I glanced up at him and his hopeful, earnest expression made something tangle in my chest. Without the hat, he was a handsome stranger, someone I was meeting for the first time. His dark eyes were full of concern for me, which was a nice break from what I’d been experiencing with him on the court.
“Yeah,” I breathed out, still clutching my knees. “But let’s not make it a habit, okay?”
“No need at this point, but once you really start honing your basic skills, you’ll have to work on conditioning. Believe it or not, pickleball requires endurance.”
I straightened up and laughed at the thought of it. “You’re really giving me a lot of credit.”
Owen shrugged. “You told me you have a goal; I’m going to help you achieve it. It’s what I do.”
His brow knitted, a microexpression I wouldn’t have noticed if he was bucket hatted. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the impossibility of helping me get good at pickleball or the reason why I wanted to in the first place.
I hoped he’d forget that his hat was still in a sad mound on the other side of the building from us. I felt privileged seeing all of his face, like he was sharing a secret side of himself with me. I sort of deserved it since I’d just confessed buried childhood trauma to him. The least he could do in return is allow me to take in the full range of his expressions.
Like now. His gaze rested on me with a softness that told me he understood how momentous the lesson had been for me.
“Let’s get to it,” he said, nodding toward the court. “Time’s wasting. I’ll put Marti back in the office, otherwise she’ll steal the balls.”
He scooped up the little dog and kissed the top of her head so quickly that I almost missed it.
I didn’t consider spending time with the kinder, gentler Owen Miller wasted time. Now that I knew he existed, I hoped he’d stick around.
We headed back to what was becoming “our” court. Owen detoured to grab his hat, and I was half tempted to tell him to leave it off.
“I started your book last night,” he said as he bent over to retrieve my paddle. “I’mreallyenjoying it.”
I had my usual seasick reaction to hearing that a new acquaintance was reading one of my horny, feel-good stories.
“Oh, thanks,” I replied as my cheeks went warm. “I’m glad.”
I wondered if he’d gotten to Trent and Eliza’s first kiss. I liked writing slow burns, but once that imaginary boundary between my couples was breached, watch out.Someonewas getting off.
“I know you’re looking to Kai to be your muse, but I have some thoughts that might help you.”
He handed over my paddle, then walked away to grab his, leaving me to wonder what editorial insights my pickleball instructor was about to offer me.
Chapter Twelve
“Well, damn, that’s the first time you’ve stopped typing in an hour,” my writer friend Nia Bishop said to me over her laptop.
I winked at her as I gulped some water. “Gotta love a sprint.”
Which thankfully had been happening quite a bit during our little writing jaunt to Bryant Park. Normally, I wasn’t one for writerly dates, but my “say yes” campaign had me agreeing to meet Nia in the park despite the fact that we were surrounded by Ping-Pong, shuffleboard, a knitting club, and a juggling class. If I wanted to be distracted, there were plenty of people-watching opportunities all around me. But the words were flowing for a change, and to my great delight, I’d already knocked out a couple hundred.
For the wrong book.
“How’s it going for you?” I asked.
Nia glanced around, then leaned closer to me. “I’m currently researching if a body encased in cement stays intact or if it degrades,” she said in a low voice. “Turns out it slows down decomp, but it won’t preserve the body indefinitely.”
“Well, okay then.” I nodded. “I’ll file that away for future use.”
Nia and I had met on an online “submission commiseration”group. Our debuts went out to publishing houses at the same time, and whileTruth and Beautyhad died a long, slow death, Nia’s debut, a horror novel calledFormido, scored her a three-book deal at auction. She’d gone on to win a bunch of awards and now had a die-hard fan base that clamored for anything she put out. But her backstory included six unpublished books prior toFormido’s success, so I considered her proof that perseverance eventually paid off.
“I need to stop researching and get back to work.” She pulled her mirrored sunglasses off and rubbed her eyes. Her dark pixie cut was standing straight up, probably due to the fact that she fussed with it when she was feeling stressed. “I can’t believe pantsing works for you. I’ve plotted an outline for every single beat of this book, and I’m still having a tough time.”
“I’m loving the freedom of it,” I replied. “I know who my characters are and what they want, so now we’re all going on an adventure together as they bicker and fall in love.”
Nia propped her chin in her palm and frowned at me. “Maybe I should add some romance to mine?”
