“Why not? Was what you were studying really demanding?”
I huff one cynical laugh. “Pre-Med? Yeah, I’ll say.”
“You want to be a doctor, then?”
I roll my lips, considering how to answer.
My heart was never really in it. But I do have to make a living, after all. I can’t bank on being able to support myself writing fiction.
But it never excited me. And the demands of med school and residency are a lot to sign up for when it doesn’t excite you. I’m still not sure that, when I start school again next year, I’m going to stick with the same major.
Instead of delving into all this with Jamie, I just say, “Yeah. It’s a good career.” To switch tracks, I continue, “What about you? You enjoy playing hockey?”
Jamie’s expression drops. Suddenly, it seems like he’s staring a mile away, through the houses that line the other side of the street.
“No. I hate it. I’ve never told anyone. I can’t tell anyone. It’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s the thing everyone expects me to do. All I’m doing out there is performing a role I know I’m expected to play. I get no joy from it. I never have. And this is what I’ll have to do for the rest of my life …”
My brow rises, mouth forming a surprised circle. I turn to Jamie, blinking heavily, totally caught off guard. “Really?”
His expression comes to life again, a boyish grin perking on his face. “Nah, just kidding. I love hockey.”
I look askance at him for a moment, before I’m caught off guard by laughter bubbling from my chest. My lips tilt upward in a way that makes my cheeks sore. I’m not used to it.
“Sometimes I don’t know what to think of you, Jamie.”
His grin notches higher. Joy shines in his eyes, like my laughter was a drug to him.
“So you’re saying you haven’t made up your mind to dislike me? I can live with that.”
I roll my eyes and sip my coffee.
A stretch of comfortable silence passes while we drink. Then Jamie turns his body toward me in an animated movement.
“Alright, I tried to resist asking, because I’m sure writers hate it when people do. But I have to know. What’s your book about?”
A hesitant hum rumbles in my throat. I haven’t told anyone, literally anyone, any details about my book yet.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me,” Jamie says, but then he smiles sheepishly, and his eyes glint with a sly urging. “Though I really want you to.”
For some reason that I shouldn’t analyze too much, the idea of Jamie being the one person I’ve shared my idea with appeals to me. It makes an unfamiliar warmth flicker somewhere in mychest. I could try to tell myself it’s the coffee, but that’s already starting to get lukewarm in my cup.
I push past the swirl of self-consciousness in my stomach to begin, “Well, it’s a mystery-thriller kind of book. I’m hoping it’ll turn into a series.”
Jamie’s eyes light up with interest, and he nods encouragingly.
“It’s basically a detective story. So, one of my main characters is a woman whose parents died unexpectedly. They were morticians and owned a funeral business. She has to come back home to take over the business, even though she doesn’t want to, because she has younger siblings to look after. She gets a body one day, and she disagrees with the official cause of death. She’s sure that the woman was murdered. So she launches her own investigation into it, which leads to her butting heads with one of the detectives on the police force, though he slowly comes around to seeing she’s right. Then they solve it together. That’s pretty much how each book would go, and there’s a long-term will-they-won’t-they romantic plot between the woman and the detective. There are a lot more details, of course, but that’s the basic idea.”
Jamie’s expression is vivid. He’s blinking slowly. “Wow. That sounds freaking awesome. I want to read it right now.”
I blush. “Don’t expect it to be done too soon.” I sigh. “I’m having the worst writer’s block right now. I absolutely can’t get started on this one chapter.”
“Why not? What about it is giving you trouble?”
Heat prickles up my spine. That’s a question I don’t want to answer while sitting just inches away from Jamie. Not after I’ve contemplatedusinghim to help dislodge the block that’s keeping me from writing the sexually charged scene.
My eyes tick to his hands. Big, powerful, veiny. The thought of him working one of those long, sturdy digits between my thighs bursts into my mind, and an ache pulses between my legs.
Even as I try to chase the thought away, electricity seeps into the air between us. With Jamie so close, and with his plush lips, broad shoulders, big hands, and masculine scent undeniably present, the idea seems more sensible than ever.
