…Nope, that’s kind of fantastic. Hilarious and a little heartbreaking.
The scene where Henry offers to marry her anyway?
…Oh my God, I forgot the tirade I gave her over two men trying to force her to be a pawn in their own emotionaldestruction in the name of “taking care” of her. I adore her. She could have her own book.
I look up from the laptop, my eyes searching for something to land on, but only staring out unseeing. I’m a million miles away. Or three thousand miles and about two hundred years, in my story. Which I think I’ve just realized might actually, possibly,bea book.
What now? What next? Could I actually publish this? How would that even work? Owen’s point about a pen name, I guess that made some sense. Or not, I don’t know.
Before I do anything else, I need to know. I need to be sure.
So I sit down in front of my laptop, scroll back to the beginning of the manuscript, and start reading.
CHAPTER 44
GEORGE
I close the laptop.My body aches. When did I move to the sunporch? Oh right. Hours ago. My coffee sits cold on the floor beside me. Outside, the sun is setting, the sky all pinks and oranges. I think I forgot to eat lunch.
I blink.
And then I grab my phone.
“George, are you calling to tell me you’re done with the manuscript?” Anabel singsongs as soon as she picks up. She sounds happy. Relaxed. Joyful, even. Like she might be enjoying her holiday vacation time. I hope I’m not about to ruin that for her.
“No. Well, almost actually, but listen, hear me out.”
“If you’re going to try to pitch me that ending where Steele ends up in the hospital and it’s a cliffhanger again, I’m not going for it.”
“No, I…” I blow out a breath, run my hand through my hair. This is hard. I knew it would be, but still. “Just… just let me talk for a minute, okay?”
“Okay.” She sounds worried, and I don’t want her to worry. So I hurry on.
“I’ve been writing Sebastian Steele for”—oh God, has it actually been that long?—”Ten years, right?”
“Right…”
“And I enjoy it.”
“Good…”
“AndI know it brings in a lot of money to the publishing house.”
“It does. George, what?—”
“But, Anabel, listen.” And then I just blurt it all out. “I have another project. I didn’t mean to be working on it, but I have been, and it is really my passion, and I would like to pursue it.”
“You have another project?”
“Yes, um, sorry, it’s, well. It’s historical romance.Queerhistorical romance. And it’s kind of sweet and a little sappy and generally very emotion-based. And I know it would be a whole different audience than Steele is, but I could use a pen name, maybe, and I know it’s not what you’re expecting from me. It’s not whatIexpect from me, but it’s what I wrote anyway, and I really, really, really enjoyed it. And I’m not going to stop writing Steele, but I want to do this too. I think maybe Ineedto do this too. And I was hoping you’d want to do it with me.”
There’s a long pause. Long enough I get nervous waiting for her to respond.
“Or I could take it to another publisher, if you prefer. We could work out an exception in my contract. I mean, if anyone would even pick it up, I don’t know, and?—”
“No! No. Don’t go anywhere else, George. I’d like to read it.”
“Seriously, Anabel, you don’t have to. I can?—”
