“Naturally. Your looks had nothing to do with it.”
I may have blushed a little then and focused on my plate. Did that mean he found me attractive? I hoped so.
“I wish I’d had them on the boat,” Arden mused.
He’d saidtheboat, but I heard it asaboat.
“Is that like being trapped on a deserted island?”
He laughed. “It’s a category of books I can read over and over again and find something new each time. Nathan Shields was a fascinating character. So many layers. And of course, Daphne made for a very compelling love interest.”
“Now you’re just flattering me.”
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
I wanted to tell him something, something I’d told very few people. Because it made me ashamed. Somehow, I thought Arden might understand, or at least not judge me too harshly. “You know, in my first draft ofMurder at Cold Lake Lodge, Daphne’s character was a man.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “Nathan Shields was a gay man having an affair with the murder vic. It’s why the police suspected him initially. Not only was he the owner of the lodge where the murder took place, but he was involved in a homosexual relationship. Small town prejudice and all that. I’d wanted to build a character arc where his interactions with the local police were combative from the start and give Nathan the opportunity throughout the series to challenge their homophobia.”
Arden studied me for a moment. “Why did you change it?”
I wasn’t proud to admit that I’d essentially sold out, but there was really no other way of putting it.
“My father convinced me that it wasn’t commercially viable, not enough to sell to one of the Big Five anyway, and that if I wanted the backing of his agency, I’d need to revise it. Being an unknown writer with no platform of my own, I didn’t see much of an alternative, so I did it.”
“Do you regret it?” he asked in a somber tone.
“Sometimes. But I also wonder if I’d kept it as it was, if it would have gotten such a wide readership. Or if I’d have even gotten a contract in the first place.”
“It’s unfortunate all the parts of yourself you have to hide in order to be acceptable to others,” he said.
“It really is,” I agreed, a little wistfully. “And that’s when I learned, that at the end of the day, mainstream publishing is a business, and a big house won’t take you on unless they think they can make a profit. And an agency won’t represent you if they think they can’t sell your work. It has more to do with that than the quality of your writing or the story you’re trying to tell. All hard life lessons that I had to learn.”
“Have you ever considered self-publishing?”
“When I first started out, no. But now… I don’t know.” I’d thought about it, especially after my last meeting with my publisher. But it terrified me too. I relied on my editors to improve upon my drafts and the marketing and distribution team to get it in front of readers. How else would Arden have found my first novel in a Miami airport? To Arden I said, “It would be a steep learning curve for me to be able to manage my own career, and truthfully, business isn’t my strength.”
“I’d buy them,” he said. “I’d read anything you wrote.”
He squeezed my hand and gave me another one of his reassuring smiles, and I thought,I want him.Not just for his looks. Or his body. But his easy confidence, his affable nature, his cleverness. I imagined him again, rumpled and freshly fucked in my bedsheets, like that Ikea photo. I didn’t want him as a one night-stand—though I would certainly take it—but as a course of nature. What were the steps I must take to get from here to there?
“Will you come with me to a dinner party?” I asked impulsively. There was no dinner party scheduled. I’d have to convince one of my friends—Bitzy perhaps—to host it.
He looked at me suspiciously. “A dinner party? Sounds like high society.”
“Just some of my college friends. I think you’d get along well with them.”
“Remember, I’m a scholarship kid.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I teased, not realizing how elitist it sounded. As if being on a scholarship was something to be ashamed of, rather than proud.
“When is it?” he asked without pulling out his phone to check his calendar, like he didn’t believe it was really a thing.
“This Friday night.” Bitzy could surely pull something together by then, and if not, then I’d host it myself.
“Should I bring something?” he asked.
