My pulse jumped. I answered immediately. “Hey.”
He let out a low breath, warm even through the phone. “I just . . . needed to hear your voice before bed.”
My stomach fluttered, and I lay back against the pillows, smiling up at the ceiling like a lovesick teenager. “Oh.”
“And,” he continued, “I needed to tell you how unbelievably good your art is.”
My cheeks warmed. “Stop.”
“No,” he laughed softly. “Absolutely not. You’re ridiculously talented, Eleanor. Like, stupidly talented.”
I covered my face with my hand. “Okay, now you’re just being nice.”
“I’m being honest,” he said, voice softening. “And I’m proud of you. You’re finishing a book and doing all of this while raising Ava, rehearsals, dealing with everything at home . . . you’re kind of incredible.”
No one had said that to me in a long time. Not like that.
I swallowed. “My agent’s actually been shopping it around. There’s some interest. I’m hoping finishing the draft will . . . I don’t know. Help us get out of here.”
He went quiet for a moment, not heavy, just thoughtful. “You deserve a place that feels good. A place that feels like yours.”
His voice wrapped around me like a blanket. Gentle. Warm. True.
“I’d like to be closer to you,” I admitted softly, the truth slipping out before I could second-guess it. “You just . . . make everything feel better.”
I heard his breath catch.
Then, quiet and full of something bright:
“I feel the same.”
The words settled in my chest like an anchor and a promise all at once.
After we said our goodbyes, I settled back down at my desk. Before I went to bed, I emailed my agent the final pages. I was ready for the next steps. Ready to get this story out. Ready for opening night. Ready to try out for the Grimm Reapers. And more than ready for what was happening with Alex.
29
ELEANOR
Ihad barely put the van in park when my phone buzzed with my agent’s name.
My heart jumped. Good news? Bad news? Agents rarely call unless it’s . . . something.
I swiped to answer. “Hi, Len?”
“Eleanor!” he said, sounding downright giddy. “I’ve got news. Good news.”
I clutched the steering wheel. “Okay . . . ?”
“You’ve gottwooffers,” he said. “Both solid. I emailed you the details. And one of them is offering a three-book contract for the derby girl.”
I blinked. Hard.
“Three more . . . books?” My voice cracked halfway up the octave. “They want THREE MORE?”
“Well . . . yes,” he said with a laugh. “It seems your little roller derby girl hit a nerve. In the best way.”
I pressed my hand to my forehead. “Len, that could . . . I mean, that could change everything.”
