“Yeah, but you can have too much of a good thing.”
She shakes her head vehemently, although she’s grinning. “I don’t think so.”
“Agree to disagree?” I say.
“No,” she says with a smirk.
I snort, taking a sip of beer. “You’ve always been contrarian, even when we were kids.”
“Have not!”
I shoot her a look, and she giggles, although she doesn’t concede.
A memory sparks deep in my mind. “Hey, remember those cute, little stories you used to write? You’d make me and Harrison sit in your parents’ living room while you read them aloud to us. Basically knockoffNancy Drewmysteries.” I laugh at the memory, of me and Harrison with fake grins plastered on our faces, waiting for the story to be over so we could get back to whatever video game we’d been playing.
Delilah groans. “Ugh, don’t remind me.”
“Come on, they weren’t bad. And look at you—you’re a writer now, so that dedication obviously paid off.”
She just keeps shaking her head. “Yeah, a writer ofother people’sstories.”
The comment surprises me, and I turn to her. “Do you not like your job?” The possibility honestly shocks me. Delilah’s only ever been a storyteller, and landing her agent all those years ago was seemingly the best thing that had ever happened to her.
“No, no, nothing like that,” she says quickly. “I mean, I love my job. I get to sit in my apartment all day and write.” She chuckles. “It’s just … sometimes I wish I was writingmy ownbook.” She shrugs again, staring into the fire.
“Why don’t you?”
She purses her lips. “It’s not that simple.”
“Well, then explain it to me.”
She snorts at that.
“What?” I press. “Do you have somewhere to be?”
This pulls another laugh out of her. “No one wantsmystory,” she eventually says. “I ghostwrite for established authors and celebrities—people who you’d want to read a story from. Who’s gonna care if ‘Delilah Slater’ writes a book?”
“Plenty of people.”
She smiles sadly. “That’s sweet of you to say, but it’s not the reality.”
As much as I want to argue with her, I keep my mouth shut. Besides, she knows her own industry better, why would she take advice from me? Regardless, I can’t stop myself from adding, “Well, you should write it anyway. Even if only one person reads it. You don’t have to quit your day job, but that shouldn’t stop you from doing what you love.”
A soft grin curls at the side of her lips.
“I, for one, would love anotherNancy Drewknockoff.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. After a beat and another sip of beer, she asks, “What about you, Graham Whitaker? Are you living your life’s dream as a cowboy?”
I smirk at the change of subject but go along with it. “I mean, yeah. It’s a great gig.”
“Riding around on horses and cows or whatever.” She waves a hand. “I don’t know what you guys do all day.”
I laugh out loud. “Well, for starters, we aren’t riding the cows.”
“I said I don’t know what you do all day,” she defends.
“And I’m explaining it.”
