“Yeah, but for kids, anyone over seventeen is basically the same age.”
“True.”
I return to my desk and look up to find Liam leaning on the doorframe. “How’s the writing going?”
“To be honest, I’m not off to a great start.”
“Too much racket?”
“No, just my own stuff. I write historical romance. I used to anyway. Now that I know every happily ever after ends in the agonizing pain of losing your will to live, I may have to switch genres.”
Liam nods and breathes in a “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Which is problematic, because as you pointed out when we first met, I better figure it out soon, or this house will leave me homeless.”
He walks over to the bookshelf and pulls one of my novels down. “What’s it like to be a writer?”
“I’m not sure anymore. It’s been so long since I’ve done it.”
He looks at me from under his eyebrows and takes a more serious tone. “What’s it like to be a writer?”
I let out a long sigh. “Oh, it’s so many things—terrifying, gratifying, exciting, boring, tedious, and lonely.”
“All that in one job, eh?”
“All that in one day.”
“Tell me about this book.” He holds upThe Duchess and the Doctor. The cover has a woman in a pale pink silk Mantua gown. “What’s it about?”
I hate it when men ask me about my romance novels. They either find the whole genre silly or assume I’m totally oversexed. “That was my third novel. It’s about a duchess and a doctor.”
“I got that from the title.” He comes around to the front of my desk and props himself up on the corner, still holding the book. “What happens with them?”
An uncomfortably warm feeling comes over me, like I’m doing something wrong, even though I haven’t done anything. I look down at my laptop to make it go away. “You’re welcome to take it home and read it if you’re absolutely dying to know.”
“Come on, Abigail. You let millions of strangers read your books—”
“Thousands.”
“So thousands then. But youknowme. I’d think you could at least tell me a little about your work.” He flips it over and looks at the back. “Is it steamy?”
“Not Fifty Shades-steamy, but I did once get a review from Publisher’s Monthly that said I was ‘particularly adept at writing love scenes that work.’”Why did I say that? Stupid, Abby!
His mouth curves up in an impressed smile. “Particularly adept, eh?”
I purse my lips together. “You see? This is why I don’t like talking about my books.”
“You’re the one who brought up how adept you are. A man can’t help but have some follow-up questions on that.”
“Yeah, well, trust me, the answers aren’t going to be as thrilling as you may think.”
His face drops. “No?”
“No.” I set my attention to the terrifyingly blank word document labeled ‘Write a Book, Stupid.’ “I will tell you one thing, though. Romance writers are forever being asked about their sex lives, whereas I doubt anyone ever asks Stephen King how many people he murders when he’s not at his desk.”
Liam chuckles at the comparison. “It’s probably because sex is more fun to talk about.”
“I wouldn’t know. It’s another thing I only have vague memories of.”
