Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
“Let me get it right.” His voice lowered as we neared the bend in the creek.
“I hoped you would, but then you started spewing all the happily-ever-after—”
“Because that’s her brand!” His posture stiffened beside me. “Authors have a contract with their readers once they get to the point your gran was at. She wrote seventy-three novels that gave her readers that joyful payoff of a happy ending. You honestly think she was going to flip the script for this one?”
“Yes.” I nodded emphatically. “I think the truth of what happened was too painful for her to write, and the fantasy you want to create was even more so, because it only reminded her of what she couldn’t have. Even the years she spent married to Grandpa Brian weren’t…well, you’ve read what she had with Grandpa Jameson. It was rare. So rare that it comes around maybe what? Once a generation?”
“Maybe,” he admitted softly. “That’s the kind of love that stories are written about, Georgia. The kind that makes people believe it has to be out there for them, too.”
“Then you ask Grandpa Jameson how it ends. She said only he would know, and he’s kind of hard to get ahold of.” I looked back toward the path. The creek began its gentle curve, following the geography of my backyard. “Have you thought about where it would be shelved?” I asked, trying a different avenue to bring him to my point of view.
His eyebrows lifted. “What do you mean?”
“Is it going under your name or hers?” I stopped walking, and he turned to face me. The sunlight caught in his hair, making it shine in places.
“Both, like you said. Do you want to know the marketing budget, too?” he teased.
I shot him a glare. “Are you really willing to forsake general fiction and be shelved in the—gasp—romance section? Because the guy I met in the bookstore last month definitely wasn’t.”
He blinked, drawing back slightly.
“Hmm. Hadn’t made it past the new release table in your mind, had you?”
“Does it matter?” he countered, rubbing his hands down his stubble in obvious frustration.
“Yes. What I’m asking you to do keeps you in the section that isn’t for—” I cocked my head to the side. “What was it you said again? Sex and unrealistic expectations?”
A muttered curse slipped from his lips. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?” He turned away, looking into the trees, then muttered something that sounded like unsatisfying.
“Nope. Want to keep telling me all about that romance ending? Because that’s where they’ll shelve you if you write it. Her name overpowers yours. You might be hot shit, but you’re no Scarlett Stanton.”
“I don’t give a shit where the book gets shelved.” Our eyes locked for a tense moment.
“I don’t believe you.”
He lowered his head. “You don’t know me.”
My cheeks heated, my heart rate spiked, and more than anything, I wanted to have this argument over the phone so I could end it and stomp out the infuriating flickers of emotion Noah never failed to ignite within me.
I liked it numb. Numb was safe.
Noah was a lot of things, but safe wasn’t one of them.
I ripped my eyes away from his.
“What is that?” He leaned slightly, his eyes narrowing.
I followed his line of sight. “The gazebo.” The breeze whipped by, and I tucked my hair behind my ears as I marched past Noah, heading into the aspen grove. Space. I needed space.
The crunching footsteps behind me implied that he followed, so I kept going. About fifty feet in, dead center in the grove, was a gazebo fashioned entirely from the trunks of aspen trees. I walked up the steps, trailing my fingers lovingly over the railings, which had been sanded smooth and replaced over the years, just like the floor and roof. But the supports were the originals.
Noah came up beside me, turning slowly so he could see all of the space. It was roughly the size of our dining room but shaped in a circle. I watched him carefully, preparing myself for what would no doubt be a judgment of the rustic little space I’d favored as a kid.
“This is phenomenal.” His voice dropped as he walked to one of the railings and looked over the edge. “How long has it been here?”
“Gran built it in the forties with Grandpa Jameson’s dad and uncle. They finished it before VE day.” I leaned back against one of the trunks. “Every summer Gran would have a desk brought out so she could write here, and I’d play while she worked.” I smiled at the memory.
When he turned toward me, his expression had softened, sadness filling his eyes. “This is where she waited for him.”
I wrapped my arms around my middle and nodded. “I used to think their love was built into it. That’s why she always had it repaired, never rebuilt.”