Okay, just tell me to fuck off if you want to, but would you consider letting me read the rest of it?
I stop laughing. I stop everything.
Would I let him read my super secret book, the one that no one but me—and nowhim—knows exists? Not the book I’m supposed to be writing, not the one predestined to become my thirteenth number one bestseller in a row. No. The one I can’t tell a soul about. The one I’m not writing. Not really, passionate fits of inspiration dumped onto the page aside.
The one I wish I could be writing.
You know what? That was out of line. I shouldn’t have asked. And I definitely shouldn’t have read those chapters. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.
I don’t know what to say, so naturally I make a joke.
If you want to read my work, I have a dozen spy novels you can pick up if you like. The New York Times didn’t like the 6th one so much, but it still has a 4.2 on Goodreads.
Yeah, but this one just seems… more YOU, somehow.
That knocks the breath out of me. Because… yeah. That’s what I think. But I didn’t expect anyone else to be able to see it. (I mean, in the hypothetical world where I would ever voluntarily share the book with anyone).
Not that I have any authority to say what’s you and not you.
And suddenly, I want him to read it.
I want nothing more than to share this deep, secret, personal part of myself with this kind, earnest, awkward man.
You can read it. If you want.
Seriously?
I’m already feeling sick at the prospect. But…
Yeah. Yes. Please. I’d love for you to read it.
I’ve actually been working on it a little while I’ve been up here. I can send you the new pages.
If you like! No pressure!
Are you kidding?
No? Yes? Which one is the right answer?
I would love that. Thank you.
And YOU said you didn’t get me anything for Christmas.
I’m still feeling slightly queasy over the whole thing, so all I manage is a smiley back.
CHAPTER 35
OWEN
I still can’t even believeI asked George if I could read his book. So unlike me. Not to mention overstepping. I feel all kinds of guilty about it, like maybe I should just put it back in the closet where I found it and forget about it. Except… It’ssogood.
Maybe it’s just me, catching up with what the rest of the world already knows— that George is an insanely talented writer.
Only, I don’t think so. I mean, yes, obviously, he’s a fantastic writer. That’s clear in every line of description and every exchange of banter. And that stuff’s probably in the Sebastian Steele books, too.
But there’s something else on these pages (and I mean besides the handwritten comments he’s scrawled all over them, some of which are funnier than the book itself). It’s like I can feel George himself coming through in every scene.
It’s not autobiographical. At least, I’m pretty sure George has never been a Regency era baronet. But it’s like his heart and soul are here on the page. It’s witty, and heartbreaking, and delightful, and so fucking honest. I can’t stop reading it.
