“Goodbye, Owen. And thank you!”
I’m still grinning when I hang up the phone.
CHAPTER 41
GEORGE
It’s night.Eight? Nine? I don’t really know. I sit back against the couch cushions, pull off my glasses, and rub my eyes. I’ve been working for hours. I’m exhausted, but I don’t care. I’m damn near done with the Steele manuscript.
Outside, a light snow is falling. I can just barely see it, almost glowing, in the soft light bleeding out from the cabin.
Around me is the scattered debris of my day. My notes, the remnants of my dinner—some kind of insanely delicious stew from Owen’s stash, one of the wooden puzzle boxes, which I’ve been fiddling with whenever I need to think.
I still have work to do. Tweaks and revisions. One fairly egregious plot hole I’m going to have to figure out. But I think I can officially say I am, in fact, actually going to meet my deadline.
I let out an audible sigh of relief that would be embarrassing if anyone were around to hear it. But they’re not, of course, because I am all alone in my winter wonderland writer’s retreat, courtesy of Zoe.
Her wacky swap idea worked. Who knew?
I’m never going to hear the end of this.
I chuckle to myself, picking up the little box and turning it over in my hand. I absently run my thumb over the seams of the puzzle I haven’t been able to crack yet.
Zoe definitely deserves credit for this one. I’ll give her that, but if I’m honest, it was Owen more than anything else. And not just because he let me stay in his cabin.
I lean forward, watching the (completely under control) flames dance behind the grate of the wood stove and trying not to think of everything that Owen has meant to me this past week.
My phone rings. It’s him.
My mind races through a complicated series of half-formed thoughts, some of which I definitely shouldn’t be thinking. My hand, however, ignores all this and picks up the phone.
“Hi,” I say, sounding way too fond, way too soft. Because I’m an idiot. Fortunately, Owen doesn’t seem to notice.
“Oh my God, George, it’s— I just finished, I had to call. God, I’m sorry. Are you working? You’re probably working. I can call you back another time?—”
“No! No. I’m done for the evening. I just finished and… I’m sorry, you were saying? About the book?”
He doesn’tsoundlike he hated it.
I brace myself anyway.
“I loved it.”
I let out a breath I totally knew I was holding.
“Okay, so it doesn’t suck? Be honest.”
“George, it’s amazing.”
I don’t know what to do with this. I mean, if I’m honest, I thought it was at least okay. I am a professional writer. I do theoretically know how to tell these things. But hearing it from another person is different.
Although…
“But romance isn’t exactly your thing, right?”
There’s a sort of strangled cough on the other end of the line. “Um, what?”
Oh God. “I mean, you don’t usuallyreadromance books, do you? I didn’t get that impression anyway. I’m just trying to gauge what kind of perspective you’re bringing to the book.”
