“I didn’t mean?—”
“Just go,” she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument.
The door slammed behind me with impressive force, leaving me standing on the porch in a towel, holding my dry clothes and wet swim trunks.
I stared at the door for a second, still not quite sure how things had spiraled so quickly. But as I turned to leave, my eyes flicked back to the cottage, to the wall of rejection letters I’d seen.
Something about it wouldn’t let me go. Maybe it was the sheervolumeof rejections. There was enough to wallpaper a room. Or perhaps it was the determination of someone who’d been told “no” so many times and still got up every morning to try again. But mostly, it was the notes themselves. A theme had started to jump out at me, scribbled in red ink and typed in tidy little platitudes:“Write what you know.”
I remembered her at the bar, so fiercely protective of New Orleans, a city she’d clearly loved like it was part of her soul. I could still hear her voice, so defiant and dripping with pride.Iwould never leave this place.
It hit me then, hard and sudden:she’s a real person. Like Topher had told me that I needed to find.
Not someone trying to get something out of me. Not someone who cared about who I was or what I’d done. Just a woman stubbornly chasing a dream that wasn’t handing itself over without a fight.
And wasn’t that precisely what I was supposed to be doing? Getting to knowrealpeople? People with grit, stories, and something to say?
I stopped, turning back to the door. This was an opportunity. One I couldn’t ignore.
I knocked once, a little too loudly.
The door flew open, and she stared at me with an expression that said she was two seconds from launching her coffee at my face. “What now?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. “If it involves you showering here again, the answer is no.”
“Relax.” I held up my hands in surrender. “I’ve got an idea you might like.”
She stared at me, torn between curiosity and her apparent desire to slam the door.
“Just hear me out,” I said quickly. “You’re a writer. You’ve got rejection letters from half the country telling you to ‘write what you know,’ and I know for a fact you know this city better than anyone.”
She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “And?”
“And for my next movie role, I need to get to knowrealpeople. Real stories, real places. If you act as my tour guide and help me see this city the way you do, maybe you’ll be inspired, too. Then you’ll be able to write what you know about:this city.”
She stared at me. “You think dragging you around New Orleans is somehow going to helpme?”
I shrugged, smirking just enough to keep it light. “It’s worth a shot. You clearly love this place. Maybe you need a reminder of why it’s worth writing about.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line like she was considering all the ways that this could blow up in her face.
“Of course,” I added, “I’ll have to be in disguise. Can’t exactly go wandering around looking like, well… me.”
Something shifted in her expression. Her eyes narrowed, but not in anger this time. It was almost like inspiration. Like I’d just handed her a plot twist she hadn’t seen coming.
And that’s when I knew I had her convinced.
7
ANNA
It’sa maxim every writer knows: when inspiration strikes, don’t ignore it.
And it struck—right there in the doorway of the cottage, standing across from a movie star wearing only a towel. It was the first spark of inspiration I’d felt in months.
“Fine.” I pointed my coffee mug at Luke as if it were a weapon. “I’ll show you around New Orleans.”
