Though a small part of me wants to swoon, I must remain professional because my book’s future is on the line. That’s more important to me than a cute—okay, fine, molten hot—man who resembles my MMC.
“It’s so good to meet you,” I state. “Shall we go inside?”Shall? Really?I mentally facepalm myself and blame my recent Shakespeare deep-dive.
“We shall, my lady.” Ashton tips a faux hat before backing against the open door to let me walk through first. I scramble inside, mumbling under my breath and reminding myself to be cool, not a bumbling, awestruck woman. Just because helookslike he stepped out of a book doesn’t mean hedid. Because as Lane once told me, fictional men don’t exist in real life.
Ashton follows me to an open table toward the back of the building against an old, open brick wall. Main Street Coffee is a small but cozy place with its solid wooden tables, metal chairs with cushioned seats, dimmed fairy lights, and pothos plants vining out along the walls, mixing with English ivy. The counter is located in the middle of the room, and after setting our stuff down, Ashton leads us to order.
“Hi, Miss Jenkins and Miss Jenkins’ guy-friend. What can I fix up for y’all today?” Katie McBride, the young barista who graduated last year from Whitney High School, asks through a wide, toothy smile. She side-eyes me, asking a million silent questions through her transparent face. My students always pester me about tying down a man, and Katie is most definitely going to be taking a picture of me and Ashton and circulating it around the high school, which means the whole town will know soon. That’s what I get for recommending we meet here instead of me going to his agency in Tuscaloosa.
“I’ll have a twenty-four-ounce iced Americano. No room.” Ashton looks at me to order.
“Oh, I can get mine.” I say, waving him off. But as he insists with a smile and a nod, I finally order. “My usual. Thanks, Katie.”
He lifts an eyebrow at me, a subtle mirth filling those green-flecked eyes. I shrug, and a melodious laugh bubbles from his chest.
Yes, very cool, Esme. Nonchalant. Chill.“I come here frequently.”
“Like every day,” Katie pipes in. I toss her my teacher look, but since she’s no longer my student, it doesn’t have the same effect. She grins and winks.
I’m as cool as that forbidden phrase associated with cucumbers people no longer like in romance books (according to my research), so I shrug nonchalantly. “The book won’t write itself.”
“We will have that right out to you,” Katie says with a high-pitched, amused tone as she eyes me once more, a smirk playing on her lips. She jots down the orders on our respective cups before Ashton pays and then we make our way back to our table. I feel Katie’s phone camera trained on our backs as I embarrassingly blush my way to our seats.
Finding my words as we sit, I ask, “So, were you leaving earlier or something?”
“I was stepping out to take a phone call, but then I ran into you. I’ll call Branda back later.”
Branda. Sounds like my hot future literary agent is a taken man. At least that makes focusing on him for work purposes easier. He’s not my fictional boyfriend come to life.
“Ah, okay.” I reach into my satchel and pull out what’s done of my manuscript. “I brought what I’ve completed with me.”
I hand over the thick pile of papers held together by a large pink binder clip. Sitting on the edge of my seat and fiddling with my necklace as he thumbs through the stack, I interject, “As I told you via email, I’m almost finished, but I’m still trying to figure out the ending.” I frown. “It’s like every part up until the end has been a vivid dream. Then, the story simply falls off into a black hole.”
Ashton presses his lips together before setting the manuscript down and folding his hands together on top of it. He stares at the papers with knitted brows. A beat of silence. Another. Another. The only sounds are light chatter among customers, the whirringof the espresso machine, and the shuffling of feet across the wooden floors. I notice Gloria Smith’s three grandkids under five years old are smacking on sandwiches a few tables over.
Is it hot in here, or…?
“Say something.” My voice is mousy. I laugh nervously and plop my elbows down on the table, covering my eyes with my hands. “Please.”
“I haven’t read it yet, Miss Jenkins.”
“Esme, please. You’re not one of my students.” I remove my hands and scrunch my nose. “And I know. But this silence will be the death of me.” And quite possibly my career as an author. Because I don’t think I could handle him hating my manuscript. Not after I’ve attached myself so completely to it. In a way, it’s healed me. It’s allowed me to escape.And Noah is my perfect man, which this guy looks identical to.
“I love the premise. I wouldn’t have reached out for this meeting otherwise.” Ashton’s eyes flash with amusement before dimming to something a little more melancholic. “I’m curious about the ending, though. Do you have an inkling of an idea for the direction you’d like to take the story?”
I crack my knuckles to give me something to do with my hands. “I mean, there will be a happily ever after, of course. I just don’t know how it unfolds for them. The rest of the story came so naturally, and now there’s a big blank space.”
Ashton raises his brows. I’m learning they’re quite expressionistic. “Is this your first experience with writer’s block?”
I spurt a laugh. “I’m barely a writer. How can I be blocked?”
“It happens to everyone.”
Shaking my head, I deny it. “No. I just need to get closer to the ending. I’ve got to tell the story up until the ending to decide how the ending happens.”
Ashton hums in agreement. “That’s a good idea. How long do you think until you have the completed manuscript?”
“At the rate I’m going through edits, I’ll most likely have it finished within two weeks.” If the ending reveals itself, that is.
