Hi Wes,
Thanks again for helping take on the books. I really appreciate it. I’m wrestling with a scene in the new book and can’t quite make it work.
You mentioned once you loved the prince sequence in Winter Lines—would you mind if I ran something past you?
Best,
Adrian
I stared at the screen for way too long. Me. He wanted to ask me about his book.
I typed and deleted my reply three times before settling on something that didn’t sound like a total fanboy meltdown.
Of course! Always happy to talk books—especially yours. I’m here now if you want to talk.
I added my number, just in case he didn’t have it to hand, only I didn’t expect him to call straight away.
But he did.
“Adrian, hi.”
“Hi Wes, thank you. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
His voice was softer than before, as if he’d retreated somewhere quiet to think. “No, go ahead,” I urged. “I’m honored you want to talk to me.”
“No…I’m nothing… jeez… let me start again.” I heard him inhale and exhale. “It’s just… this scene, it’s supposed to be tender, but I can’t tell if it’s too sentimental.”
“Tell me about the scene,” I said, sitting on the stool at the counter with my tea, pretending this was normal—talking plot arcs with a writer whose paperbacks I’d dog-eared to death.
He described a moment between two characters caught between duty and longing, and the way his voice slowed when he talked about them—it wasn’t just a story to him.
“It’s not too sentimental,” I told him when he finished. “It’s honest. That’s the good kind.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “You make that sound so simple.”
“It’s not,” I said. “That’s why we read authors like you.”
There was a pause, a shared silence full of warmth and static, before he said, “Thanks, Wes. You’ve no idea how much that helps.”
When the call ended, I sat there staring at my empty mug, the shop dark around me, smiling like an idiot, my thoughts all over the place. After a cursory tidy up—I promised myself I’d get up early to straighten shelves—I made a plate of snacks. Not the healthiest option, but carbs and chocolate felt necessary. Then I turned off all the store lights, lit the story lantern, and curled up on the sofa with a re-read of the entire Adrian Trevelyan young adult paranormal series, trying to lose myself in someone else’s worlds instead of my own.
A knock came at the back door, sharp in the quiet, and I just knew it was Hunter. For a moment, I stayed frozen where I was, staring at the glow of the lantern, heart. Another knock, gentler this time, and I forced myself to move.
I opened the door, and there he was—a drink in each hand, a bag under his arm, snow clinging to his dark coat, and that smile.
“Hey,” he said easily, holding out one of the cups.
I took it, lifted the lid, and the rich scent of cocoa hit me. “Thank you,” I muttered, already flustered.
We stared at each other a beat too long.
“Can Icome in?” he asked.
“Is that a good idea?” My voice cracked on the last word.
“I have chocolate croissants,” he countered with a smile—that rare, deadly smile that unraveled me every time.
“I’m reading,” I said and gestured toward the sofa.
