I exit the bathroom and my phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans.
Ashton Prewitt:If you need help brainstorming the ending, I may have some ideas. Say the word, and I’ll make the drive.
Me:We can do a video chat! I don’t want to inconvenience you. Plus,
I hesitate, wondering if I should tell him that I used him today as my fake boyfriend. I continue my text.
Me:We can do a video chat! I don’t want to inconvenience you. Plus, I might have used you as a scapegoat today. My ex-fiancé, Bryan, (remember him?) showed up to lunch and asked about you in front of my family. I may have said we were dating. Don’t worry, I told my family the truth after Bryan left.
Seconds pass by, and I grip my phone tightly as I stare intently at the message thread. Dots finally appear.
Ashton Prewitt:Bass Pro Shop? Remember? Don’t rob me of a trip, Esme. And you can happily use me if it keeps Box of Bland Crackers (trademark pending) away from you. I saw the way he makes you uncomfortable, and no woman should have to deal with that. He left you, plain and simple. Like him. Get it? He’s plain and simple. Ha.
I sit down at the table, still memorizing the text. He typed back a whole paragraph! What guy does that? I laugh, reading over the text one more time before responding.
Me:You’re kind of really cool, you know that? Then let’s plan for Friday or Saturday. That way you have time to read what I send over today.
Ashton Prewitt:I’m sure I’ll have devoured it by the end of the day. How does Tuesday sound?
My heart thumps in my chest, and through shaky fingers, I type.
Me:See you then!
I set my phone face down on the table, fighting but failing to hide my mile-wide smile and a wicked blush.
What is it about this guy?
I’ve met him once and have only chatted with him a few times over text about book updates. But this time? It bordered on flirty. At least, I think it did. Right? I’m not crazy?Man, I need to get out more. Date. Even if it’s just for fun.
The self-talk helps. I have a new mission: figure out who the Branda woman he was talking about at the coffee shop is. I can’t assume it’s his woman. Because if this man is available to me, I might take the leap regardless of whether he’s my potential agent or not.
Though… I don’t want him to think I’m flirting with him just to get a book deal. But he’s flirting with me, right?Or maybe he’s just a friendly guy,my brain retorts.
I continue to wrestle with my attraction and my morals, but honestly? If we both air it out and decide business can be separated from pleasure, then why not?
If I’ve learned one thing from losing three years of my life, it’s that the time we have on this earth is short. Make every moment count and live it in joy to the fullest while bringing glory to God. We were created for nothing less.
Which means if I have a chance with this man, I should take it.
A throat clears, and I glance around at six sets of curious eyes.
I cough, taking a guzzle of sweet tea. “So that was the agent.”
“And?” Mom demands, a little too jumpy if you ask me, but she’s excited for me.
“He wants the rest of my book. I’ve got to buckle down and finish it. We are meeting again on Tuesday.” While the pressure to finish weighs on my shoulders like a loaded barbell when I’m doing squats at the gym, I work well under tight deadlines.
Sam squeals, eliciting half the people in the restaurant to look our way. Unlike Mom, who seems a little too on-edge for happiness, Sam is elated.
“What’s going on over there?” Buddy, the old owner of Whitney Hardware, shouts.
I’m about to shout back for him to mind his business, but Ethan beats me to the punch. “Our Meme is going to be a famous author!”
Groaning, I sink low into my chair. Buddy Smith and his wife, Gloria, stand and walk toward the table. Shortly, more families who attend church are joining and offering their congratulations.
“Well, would you look at that,” Branson Grant says, patting Ethan on the back. Those two are peas in a pod. His wife, Cathryn, wrangles her three-year-old boy while firing off questions I don’t have answers to. Thankfully, another interruption occurs, saving me from further humiliation. I’m going to murder Ethan when we get back. I hadn’t planned to tell anyone anything until I signed a contract.
The entire staff of El Mariachi appears, holding a deep-fried ice cream with a lit candle on top. Everyone begins to clap—and I’m talking about everyone in the restaurant—so I join in as they sing “Feliz Cumpleaños” to me. Warmth replaces the malice in my heart as I look upon the smiling faces of my family, both blood relatives and those who I’ve known since diapers. Twenty-seven is going to be my year. I feel it in my spirit. Everything will change.
