“No. That’s the weird part. The words are flowing better than ever. I just can’t write the ending because I don’t know how …”
I run my fingers through my hair because I know exactly how to end that sentence, unlike what to do to conclude Drake and Lorna’s book—they get a guaranteed HEA. The problem is, I don’t know what’s going to happen when the thirty-day mail-order bride trial period ends in reality.
Nina shifts, turning her full attention to me, serious now, a friend ready to lend an ear or some advice. “Want to walk through it together?”
Biting my lip, I nod. This is the kind of moment when I need someone to hold my hand.
“It’s about you, Fletch, and the future, right?”
Taking a deep inhale, I explain. “If I stay in Cobbiton and let myself believe this thing with him could be real ...”
“And you write that as Lorna and Drake’s conclusion, you’re afraid your life may take a sudden detour, heading in a different direction, and you won’t get a happy ending,” Nina finishes forme.
“Exactly.”
She reaches across the table and takes my hands in hers. “As I see it, the speed bumps come down to fear. Fletch has obviously fallen for you, so if you push him away and run from love, you’re just perpetuating your own loneliness.”
I wish I had myDo Not Disturbsign right now, but she doesn’t let me protest with my list ofwhat ifsorbutsand continues.
“You could leave town after your thirty days are up, go back to your nomadic writing existence, and always wonder what might have been …”
My chest tightens and I nod slowly.
She continues, “Or stay here, where you have friends,love, and a whole reading community rooting you on and ready to embrace you.”
A deep breath fills my lungs and I feel lighter, brighter, better than I have all day. Well, except when Fletch left a little gift bag on my desk filled with seasonal-inspired tea flavors and a mug with a typewriter image where the keys spell my name on the handle.
When she puts it that way, it sounds obvious. “But what if it doesn’t work out? What if it’s all holiday sparkle and mistletoe, until January shows up with its winter gloom and we realize we’re completely wrong for each other?”
“First, talk to Leah about the Happy Hockey Days event in January.”
I tip my head to the side in question.
She plows ahead. “Second, what if you and Fletch are perfect together and you miss it because you’re too afraid to try?”
I slouch back, but she doesn’t let go of my hands. Shedoesn’t let me off the hook.
“You write about brave heroines taking chances on love. Maybe it’s time you followed their example.”
Her words hit home. Hit hard. Right in the smacker. How many times have I created characters who face their fears, take risks, and find happiness? How many happily ever afters have I crafted while convinced they weren’t possible for me?
I let out a shaky breath. “The worst part is I’ve been so wrong about everything.” The admission feels like lemon juice on a paper cut.
Nina leans in, listening and holding a space for me to speak.
“I told myself love wasn’t real because it was easier than admitting I was scared. I wrote romance while simultaneously refusing to believe in it. How silly is that?”
Nina squeezes my hands but doesn’t interrupt.
“Fletch has been showing me love in a hundred different ways—fixing my house, reading my books, defending me to Derek, being patient with the paper fortress I’d built around myself—and I kept telling myself it was all just part of our arrangement. Like I was an impartial researcher instead of a terrified woman falling in love.” I laugh, but it’s watery. “I’m the worst romance author ever. I write about what I don’t believe in.”
“Believed,” Nina corrects gently. “Past tense.”
“Yeah.” I wipe my eyes. “Past tense. Because I was wrong. And I’m tired of being wrong. I’m tired of being the skeptic who misses out on everything beautiful because she’s too busy protecting herself.”
Then it all becomes clear like a plot bunny poking its fuzzy little head out of its hole for daylight. “I’m using deadlines as an excuse. Hiding behind my work to avoid being vulnerable.”
“Bingo. So what are you going to do about it?” Nina gets up and refills our coffees.
