Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
S ummer forgot to breathe. She was lost in Chance Blackstone’s eyes. Then she gulped air.
“Really?” she squeaked.
“Maybe,” he said, and she heard the tiny bit of hesitation.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” she said, placing her cards on the table.
“I might want a little more, too, but I think it would be smarter to get to know one another before we make a decision like that. After all, we have a lot of people in common. It would be awkward to leap into something and then discover we weren’t a good fit for one another. ”
“So, try on friendship first to see how it fits?” he asked. “And then if that feels good, go a little deeper?”
All Summer could think of was him thrusting into her, her begging him to go deeper and harder and faster. She sensed the blush spreading across her cheeks and hoped he would never discover where her mind had just gone.
“Yes. Try things as friends. Then … see where things might lead.”
“I could do that,” he said agreeably. Then he grinned. “Especially if we sip hazelnut lattes together.”
She laughed. “Oh, you are so hooked. I can tell.”
He might be hooked on lattes, but she was fast becoming addicted to him.
And that scared the hell out of her.
Trying to keep things light, she said, “What did you do after SMU? In those cities you talked about?”
He talked a few minutes about the different jobs he’d held. Accounting. Finance. Marketing. Logistics.
“I dipped my toe into several ponds. It was what my dad wanted for me. He wouldn’t let me go to A&M with West. I had thought I’d major in farm and land management or agribusiness, to better prepare me to work on the ranch.
While Big Jim was set in his ways, he knew the world of ranching was changing, and he wanted me prepared for that.
He told me to work in various fields. Take jobs with different responsibilities and ways of thinking. ”
Chance looked sheepish. “And to enjoy myself. He said a small town like Hawthorne could stifle a young man. He encouraged me to sow my wild oats, so I did.”
“Were you like West when he played for the Cowboys?” she asked. “A different woman every week?”
“Pretty much,” he admitted. “I worked long hours at my various jobs. I had a great work ethic and did my best to be indispensable and creative. I also played hard after hours, Summer. But like West, I never had any serious relationships. Then I got the call from Dad that I had been waiting for, and I was able to come home to Hawthorne. Back to the ranch. And I’ve pretty much lived like a monk since.
I’m up at four-thirty. In bed by nine at the latest. I work with the ranch hands, doing physical labor for half a day, then I return to the house, where I keep an office, and I deal with the business end of things”
“You really haven’t dated anyone since you’ve been back?” she asked, curious.
“Nope. Well, I have had two dates. Both the first month I came back, and that was three years ago. They were a bust. Ever since then, I’ve kept my head down. Worked hard.” He sighed. “Worked even harder since Dad’s death.”
Sympathy filled her. “Big Jim was a great man, Chance, but you don’t have to fill his shoes.
Walk in your own instead. You’ll make your mark in your own way.
He wanted you to experience other places and businesses.
That way, you could bring back new ideas to Blackstone Ranch.
Like you said before, your dad was known for being set in his ways, but the world is changing.
As the owner of Blackstone Ranch now, you’ll have the flexibility to change with the times. ”
“Thank you,” he said, sincerity shining in his eyes. “I have a tendency to doubt myself at times.”
“A little doubt is good. It keeps you on your toes.”
“What about you?” he asked. “You came home pretty abruptly. Were you unhappy in your job? Or with New York? You’ve already told me you didn’t leave any brokenhearted guys behind.”
Summer paused a moment, collecting her thoughts.
“Have you ever loved and hated something at the same time?
That describes my time at Liberty House.
I started as an editorial assistant straight out of college.
I worked with senior staff from the planning stages to the actual production of a book.
That meant helping various departments, from creative to editorial, production, and even marketing.
I helped coordinate the activities between these departments.
I even acted as a liaison to authors and handled things such as their copyrights.
“That was in addition to getting in a little proofreading when asked. I also had to handle tasks any admin would—answer the phone. Managing calendars for the higher ups. Doing their expense reports.”
“Sounds like you hit the ground running,” Chance said.
“I was fortunate to have some good people mentoring me. I moved up to being a copy editor, where I assisted in a book’s marketing campaign.
I’d write the copy for the book’s blurb and get author quotes endorsing it.
I’d also write author bios, website copy, and handle press releases and social media posts for authors assigned to me. ”
She took a sip of her macchiato. “But my objective was to be an editor. Eventually, I became one. I would seek out manuscripts and review the promising ones from the slush pile, as well as work with authors assigned to me. I would edit all their content. I read each manuscript with a fine-tooth comb, giving them notes on how to improve scenes.”
“Like what?” he asked, clearly interested.
“Oh, maybe having the characters show more emotion. Maybe extending a conversation. Beefing up their reaction to something which had occurred. Or if I thought a transition was lacking from one scene to another or one chapter to another, helping the author to figure how to smooth things out. Sometimes, I would even suggest adding a scene to firm up the plot. Other times, I would ask for a scene to be deleted, especially if it repeated information previously given in the book. I tried to help each of my authors find their voice. Then with a finished, polished, proofed manuscript, I would work hand-in-hand with the production and marketing staffs to support all promotions on behalf of the author and book.”
“It sounds like a lot of intense work,” he noted.
“It was. I was juggling all kinds of authors. Baby ones with a debut book. Midlist authors, ones who sell steadily but aren’t those who make their publishing houses millions.
I even edited a few authors who’d made a bestseller list. It was a hodgepodge, but it eventually became draining.
When I moved to New York, I was young and had a pretty active social life.
That began to fizzle the higher I climbed the ladder at Liberty House.
By the end, I’d put in ten-to-twelve-hour days at work and then go home and edit for another two to three hours.
I had no life and was starting to burn out. ”
“Then why stay in the book world?” he challenged. “I know you’re working on a novel of you own.”
“That’s different. For now, I make my own hours.
Have complete creative control. If something doesn’t get done, I have only myself to blame.
To liken it to the navy, I was a top officer on a nuclear sub.
Now, I’m the captain of my very small fishing boat.
I can sail into uncharted waters, going wherever I want to go. ”
“Eventually, you’ll have to submit your work to a publishing house. Will you try your old place of employment?”
Summer stifled a laugh, coughing into her hand. “No. I don’t think they’d be a good fit for what I’m writing.”
“Which is?” he pressed.
It wasn’t that Liberty House didn’t buy romance. They bought quite a few authors in that genre, but after the way things ended with Dragon Lady and the NDA, she would be radioactive to them.
“I’m writing a romance series about a small town in the Texas Panhandle.
I’ve already finished the first book. I’m going to try to write two over this next year.
I’ve planned it as a trilogy, but this town is really coming alive, both in my head and on the page.
Maybe it’ll be more books. As to whether I submit to a traditional publishing house or not, that remains to be seen.
I’ve discovered that readers don’t really care who publishes a book.
If they’re interested, they simply want to read the book.
There’s a possibility I might go the indie route and publish it on my own.
Of course, that means hiring a team to help me with that.
A cover designer. An editor. A proofreader. It’s early days, though.”
She laughed. “And I will have to find a place to write. I wrote in coffeehouses in New York, simply to get out of my tiny, cramped apartment. I’d order a coffee and write for several hours without being disturbed.”
“When you rushed in, you said people wouldn’t leave you alone. What did you mean by that?”
She shook her head. “I think my parents are almost too proud of me. They might as well have taken out a front-page ad in the newspaper which announced I was moving home and would be working on a book. I would write a sentence, and someone would come up to chat with me. Welcome me home. Tell me about their family. Ask me what I was writing. Five, ten minutes would go by. Then I’d excuse myself, they’d leave, I’d get two lines written, and it happened all over again.
And again. And again.” Summer chuckled. “Hawthorne is just too friendly.”
“That’s when you went outside to write?”
“I was afraid to go to the library. Mom being there. Also, people would probably feel free to come up and interrupt me, just like they did here at Coffee Hour. I walked to the park closest to the square, found a bench, opened up my laptop, and escaped into my own world.”