He grins. “Okay, so let me ask you something. I don’t read romance novels—at least, not typically. Does there always have to be a female protagonist?”
“Hmm,” I think aloud. “No. But typically, the rule of thumb is write what you know. It creates authenticity if you can relate to your narrator,” I say.
“Could you go the other way?”
“And have a male narrator?”
He takes a sip from his water glass. “Yeah.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, I could certainlytry.”
“Well, let’s think about it as an argument. You said that the publisher, or your agent, or both, are pushing you for a second novel. Right?”
“Mm hmm.”
“Then, they’re hungry for you. They’ll likely be open to reading whatever you submit to them, I’m sure.”
“I don’t disagree. I think they’llreadwhatever I send in. But that doesn’t mean they’ll publish it. Walk me through your thought process though. Like, all the way.”
“If you would be comfortable switching over to Connor’s point of view, and write the whole thing from his side, I could help.”
“Really? How?”
He nods. “You said you’re stuck because you don’t like the narrator.”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, do you likeme?”
I can feel the heat rise up to my cheeks again. “Yeah.”
“So, wouldIbe a likeable narrator, then?”
I smile. This could actually be a brilliant idea. “Sure, I guess.”
“Then, all you need is Connor’s side of the story,” Colin says.
“And I’d need to rewrite what I’ve got.”
“Is that awful?”
I shake my head. “No. Not at thirty-five pages. If it was a whole manuscript, that would be tough given the deadline I’m on.”
He nods. The waitress delivers our meals.
“Whoa. This is huge,” Colin says.
The waitress shreds fresh parmesan cheese over our meals, as if she’s sprinkling dairy-based fairy dust over the evening.
“Brooklyn Italian,” I say, winking. “Queens doesn’t hold a candle to it.”
He takes a bite of his chicken. “Damn,” he moans.What I wouldn’t do to be the chicken on this beautiful man’s fork.
I start in on my meal too, savoring the fresh flavors. He offers me a taste of his food, which I accept. I reciprocate in kind. The exchange feels intimate, like we’ve been doing this for years instead of minutes. He keeps his mouth closed when he chews, another thing Scott never did. He orders another ginger ale and offers me one too, which I accept.
“So,” he says, when his plate is about half-empty, “Connor.”
I smile. “Yes. Your thoughts, please.”
