“Yes?” she asks, her eyes fastened on his perfect lips. He notes where her gaze lands and breaks into a devastating smile, revealing his slightly crooked teeth. Ivan Pennington is worth more than a small European nation; why doesn’t he straighten his teeth? Probably because he knows that this one imperfection makes him exponentially more attractive.
Lydia pauses. “Whoever wrote this got that right; your crooked teeth work for you.”
“Um... Thanks!” says Liam. “Though I’m still not convinced this is me.”
“Oh, it’s you! Perfect lips? That’s you,” says Lydia. “You have great lips, not too thin, not too full. Back me up, Lettie.”
“She’s right,” I answer weakly.
Liam grins at me through the rearview mirror. My heart would be melting if it wasn’t already in so much distress.
“Should I go on?” asks Lydia.
“No!” I welp as Liam gives an enthusiastic, “Please!” Again, even in the midst of this torture, a little piece of my ego cheers,He likes my book!!!
“Okay, where were we... ” mutters Lydia.Richer than a small nation, exponentially more attractive.Oh, here we are...She stands so close she can smell his intoxicating scent. Is it cologne or his soap or simply a heavy dose of pheromones? Hard to say. But something pushes her over the edge of reason. She gazes up into his glorious face. His eyes flick to the green garland above. ‘Mistletoe,’ he whispers. It’s not a question but an explanation and promise. In a flash, his lips are on hers. Hot and needy. Lizzy kisses him back with reckless abandon.”
How is Lydia reading this and not turning totally red with embarrassment? Liam catches my eye again in the rearview mirror. I immediately glance out the window, trying to look bored. I wrote this scene imagining that moment at the first Christmas party. Wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t jumped away, if we had kissed. I don’t know if he’d recognize my inspiration. It’s just one more passionate kiss under mistletoe. There are no telling details. Mistletoe is used in every other Christmas romance. There’s no reason for him to think I wrote this scene specifically about him. I mean, except his face is glorious. But that’s not enough to give me away. All I need to do is play it cool. He won’t figure this out unless I give myself away. I try very hard to remain chill as Lydia reads on and on and on. Why did I write such a long scene? It never ends. Hands in hair. Rapid heart beats. Panting. Sighs. More lips on lips. Ugh! No one needs to listen to a kissing scene this long. They get the idea. The two kiss. Enough said.
Finally, the never-ending kiss is over. Lydia continues reading,
“What color are your eyes?” Ivan asks.
“Green,” she answers.
“My favorite color.” He winks and walks away.
I sink into my seat in absolute misery. In my frenzied revision, I totally missed that comment about my eye color. The very question Liam asked me at the first holiday party. I’m praying he doesn’t recall. I’m hoping that moment, seared in my memory, has somehow slipped from his. Judging from his rigid posture, he remembers alright. His hands grip the wheel tighter. His broad back turns as stiff and formidable as granite.
“Woah! That was hot!” says Lydia, waving her face. “If this is how she kisses the villain, I can’t wait to see her get down with the love interest.” She’ll be disappointed. The final scene with the hero is not nearly so good.
“I’ve had enough romance,” Darcy says coolly. He turns on the radio. Out of the speaker pours Freddy West, my cousin’s boyfriend, singing about broken hearts and broken promises. The song suits my mood.
Liam drives with both hands on the wheel, his face fixed on the road. From where I sit, I can see a muscle in his jaw flick. I swear I can feel his anger rippling off in waves. Lydia tries to read again, but each time, he gruffly says, “No, I’ve heard enough.” He hits the gas, and we speed toward Sacramento, and the end, I fear, of any chance for us.
Angry people are not always wise. —Pride and Prejudice
24
I drive too fast, but it’s all I can do to keep from crying. I’ve never felt so hurt and betrayed. Or so stupid. So stupid. I drop Lydia and Cat off at their apartment. Lettie takes this chance to move to the front seat. Good, maybe she’s going to explain herself. But she doesn’t. She stares out the window.
When I pull up in front of her apartment, she remains frozen in her seat. She doesn’t open the door or her mouth to give me any explanation. Finally, I can’t stand her silence.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” Hot tears sting my eyes. No, I will not cry. I already feel like a chump.
“Yes . . . yes . . . once I heard that my book was causing you harm, I . . . ”
“SO YOU DID WRITE IT!” The moment she said, “My book” was like a gut punch. Until she said it out loud, I held out a tiny, far-flung hope that I was somehow mistaken.
“Y... yes... I was angry at you after our first date, and it seemed harmless. My first two books did fine, but they didn’t get that many readers. I never thought you’d read it. I didn’t think... we’d ever... ”
“Was any of this real? Or were you just using me for research?” She doesn’t answer. “Here I am planning a future with you and... and you wrote me as a villain, the worst sort of villain.”
“I... can’t say how sorry I am.” She’s crying now and seeing her upset guts me. A tear rolls down my cheek and splats on the steering wheel. I hope she doesn’t notice. “I changed it,” she sobs. “But... ”
“Get out! I don’t... I can’t talk about this.” I struggle to speak, determined not to fully break down in front of her. I gulp back impending sobs. “I’m not available tonight.”
“Liam! I’m sorry. Believe me.” I hear her teary voice, but I refuse to look at her. I feel so betrayed. Not only that she wrote the book, but more that she didn’t tell me. This book has been out since July. July! when we started corresponding. She had so many chances to tell me. I asked over and over to read what she wrote.
