It’s midday,and I’m having middling success on the masquerade ball action sequence in the Steele book. It’s fine. I came up with a clever bit with a fake sword hiding a real gun. But every time I pause, I remember all over again that Owen is readingthat other book.
And, yes, I recognize it’s a little odd for a man whose writing has been translated into fourteen languages to be wound up about someone reading his work. But it’s not just any book.
There’s nothing personal or revealing about scenes with Sebastian taking down an international spy or escaping a bank vault full of snakes. Or even seducing someone. For one thing, half his conquests are women. So… yeah, I’mreallyjust making that shit up (okay and maybe digging a little into the deep recesses of Reddit when I’m in need of some specifics I can’t get IRL). But also, a torrid affair with a billionaire prince? Yeah. It’s calledfictionfor a reason.
And The Secret Book is fiction too. It is. Obviously.
But… well, maybe not the emotional foundation. The embarrassing, earnest, deep private feelings that fueled the whole thing. Those are a little more real.
And I know I told him to read it. Iwanthim to read it. I do.
… And yet, I kind of don’t.
Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t know what I want. I feel… I feel…
I feel naked. And not in a good way.
I check my phone. Again. I can’t help it. I think if I heard something from him—anything—I’d be able to relax at least a little. It’s the not knowing.
Unless, of course, what I heard from him was “why the hell did you ever think writing this over-sincere derivative piece of drivel was a good idea, George?”
I scrunch my face up and let out a groan. I’m spiraling. This is ridiculous. I can handle this. Deep breath in, and deep breath o?—
Oh God! I just remembered the cringy masturbation bit I wrote into chapter five. Jesus Christ.
I cannot believe I let someone read this book.
I’m head-down on the kitchen table when my phone rings. Anabel. Perfect.
“Feliz Navidad!How’s my favorite editor?” I answer, over-brightly.
“Frazzled and short on time. I’m calling from my aunt’s bathroom in the Bronx. And I’m getting enough poorly pronounced Spanish from my sister’s fiancé today, so I appreciate the nod to my heritage and all, but let’s not.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“No te preocupes!”
“What?”
“How is our oldamigoSebastian?”
“Currently screwing a cocktail waitress in a coat check room.”
“Excellent. And?”
“And I’m on track to finish the draft right on schedule.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. Though I know I don’t sound very excited about it. Still, it’s good to know I’m still capable of earning my paycheck.
“Okay, then. I guess your wackanana friend was onto something with this home swap thing after all.”
“She has her moments.”
“So you keep saying,” she says, but I hear the grin in her voice. “All right, carry on, my friend. I gotta go try to explain to an 80-year-old Puerto Rican woman that, yes, ‘lesbian’ does in fact mean I won’t be dating her hairdresser’s grandson.”
I laugh. There’s a reason—more than one—I chose Anabel as my editor and she me.
