“You read the memoir?”
I don’t know why that’s what I get from her praise. I’m nearly thirty-two and I still can’t take a compliment.
“Yeah. I read it in a day, or a night, rather. I wanted you in your own words after you sent me all the official stuff.”
“Why wouldn’t you just go with the official stuff?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s so clinical. I appreciate you being crystal clear and sending me all the facts, but they don’t exist within a vacuum. There’s the facts, and then there’s the man who had nineteen years of hell. No offence.”
“None taken. You’re not wrong.”
“So you wrote your life story, and then…”
“I didn’t intend to write my life story. I don’t think I ever explained that in the book. Actually, I did, my editor just told me to take it out becausemy therapist suggested it as an exercisewasn’t a way they could sell books.”
She lets out a breathy laugh. “It’s always something with those editors, isn’t it?”
“I understand the suggestion, though. We did sell more books that way.” I smirk and she rolls her eyes. “When I was in prison, I joined a book club. We read a bunch of different genres. I found myself drawn to the memoirs; the stories of people overcoming pain. I don’t know if this was the intended purpose, but they gave me this flicker of hope I thought I’d lost. So, when my therapist suggested writing, I did. I started writing what would eventually become the memoir. It made me remember those fleeting moments where I felt human as a kid. I had one teacher back at Beaver Creek High that pulled me aside after a writing assignment and praised my work. As I was writing, I thought about that.”
“Not to interrupt, but was it Mrs. DaRosa? Because she’s part of my origin story as well.”
“Yeah,” I say and reach for Addie’s hand, upturned on the table. “It was her. Does she still teach, do you know? I’d like to thank her. She was one of the few people who believed in me.”
“She’s still at the high school. It’s their last day tomorrow, I think, so you could probably catch her.”
“Huh, maybe I will,” I say. I’d thanked her in the acknowledgments of my second book, but I’d never actually thought about doing it in person. Beaver Creek’s been wary of me for years and it would break my heart just a little if she were to feel the same. I take a deep breath and shake it away. “Right. Anyway, I didn’t really have a plan to publish the memoir, it just kind of happened. Which I feel is an extremely pretentious thing to say when I know how hard it is to make it in publishing…but it’s true.”
“I get that. I actively worked toward where I am now and had that in mind, probably, since high school, queried for years with multiple books and finally got lucky. I know everyone’s path to publishing is different.”
Her kind smile sets my soul on fire. I have the sudden urge to bring her hand up to my lips and kiss it.
“I knew as soon as I got the deal, I wanted to continue in the industry. But I only have one memoir in me right now, and I wasn’t about to wait another twenty years before I had something else to say.”
“So you committed to a life of crime in fiction instead of reality?”
The comment catches me off guard, and maybe I would have taken it the wrong way a week ago, or even said slightly different. But Addie’s tone is deadpan and her eyes crinkle behind her glasses. God, I love those glasses. I don’t expect it, but I laugh.
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it worked out that way, though not intentionally.”
She bites back a grin. “I’m sorry, I know that was probably insensitive. It came out without me fully thinking it through. A lot of the time, I think I’m being funny and I’m really not.”
“No, itwasfunny,” I say. “I wouldn’t have laughed otherwise. I get you as well. You’re always so fast and quippy. I like it. You keep me on my toes.”
She could run circles around me and I’d follow like a puppy.
“Good. Tell me if I cross the line.”
“I really don’t think I have any lines with you.” Her eyebrows raise and a devious smirk works its way through her features. My body goes hot. I rub the back of my neck with my free hand. “I mean—Yeah, I didn’t think I’d be writing thrillers. When I got out, I was working as a carpenter. It was through a program in Canadian correctional facilities that essentially sets you up for a better outcome upon release. So, I was juggling a lot. I was the quiet guy who liked books and tinkering with stuff in prison. Guys would confide in me because they knew I’d be level-headed about it all. I think bits and pieces of those secrets slipped into what I was writing.”
“That’s kind of fascinating. Like, hands-on crime research. You’re more dedicated to the craft than I am.”
“I know research is your life’s blood. If you ever need some behind-bars intel, I’m your man.”
“You’re my man,” she says under her breath.
The words work their way under my skin, sending shivers through my body. She adds her right hand on top of our clasped ones and squeezes, before pulling away entirely. I feel her absence so acutely, it almost hurts. I’ve never felt such a need to be in contact with someone, but all I want to do is touch her.
She rolls her chair closer to mine, so we’re essentially thigh to thigh. Visions of us in the stacks come to mind once more and I feel my jeans tighten. She turns her laptop toward me.
