Chapter Seventeen
? ? ?
People are cute; I am not a people .
Liam
Amber wriggles, attempting to escape the blanket wrap I trapped her in while I take my time scowling at the buttons of my nightshirt and finish latching the last one. “Stop it. You’ll fall off.”
She pauses, eyes racing across my room to where I’m standing, before they dart over the edge of my king-size bed. I’ve placed her squarely in the center, framed by my lace butterfly canopy.
Shifting her weight, she throws herself to the right.
Before she goes crashing over the side, I whip the canopy away and plant my arm to block her body. “You are being dramatic.”
“ I’m being dramatic!” she squeaks, a little trapped mouse. So cute. “Why am I in your room? Why am I on your bed?”
“Because. We need to have a conversation.” My eyes narrow as I catch her chin in my palm and lean in. “And if it takes all night, I want my wife to pass out somewhere comfy, yet… punishing .”
Her pretty, watery brown eyes flick toward my collection of adorable paraphernalia—dolls, tiny tea sets, stuffed animals, blown glass creatures. Every single item is pristine and positioned just so in my bedroom, where my occasional obligatory houseguest cannot reach them.
I love cute things.
It’s a fact I fought once.
It’s a truth about myself that only Amber has ever made feel less than shameful.
It is bad for business.
So when I’m entertaining clients or hosting events, I keep my bedroom door locked.
In a world as judgmental as ours, there are inevitable sacrifices we must make to thrive.
Those are the business decisions that guide our passion. Because passion ? It’s a train. Without logic and reason, there are no rails, and it can’t go anywhere without rails. No matter how much coal you feed it. No matter how many times you release the steam.
All you can do with a trackless train is burn the fuel stores out.
I don’t want that for Amber. I want better for Amber.
I want everything for Amber.
She wets her lips. “May I have a teddy bear? For comfort?”
“Tempting,” I mutter, “but I’m not naive enough to unwrap you in the hope you’ll cuddle a teddy bear and be the most adorable thing I have ever seen.”
Her lip juts—furious—and she snaps, “Well, fine then. Just prop one against my head so it can watch me die.”
The drama.
I tuck a curl that escaped from her bonnet back under the elastic band and sigh. “We’re at an impasse, Bambi. You don’t want my help; I don’t want to see you fail. Where do we go from here?”
“Why are you so convinced I’ll fail on my own!”
Sagging, I lean over her, pressing my forehead to hers. “ Please . Can’t we be honest? There’s no one else around. It’s just us and the lifeless, glass eyes of my adorable army peering deep into your beautiful soul. You’ve failed on your own for five books in nearly a decade. If I’m wrong, tell me why this time it will be different. Are you adding more spice? Higher heat levels are an easier sell.”
“ Ew. ” Her precious nose wrinkles.
“Have you researched cover trends? Are you picking a title that defines your tropes directly?”
“Tropey titles are disgusting, cheap tricks. I’m a good writer. I have great reviews.”
“You are a good writer, but there is supporting data here that makes it clear good writing isn’t enough.”
“I just need to find my readers.”
My eyes close as I sigh again and shake my head against hers. “Bambi, what reliable companies do you know find their clients? Your readers need you to make it simple to find you. Which means clear branding, intentional SEO, keywords everywhere—including your titles—a website, and a newsletter, so once your readers find you, you don’t have to hope they find you at the right time again.”
Moisture hits my thumb, so I open my eyes to find a line of tears tracing down her cheeks to run along my hand. Voice broken, she says, “I’m only one person, Liam. How am I supposed to manage a website, and a newsletter, and write the books, and research all of these things, while cutting down production times, getting reviews, and, and, and? I’m already tired with what I’ve been doing. Everything is so hard and complicated, and can’t you see how frustrating it is for me to have someone who plays with silly string on company time tell me how I’m doing everything wrong, how I need to do so much more? It’s like you’re sitting smugly in your fancy penthouse office, peering down your nose at me, and saying I’m not good enough. And, then, because of this, I never will be. If I bite back my pride now to do everything you tell me to, and then succeed, will it really even be my success?”
“Of course it will be.” I pull my sleeve over my hand to dry her tears. “You will be writing the book, and the newsletters, and your social media posts. You will choose your cover artist, and the design. You will learn how to build a brand, then create it yourself, with your own hands. I’m not doing anything for you. I’m only compiling the reliable research based on my years of experience in a marketing field.”
“If I couldn’t do it without you, I didn’t really do it at all.”
I pause, pj cuff to her cheek, drawing out the pink in her quivering lips. Meeting her eyes, I say, “That is the stupidest thing you have ever said.”
Shockingly, this creates a new torrent of tearfall, and I flinch as I scrub them from her face.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “You’re fragile right now. I should have been more…delicate.” Like when I told Limoncella that, no, she could not— should not—ostracize an entire demographic by theming her bookstore around the occult. We settled on the vastness of the stars and the wonder of untold worlds hidden within that inky beyond instead. She got her mystical shades, and a functioning business.
That’s how it works.
In the end, steady customers rely on good products and good service. All I do is find the common denominator between what appeals to the masses, and what’s always been appealing in each person I work with.
Everyone is marketable. There’s something in everyone that’s endearing, or commendable, or adorable.
It’s just a fact of life.
People are cute.
When they do a little dance because their food tastes good, or when they point at cows while riding in a car, or when they wear fuzzy socks when it’s cold, people are cute .
Some are assuredly cuter than others, but no one can escape the truth.
We’re all weird, beautiful, confounding messes—searching for the places in other people where our hearts feel full.
“Please stop crying,” I whisper. “I can’t handle the sniffles, or the lip trembling. It’s the most adorable thing.”
“You’re a monster,” she croaks. “Let me go.”
“I don’t know how to make things better or explain to you what I’m trying to do.”
“You’re trying to help me!” she spits. “But I’m just so frustrated . I need you to understand that. I need you to show me that my frustration matters and hurts you, too. I need you to not say that I’m cute when I’m in pain.”
My lips part. I close them. I swallow. “You…” I pull myself away, stuff my fingers in my hair. “You are always cute. I…I am now seeing where sharing that fact in this precise moment is not entirely helpful.” I grip my hair. “It’s just…really hard to concentrate. You distract the oxygen in my cells with how precious you are. I don’t mean to hurt you for my own enjoyment. There’s a difference between teasing you harmlessly, and causing you pain . I go too far sometimes. I don’t know when I have until it’s too late. But, Amber.” I look back at her. “You can always tell me, and I will correct or explain myself. You’re my wife. You are dear to me. How…how do I express that in a way that brings you the same peace your presence has always elicited for me?”
She stares at me. Like I’m vile. But, then, harsh and damp, she says, “Stupid question: do you love me or something?”
“Why is that a stupid question?” I ask.
Her wet eyes narrow. “Why wasn’t that a stupid answer?”
My mind fumbles back a step, replays the question in my mind as I search her. Love is a foreign concept framed in media with grand gestures and illogical displays. It’s so starkly physical in so many movies and TV shows, I don’t know how to identify it.
You love someone?
Sleep with them.
That’s the process.
That’s the code.
As a man, I find myself plagued periodically with desire that borders on all-consuming, but I have never before thought to subcategorize those urges beneath the banner of love . I know about lust. The lemon-flavored dust is often used in marketing.
Sex sells.
It’s not love.
Thing is, that all-consuming desire ?
I have never experienced it for anyone other than my Bambi. The wish to touch her, kiss her, hold her remains unique to her. Women have flirted with me before, some aggressively, but I barely recognize that it’s happening until I am so uncomfortable my discomfort becomes contagious and they leave me alone.
Wanting Amber can’t be all there is to love.
It doesn’t feel right in my chest to sum it up like that.
So I say, “No, I don’t think so. Would you like me to?”
Her brow knits, and I fear I’ve done something wrong. Maybe this was one of those times I was just supposed to say yes and hope I was right.
“Would I like you to love me?” she asks, voice cryptic.
Nerves nip. “Yes? Would loving you help this situation? I can try.”
“You can try ?”
Nerves bite . “Why are you echoing me?”
“I’m just trying to understand.”
“I need more to work with to explain whatever you aren’t understanding. Which part lost you?”
Very slowly, she says, “I’m just trying to figure out the angle…”
Angle?
What angle?
What are we talking about?
Can’t we get back to marketing?
It doesn’t feel like I’m drowning when I talk about marketing.
A bit at a time, starting with her eyes, Amber relaxes. Her brows lift, and her lips settle into neutral. Once she’s settled, she says, “I’m writing a dark romance novel. He’s sickeningly rich and runs an illegal fight club where no one has ever bested him, and no one is allowed to leave—except one person, a father who sold his eldest daughter in exchange for his freedom. Now she’s fighting her own battle, in an effort to gain hers.”
Slap that on a back cover.
Breathless, I whisper, “Bambi, that’s perfect.”
Her brows rise. “What do you mean?”
“It’s… you . Dangerous and disconcerting. Are you making sure to highlight the Beauty and the Beast aspect?”
Her lashes flutter, bemused. “I’m not writing a retelling.” Worry erodes her confusion. “Oh no. It really does sound like Beauty and the Beast , doesn’t it? I’m not trying to copy.”
“Shh.” I scoot in, begin loosening the blanket around her. “Beauty and the Beast as a trope deals with elements of the grumpy/sunshine, opposites attract dynamic. He’s monstrous. She’s victimized. In one way or another, she learns to appreciate something within him while he learns about a care he’s never before been awarded.”
Amber sits up once she’s free, and I forgot she was wearing a large black t-shirt. It’s crumpled everywhere, sliding off her slender figure in ways I should not be noticing. “There are so many Beauty and the Beast retellings. I don’t want to be just another one.”
“Amber,” I state, “can you listen to what I’m saying, plainly, and stop making assumptions? You’re not copying or rewriting a story. This is a good thing. This is a beloved trope, a highly marketable point to capitalize on with intent.”
Her arms fold, and she turns her face from me. I’m not looking at the way the motion bares her whole entire shoulder and several inches below her clavicle. I’m looking at her adorable, adorable pout.
And wanting to kiss her.
Which makes me think I’d be better off looking at her shoulder. Or the carpet.
I pick the carpet.
She mutters, “I hate when authors are like if you loved this super popular book, you’ll loveee mine . It’s lazy.”
“First, yes. Second, it’s marketing. Third, are you passionate about marketing, Bambi?”
“What? No, of course not. Do not tell me I have to be.”
“You don’t have to be. That’s the point. Why would you put extra energy into something that meets an end, and why would you judge another author for effectively utilizing tools at their disposal? With marketing, be lazy . You don’t know what’ll stick, so keep testing and making deliberate changes to your strategy. Waste the extra emotional energy on your craft. Marketing is yes or no . It’s a series of this versus that . Did my audience like this? Yes. Do they like this better? No. How about this? Yes.” I layer my hands on top of each other. “It’s building blocks, minor decisions, consistent progress, consistent reach, consistent awareness. Write your book with an educated idea of what sells, and don’t flatter yourself into thinking you’re too special to use the cop outs. It’s all been done before, but not like you would do it. You don’t have to make this harder on yourself so it’ll feel like you’ve actually accomplished something when you succeed. Let your story be unique to you; let your branding be clear to market expectations.”
Her fingers close around her arm and squeeze.
Hesitant, I let my gaze slip back to her.
She’s staring at my nightstand. At the tortured stack of her books atop the white wood. The previously slender, matte copies have been abused beyond recognition, pages thick with highlighter and spines swelling to contain the near-water-damaged sheets.
Voice soft and distant, she says, “Those aren’t cute…”
I look between them and Amber. My Bambi. My Bambi’s heart and soul, condensed, into several hundred thousand words.
She’s not wrong.
The destroyed books aren’t terribly cute.
But…
“They’re beautiful,” I say. “They’re the pieces of you I’ve been allowed to keep, to thumb through, and to dress in pink. They’re the most beautiful things I owned, and—after a year, if you leave me—they’ll continue to be.”
Pink warms her cheeks, and I can’t look away as her gaze finds mine, wary. “Can I ask something of you?”
“Anything.”
She swallows, wets her lips, drops her gaze. “Can you…figure out if you love me?”
A swear mutes itself in my head. I thought we were past the confusing heaviness associated with considering love stuff. We were talking about marketing, and she wasn’t glaring at me. It was almost fun for a minute.
Now, again, I’m not getting enough air, terrified I’ll mess everything up.
“If you want me to love you, I’ll learn how. If you’d rather I not, I’ll refrain.”
Her eyes narrow.
Crud. Wrong answer, I guess.
“That’s…not how it works,” she says.
“Do…you expect me to know how it works, Bambi?”
Her head shakes. “No, actually, I guess I don’t.”
She makes me both want to ram my head into a wall and press her back into one. Confounding, adorable, precious being that she is.
Slipping from my bed, sinking her toes into my white carpet, she murmurs, “I’ll do the worksheet tomorrow and start whatever tasks on the list that I can.”
My heart leaps. Excitement spikes in my tone. “You’re letting me help you?”
Her chin dips. “I’ll try to be better about letting my emotions interfere. You…mean well.”
“I do. I promise.”
“When it counts,” she says as she stands and looks at me, “you block the corners.”
I do not have a clue what that means.
But I do know that when she bends to kiss my forehead, heat erupts to flood my head. My veins blaze.
“Goodnight, Liam. Thank you for not giving up on me.”
My brain does not register her footsteps out of my room or the door closing behind her. It doesn’t register much as I sink back against the mattress and stare up at my canopy dappled with butterflies. They’re all cute. So cute.
Sleeping with the blanket Amber abandoned pressed tight to my nose is not so cute.
But it smells like her, and I am weak .
Love.
I have no idea what it is, but I know.
I just know .
If I loved Amber, it would be nothing more than another burden she’d have to carry for me, so I won’t even think about it—unless she gives me permission.