“When we first met, it didn’t feel like we’d just met. Sitting at that bar with you felt like I’d known you for a while. I’d never met someone and just…” His tongue ran from one corner of his mouth to the other. “I felt it.”
“Felt what?”
“You.” His eyes bored into mine. “It’s the way you look… the way you speak… the way you think… the way you makemethink. I felt you, and I liked what I felt. I like being around you.”
“I like being around you, too,” I whispered.
His lips parted like he was about to say something, but then he tore his eyes from mine and cleared his throat.
“You know my passion project,” he stated, staring across the river. “What’s yours? I know you said you love teaching high school kids and tutoring college students, but what’s your dream? What are you passionate about?”
“How do you know teaching isn’t my dream?”
“Your eyes didn’t do that thing when you talked about it.”
“Do what thing?”
“When you were watching the game and talking about football, your face just… lit up. Same thing happened at the bookstore.” Hesmiled. “The way you talk about football and books.That’swhat passion looks like.”
My eyes slid over his handsome profile as the sun peeked through the trees to shine on him. I wasn’t sure how he was able to read me so well. It was unnerving.Hewas unnerving.
I inhaled deeply before saying it aloud. “I want to write a book.”
Lamar turned his head and stared at me. “That’s what’s up. What kind of book?”
“Contemporary fiction.” I shifted my gaze back to the water as I continued. “I’ve been letting this idea bounce around my head for a few years now, and I’d love to write it one day. That’s the dream.”
“What’s the story about?” I felt his eyes on me, but I kept my eyes forward.
“About a woman who overcame a bunch of different obstacles in her life to get her happily ever after.”
“Ah, so it’s a romance.”
My lips curled into a smile. “I mean, yes. But the focal point of the story is that she’s a private investigator. She’s falling in love while getting help on a case. But the story would be equally focused on both aspects of her life.”
“You should do it.” He waited until our eyes locked before he inquired further. “What’s stopping you from writing it?”
“I mean, yeah… you’re right.” I instantly thought about the list my aunt and I had made, and a small smile graced my lips. “I’m going to write over the next couple months. What about you? Do you make time for what’s important to you?”
“My entire day is dedicated to football.”
“Not today.”
“You’re right.” His eyes dipped to my lips. “Not today,” he repeated, his voice softer, sexier. When he met my gaze again, he cleared his throat. “So, why don’t you make time for your book?”
I was unnerved by the moment we’d just shared and words started spilling out of my mouth. “When I first thought to write a book, I mentioned it to my parents, and they said less than ten percent of authors make a living from their writing. They said that statistically, I wouldn’t make it, and I should pursue something reliable.”
“Like teaching?” he guessed.
“Like teaching,” I confirmed softly. “So, every time I think to start writing, I question if I’m wasting my time. I don’t know if anyone would like it. I don’t know if anyone would care about what I have to say. And somehow, I always manage to talk myself out of doing it because I don’t know if it would be worth it… or if it would be any good.”
“I can’t imagine anything you do not being good.”
My cheeks heated. “You’ve never heard me sing.”
“You can’t sing?”
“Not at all.”
