“West!”
“Shh. It’s not your turn.”
I grin at the ceiling as Hemingway puts his head under my hand and waits for head scratches. (Gabbi cast the tiebreaking vote for his name. I lost.) Some days I can barely wrap my mind around how much my life has changed in the last year. I handled what I needed to in New York while West finished up the school year, and I moved in with him over Memorial Day weekend. By that point, it didn’t feel even remotely fast. I was ready to be wherever he was, and Tucson makes the most sense, at least for now. I kept my apartment, though I doubt we’ll live in New York anytime soon.
“Ooh! I have an idea!” I jump up from the couch and gently swat West’s hands away from the keyboard.
“Hey! I wasn’t done!”
“No metaphor needs to be that long,” I say as I start typing. I attempt to push him sideways off the chair with my hip, but he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me onto his lap. He cinches them tighter as I type, resting his chin on my shoulder and reading the words as they appear on the screen.
He throws his head back and laughs. “Fine. I’ll give you your spontaneous bank robbery. But I want them to kiss at the end of it.”
I turn my head slightly until our eyes meet. It brings my lips very near his. “So soon?”
“He can’t possibly wait another second.” West traces the words against my lips.
“I thought we both agreed that these characters arenotus.”
He looks affronted. “I’m not the morally dubious crime boss?”
“Correct. Just like I’m not the time-traveling space pirate from the future.”
He scoffs. “We’ll see about that.”
West allows me about twenty uninterrupted minutes of typing before he presses openmouthed kisses down my neck. It might be a new record for the most patient he’s ever been. I shiver as his teeth softly graze my skin. I type two and a half more sentences, but when I drop my head to the side, exposing more of my neck, he knows he’s got me. He twists me around in his lap, crushing his lips to mine and reaching his hands under my shirt as he pulls my hips closer.
Our goldendoodle tries to nudge his head between us. “Shoo, Hemingway,” I say. “Go. Get out.”
He flops down on his stomach and rests his head on his paws, unfazed.
West laughs and stands, holding me tight against his chest. I wrap my legs around his waist and kiss his jaw as he carries me to our bed. “This is why Hemingway is a bad dog name! It sounds ridiculous when we try to tell him what to do or discipline him or call him at the park—” West drops me on the bed, effectively silencing my thoughts. He has my shirt off and my hands pinned above my head in less than thirty seconds.
“I’ll let you name the next one,” he says as he grins down at me.
I lift my head in surprise. “The nextdog?”
“Dog, baby, whatever comes first.”
I huff a laugh. “Big talk considering we’re not even engaged yet.”
“Details.” He drops a kiss to my lips.
“Big ones.”
He laughs against my skin.
Neither of usis presenting at the Tucson Festival of Books this year, which means West and I get to wander through the tents at our own pace without worrying about signing lines or author panels.Shattereddid well enough that my publisher agreed to the sequel, which will be published later this year, but I haven’t decided if I want to tour with it yet.
The internet backlash against West and me burned hot for about a month before receding to embers that occasionally flicker to life and catch us by surprise in the form of a scathing email or angry review that focuses on our personal lives more than our work. I’m learning to create separation between my books and my life. It starts with reminding myself that my work is notme, and other people’s opinions on it have very little to do with my life.
West found a new agent and is working on what he hopes will be his third novel. I’m also working on a new project, slowly and without putting too much pressure on myself. And we’re both having the time of our lives cowriting our time-travel-space-pirate-crime-boss novel, which will likely never see the inside of a bookstore.
“You’ve been staring at that book for five minutes,” West comments as he takes it from my hands and pays for it.
I blink back to the present. “Just thinking.”
He tucks my new book under his arm and laces our hands together. “About what?”
