“We have Central Café,” I say. “Better coffee and gossip.”
“That remains to be seen,” he mutters, eyeing the quaint storefronts like they’re a museum exhibit.
We roll past Millie’s Bed-and-Breakfast—a sprawling yellow Victorian with wraparound porches, potted ferns and rocking chairs that creak when the breeze blows. A sign out front reads Vacancy, its hand-painted lettering curling like calligraphy.
“That’s where you’ll be staying,” I point out. “But you can’t check in until this afternoon.”
“It looks somewhat civilized,” Derek observes. “You’re sure I’ll have my own bathroom?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I drawl. “You’ll love Millie. She’s sweet and probably baking muffins for your arrival.”
“I’m going to gain weight, I just know it,” he complains, but in the same breath asks, “What kind of muffins?”
“My favorite are her lemon poppyseed, but her blueberry’s mighty fine.”
He peers at me over his sunglasses. “I wonder if they have a minibar.”
“Probably not, but if you ask, I bet Millie can scrounge up a stray mason jar of peach moonshine.”
He groans dramatically, dragging a hand over his face. “I’ve literally stepped into a revival ofGreen Acres.”
“You’ll survive.”
He rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re lucky I adore you, Rochelle.”
“Mutual,” I say, and I mean it. For all his dramatics, Derek’s been in my corner since the start. He was the first person who told me I could do this—that I could make a living out of stories that made people feel something.
As we drive out of town and into the country, Derek shifts in his seat to look at me. “So, tell me the truth. How nervous are you?”
I exhale, watching sunlight flicker through the branches. “Pretty nervous.”
“Good,” he says. “Means you care.”
“I care about the work. The fans, too, I guess. But it’s the other stuff that scares me.”
“Like what?” he asks, the concern in his voice genuine now that all bantering has been put aside.
“My family. My parents are pretty straitlaced and conservative. They’ll not only be appalled that I write romance because they won’t think it’s manly, but they’ll be outright terrified my soul is doomed because my books have sex in them.”
“Jesus… are they Amish or something?”
“Worse… Southern Baptist.”
He hums thoughtfully. “They’ll adjust.They’ll have to.”
“Yeah, but I know my parents. They’ll hate the idea that their son writes about love and magic and sex instead of spreadsheets.”
“Then let them,” Derek says simply. “You’re not doing this for them. You’re doing this for you. And maybe for your future millions of adoring fans.”
“Thanks, Tony Robbins.”
“Please, he wishes he had my hair,” Derek says, flipping his bangs.
We pull onto the long gravel driveway that leads to my house. Sunlight splinters through the oaks, throwing patterns of shadows before us. The house comes into view, and Derek lets out a low whistle.
“Jesus, Mary, and interior design. It’s even better than the photos.”
“Not bad, huh?” I say, trying to downplay the pride swelling in my chest. I couldn’t share this endeavor with anyone except Derek, so he got routine updates as I was building and then through the decorating process.
