I haul him up the stairs and to the end of the hallway. I fish my key out of my coat pocket, because yes, all the rooms at Daisy’s Inn have old-fashioned locks with real, live turn keys. That will totally be making it into a book someday. I push the door to my room open and motion for him to walk in first.
He hesitates, flicking his gaze to me and then to the open door, before taking a tentative step inside.
“I don’t have cooties.” I push him the rest of the way through the door and shut it behind me.
“I didn’t think that you did. I was only thinking that it might be weird for you to have me in your room. You weren’t expecting to spend the afternoon with me.”
He’s not wrong. I wasn’t expecting to tell him about my secret author life at all, but certainly not this afternoon.
“That’s actually a good point. Why are you in Cashmere Cove?”
TJ opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand.
“I mean, why are you really here? Don’t use the chickens, or the chicken cross-stitch, as an excuse.”
He looks contrite before his features morph into a sheepish smile. “Anton texted that you were at Mood Reader, and I don’t know, I guess seeing you sounded better than doing what I was doing, so here I am.”
Mentally, I tell the excited puppy who’s leaping around my stomach to sit and stay. I do not know how to handle this type of attention from a man like TJ, and I shouldn’t like it as much as I do. I can’t deny that it feels good to hear he wants to spend time with me. I’ve spent far too much time thinking about him the past few days, too. I can say it’s in the name of research, but that’s not entirely accurate. The more time I spend with TJ, the more I feel like my fictional version of him will never live up to the reality of the kind and considerate man before me.
TJ’s lingering at the foot of the four-poster bed, looking unsure about where to go and like he wants to crawl out of his skin for admitting that he wanted to hang out with me.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say. Honesty is the best policy, after all. “Even if you did wring my biggest secret out of me.” I scowl at him, but I can’t stop my lips from hitching up when he smiles.
“I havesomany questions,” he says.
I shake my head. “Here.” I gesture to the chair in the corner of the room. “Let’s sit.”
TJ flops down in the comfy chair, and I slip my winter jacket off and sit cross-legged on the foot of my bed.
“Alright,” I decide to get out in front of this. “Yes, I’m an author. I write under a pen name, and nobody knows this about me. I love creating stories, crafting worlds, and solving problems within the pages of a book. It’s my dream job.”
TJ’s eyes go wide. “You have books published?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
I shift my weight. “Six … so far.”
“You’ve publishedsixbooks, Lu? Are you kidding me?” His mouth hangs open. “That’s incredible.You’reincredible.”
I’m also supremely self-conscious at the moment. I dip my chin. “It’s not that big of a deal. You’re a professional athlete, so …” I wave my hand around like that speaks for itself.
“We’re not talking about me right now.” TJ makes apftsound. “Let me be in awe of you for a second. This is the coolest. I can’t believe I have a friend who’s a published author. When did you start writing?”
I blow out of a breath. “It’s a long story.”
He leans back in his chair. “I’ve got the day off, so I’m all yours.”
“I’ve been writing stories since I could write. Mostly I’d make up stories about little girls and their moms. It made me feel better about missing mine. My dad would tell me about how wonderful my mom was, and I’d use that as a starting point and write these lavish tales of a mother-daughter duo who saved the world.” I can’t help but smile. “I called my series The Glorious Girls.”
Warmth emanates from TJ’s expression. “That sounds pretty amazing.”
I tip my chin. “It was good for me, I think. My therapist encouraged it, and I loved writing happy endings.” I swallow. “When my dad passed away, I kept writing. I didn’t have anyone to tell me stories then, and I mostly hated the real world, so I made up scenes that were happy as a way to escape.”
TJ leans forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. “It was how you coped.”
“Pretty much.” I pick at a pill on the comforter before dragging my gaze up to meet his. “It’s the joy of my life to know that I can bring other people joy with my words.” It feels raw and vulnerable to say that, especially because of how this year has gone. I’ve spent a lot of the past few months wondering if I’ll ever be able to create something worthwhile again.
