistake her ‘friendly’ open gaze for genuine curiosity. The only reason she’s digging so hard is because she can sense my reservation. I’m an open book, my cheeks blush, my eyes go wide, my fingers tend to tremble when I’m nervous.
I’m not good at hiding my emotions. And you know what? I’m tired of hiding anyway.
Though I’m answering her, my gaze is trained on Darius’s eyes, as I come clean. I care nothing for her, or her nosy questions. But I long for him to know me... all of me. “As Darius knows… I’m a romance writer. I write love stories.”
He nods. He already knew that about me, but he leans in, eager for more.
I keep going. “I’d rather keep my pen name private. I always have, and I’ll continue to do so because I enjoy the anonymity. It gives me the freedom to write what I want without being burdened with the worry of whether people I know will like my work. I enjoy writing love stories where the hero and heroine have to fight for their love. I went to school for creative writing and straight out of college I had a bestselling series.” Taking a deep breath, I release it, and with this confession, this breath, comes freedom.