“Like, a love story?”
He pauses for a beat. “It’s still rough,” he says by way of an answer.
“When can I read it?” I ask.
He scratches his eyebrow, red creeping farther up his neck. “It’s—I’m—it’s not fit for consumption.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “I’m kidding. I won’t make you share it.” I wink. “Yet.”
He’s flustered—I’ve flustered him. The delight blooming in my chest is pure sunshine.
“Do you think you’ll submit to Woodsworth when it’s done?” I ask.
“Ah,” he hedges, “it’s a little premature to even think about publishing it. And also, no. That would be a conflict of interest.”
Of course. Those professional boundaries. “I’ve been my own boss for so long that I forget about the red tape of corporate bureaucracy.”
“Yeah. The red tape can be…” His eyes flash to mine. “Limiting.”
The words sound loaded, but there are other publishers—lots of them. Tons of ways to get his book out into the world. If it’s good.
Somehow, I can’t imagine Ryan writing anything bad.
“Well, I believe in you,” I say.
He looks surprised. “High praise if I’ve managed to impress the famed Ana Movilian.”
I squint. “The wordimpressis a…choice.”
“Are you”—his brows rise—“so proud of me?”
“Okay.”
“I see the appeal of your whole deal even more now—”
“All right.”
“—that it applies directly to me.”
“Yep.”
There are sparks in his eyes, as if fireworks are going off inside his head. It brings a whole new dimension to his vibe, his serious demeanor made…not quite playful, but a step in its direction. Somehow, it makes him even more handsome. I’m very aware once again that he’s in my hotel room, that the door is closed, that I’mcommando under my clothes. That there is a sex toy not ten feet from us, and that the sum total of all these things is causing my nipples to stiffen.
I cross my arms over my chest. If he notices, he has the class not to show it.
“Well, I’ll leave you to your…” He regards the mess around him. “Essay.”
We say our good nights. As the door snicks shut behind him, it heralds a sudden breakthrough. Ideas flood my brain for how to tackle the essay topic, creative juices flowing, as though the conversation with Ryan turned on a tap. I race to the desk and start typing riotously on my laptop. I don’t stop for a good twenty minutes, banging out a solid first draft that I then begin to fine-tune. The momentum drowns out any hint of the distant sting that’s pestered me since Elevate. Inspiration, check. Energy restored.
Chapter 6
“It is likeghrr ghrr ghrr,” Mom says in Armenian, imitating the gurgling noises her washing machine is making.
I pause my packing to do a quick Google search for plumbers in her area and make an appointment online. “Someone will be there tomorrow to fix it.”
“Aren’t you coming home this weekend?”
“Next weekend,” I remind her. Again. “And I don’t know the first thing about repairing a washing machine.”
