Despite being the nephew of the CEO Margaret, he never took any shortcuts and wanted to start in the trenches with me and build his way up.
I respect him for that.
"Coffee?"Liam asks, already heading toward the kitchenette.
"Please.I need all the caffeine I can get today."
"Rough night?"he asks, studying my face with that careful attention I'm beginning to recognize.
"Something like that."
“I’m on it.”
He returns with two steaming mugs, handing me mine with a gentle brush of fingers that I pretend not to notice.
We settle into our usual spots—him behind the desk, me perched on the windowsill where I can watch the street come alive.
Liam doesn't push, which is another thing I appreciate about him.He simply sips his coffee and lets the comfortable silence stretch between us.
"Oh," he says suddenly, as if remembering something."I talked to Margaret yesterday."
My stomach does a little flip.
Margaret Macmillan, the chief editor, who gives Anna Wintour a run for her money, is the kind of woman who could make or break careers with a single red pen stroke.
"About?"
"You.Your manuscript."His eyes brighten with enthusiasm."She's still interested in reading it, you know.I've been telling her about your writing for months."
I shake my head."Liam?—"
"I know, I know.You want to wait until it's perfect.But Nora, nothing is ever perfect.And what you've written, it's extraordinary."His voice takes on that passionate quality he gets when discussing literature.
What I had written was a story about two souls who existed in different times and keep finding each other in this lifetime through a series of synchronicities.
“The way you weave past and present together, showing how love transcends time itself.It’s brilliant and I know she’s going to think the same."He continues.
Liam’s seen exactly three chapters, stolen glances at pages I left on my desk during particularly vulnerable moments.
What I love most about stories—that although they might be fiction, there are elements of truth between the lines if you look closely enough.Stories don't just entertain; they connect us to something larger than ourselves.They remind us that we're not alone in our struggles, our hopes, our deepest fears.
A good story makes you feel like the author has reached across time and space to touch your soul, to say"I see you, I understand you, you are not alone."
That's what I'm trying to create—a bridge between hearts, a reminder that love, in all its forms, is the thread that connects us all.Sounds sappy as hell but these days, writing those feelings into words seems to be the only therapy that’s working.
Somewhat.
"It's not ready," I say, the same excuse I've been using for weeks.
"Or maybe you're not ready to let other people see how talented you are."
I take a long sip of coffee."You're not going to let this go, are you?"
"Just think about it," Liam says gently."What's the worst that could happen?"
Margaret could hate it.
She could tell me I'm delusional.
