“Is it totallyblank? Or are you overwhelmed? It’s understandable to weigh your fictional stories against the trauma in your real life. Writing should benefit you, not be a hardship.”
“Probably overwhelmed. The ideas are all there, but I have no drive to write them.”
“You’re not feeling the stakes.”
“Exactly.”
“So…this might be a terrible idea…” I wait, eyeing him with reserve. It’s not my place to offer advice; I’m not the household name here. But I’ve written a lot of books too, even if he hasno idea, and I’ve seen the way my productivity has ebbed and flowed depending on the personal circumstances in my life. Like when I was opening the store—I don’t think I wrote a single word that year.
But I missed itso much. By the time I returned to my keyboard, I was itching for it.
“Go on,” he presses.
“Well, do you need to take a long break? Contracts aside, would a break be good?”
“I’ve already taken time off. It hasn’t helped, and I don’t particularly want more time away from writing.”
I nod. “Okay, then why don’t you give yourself permission to write the things that are weighing on you? You don’t have to publish the book if it ends up being too personal, but it might be cathartic to write out. It’s always been a sort of therapy for me, writing situations that weigh on my mind or my heart. Even if I scrap them or stick them in a file no one will ever see, it helps me process things.”
Dorian stares at me. He leaves his hand encased in both of mine, then brings up his other one and brushes the hair from my face, dragging his fingertips along my temple and cheekbone. Chills run over my skin while molten lava pours through me.
“You might be on to something.”
“Worth trying?”
“It sounds like it was for you,” he says, dropping his hand. “What do you write?”
Well, I’ve given myself away. So there’s no going back now. But he doesn’t have to know I’mpublished. Or his competitor. Or that he’s currently reading one of my novels.
It doesn’t sit well with me to keep that from him. But he’s rejected me so many times, over and over and over again. This new attitude feels like a thin sheet of ice over Old Hickory Lake, and I have to walk gingerly to keep from breaking through.
“A variety, but mostly thrillers.”
His eyes light up. “Piper, that’s incredible. My favorite genre.”
“Mine probably have more romance than yours do, but not by much.”
He laughs, the low rumble warm and alluring. “I like romance.”
“I know. Paul and Kiley, anyone?”
“Hey, Paul deserves love after all he’s been through. He needs a good woman at his side.” His gaze sharpens. “Were you writing them during college too?”
“A little, here and there. I didn’t finish my first one until a few years later, though.”
“I want to read one.”
I laugh, trying to pull my hands away, but he tightens his hold, keeping one of them wrapped in his. He’s reading one now. Not telling him feels like a lie…but it’s not, right? I’m not actively lying about anything.
“You know, I’m surprised you’ve stuck around the last few weeks,” I say instead. “The Dorian I knew ran every time I came close.”
His gaze intensifies, everything else in the room fading away while he looks at me like this. “Back then, I was just a shy kid who didn’t know how to talk to a beautiful girl.”
The door to the office flies open, and Luke stalks out. The tension snaps like a handful of screws tossed into a blender. The charged air is totally gone, replaced by friendly camaraderie.
Luke grins when he sees us. He’s got the build of a giant, but still looks very McConkie—like a younger, broader version of Dorian. Their genes run deep. “Sweet. You guys staying for round two?”
“I should get home,” I say, and Dorian releases my hand.
