Chapter 35
OWEN
I still can’t even believe I asked George if I could read his book. So unlike me. Not to mention overstepping. I feel all kinds of guilty about it, like maybe I should just put it back in the closet where I found it and forget about it. Except… It’s so good.
Maybe it’s just me, catching up with what the rest of the world already knows— that George is an insanely talented writer.
Only, I don’t think so. I mean, yes, obviously, he’s a fantastic writer. That’s clear in every line of description and every exchange of banter. And that stuff’s probably in the Sebastian Steele books, too.
But there’s something else on these pages (and I mean besides the handwritten comments he’s scrawled all over them, some of which are funnier than the book itself). It’s like I can feel George himself coming through in every scene.
It’s not autobiographical. At least, I’m pretty sure George has never been a Regency era baronet. But it’s like his heart and soul are here on the page. It’s witty, and heartbreaking, and delightful, and so fucking honest. I can’t stop reading it.
A knock at the door jars me out of the 1810 British countryside.
I’m halfway to the door when my guest, too impatient to wait for me to get there, apparently, announces herself.
“You can’t hide from me, Owen Wilde! I know you’re in there!”
I swing open the door, and Zoe breezes past me before I can say a word.
“See, I knew you’d be just sitting around by yourself. This is exactly why I came home.”
She’s stopped only a few steps into the apartment, having spun back around to talk to me.
George’s manuscript is spread out on the coffee table behind her.
When she turns to inspect her windblown hair in the entryway mirror, I zip behind her and sweep it into the basket of magazines below the table without any conscious decision to do so.
Then I give the basket a shove with my foot, making sure it’s fully concealed under the table.
“Aw, Zoe, you really didn’t have to do that for me.”
“Okay, fine,” she says, turning to me, “I couldn’t take it anymore. I love Aunt Eleanor, but the woman has twelve cats. My dry cleaner is going to curse me. I mean literally curse me. He’s some kind of Wiccan, I think.”
I guess I’m looking at her funny, because she stops and squints at me now.
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“What? No! Of course not. I’m happy to see you!”
“Mmm-hmm. Hang on.” She strides off down the hall, going in and out of each of the rooms in the apartment like she’s looking for something.
I adore my cousin, but I will never understand her. She comes back.
“Okay. Sorry. I didn’t think so, but you’re just giving off this”—she gestures vaguely at my general person—”energy. So I thought you might have a man here. But of course you don’t. So, come on.”
“I—what?” I’m blushing a little. Also, confused.
“It’s Christmas, I want to do Christmas things.
Plus, you’ve been here a week, and I haven’t seen you enough.
And tomorrow I have to start about a million last-minute wedding to-dos for Luca and Cory because I am such an awesome friend.
Well, that and the wedding planner is eight months pregnant and I feel bad for her because Luca’s such a groomzilla.
Anyway, this is my one day left to play, and I want to spend it with you. ”
There’s really nothing I can say to that. Besides, she’s right. We haven’t spent that much time together, and I really do want to see her. I just maybe also wanted to know what was going to happen between Henry and James when James finally arrives at the estate.
But that, I guess, will have to wait.
“Yeah. Absolutely. Let’s go.”
“Good boy.” She pats my cheek. She pauses to study me again, and I guess my resignation is written on my face. “Geez, don’t look so dejected. I promise it’ll be fun. It’s not like you had some more amazing thing to do.”
“Right.”
I grab my coat and cast one last longing look at the basket under the coffee table where George’s book now sits.
I could tell her, maybe. Except I get the feeling George hasn’t mentioned this book to her.
I get the feeling he hasn’t mentioned it to anyone.
And even though it was an accident that I found out about it, he didn’t get mad or tell me not to look at it.
Instead, he sent me the latest chapters. It’s a secret he’s trusted me with.
As I’m flicking the lights off and closing the door, the magnitude of that hits me. He trusted me with his secret. He could have shared it with anyone. Or no one.
And he chose me.
“Come on, Owen, we’ll be late for Gay Christmas Speed Dating!” Zoe calls from the elevator.
“What?”
“The look on your face!” She dissolves into giggles. “Too soon?”
“Too soon.” I glare at her, but she’s Zoe, and it’s Christmas, and when I get home there’ll be a half-written book waiting, impossibly, just for me. I can’t stay mad.