Perversely, her words only made him want to agree. “I told them to reach out with some dates and I’ll try to make my schedule fit.”
“That’s very generous of you. I know your life is chaotic right now, living in a construction zone while you’re trying to meet a deadline.”
“I’m always happy to talk to readers,” he said. “Even readers who find my work trite and overhyped and my female characters wooden nerd fantasies.”
She froze, her gaze flying to his. He watched, fascinated, as color seeped across her lovely features. “Oh. You heard that. I was afraid you had.”
“I shouldn’t have eavesdropped. It was rude of me.”
“You weren’t rude. I was. I should never have said that about your books.”
“Why not? If that’s how you feel, you shouldn’t lie about it. I had to accept a long time ago that not everybody will love my books.”
“I do like them. You’re a great writer and wonderful storyteller. I can’t help it that fantasy has never been my jam.”
He wished now he hadn’t said anything. He had only made her uncomfortable, when they were truly beginning to establish a friendship.
On the other hand, better to get it out into the open than have it simmering between them, at least on his part.
“Rosie. It’s totally fine. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”
“I’m so embarrassed. What must you have thought about me and about The Rainy Day Bookshop?”
“I thought you were a reader expressing your opinion of my books.”
“Rudely.”
“Okay, I was a little put out at first. It’s like somebody telling you your kids are ugly. But if everybody in the world all loved the exact same books, publishers would only put out iterations of that very same book again and again.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“The other day you showed me a secret passageway to my house I had no idea even existed. Books are like portals to a magical land. The thing is, everybody’s magical land looks different. Every reader steps through and creates a world there that is uniquely his or her own.”
“I’ve heard it said that every reader takes something different away from a book, depending on their own life experience.”
“I can tell you that’s true. I’m always amazed at what readers tell me they glean from my books, things I never thought about or intended. It’s one reason I struggle to know what to say at book clubs, because they sometimes want to add deep, layered meaning to each paragraph and sentence and story choice, when I’m really trying to tell the best story I can.”
“You do, Andrew. Your books are beloved for good reason.”
He shrugged, embarrassed that he had revealed so much about himself to her. He gestured to the platter. “Do you think these are ready to go out?”
She blinked and looked down. “Yes. They should be.”
He wanted to kiss her.
The urge swept over him out of nowhere like a sneaker wave, fierce, sudden and inescapable.
“I’ll take these out,” he said, his tone curt.
As he hurried out to the party, the rush of noise hit him hard. He would stay only a little longer, he decided.
His social budget was about spent and right now he wanted nothing but to grab his kids and return to his manuscript, their cramped carriage house apartment and his crumbling house overlooking the sea.
Chapter Fifteen
Emma
Her mom always did know how to throw a good party.
