Chapter 36
GEORGE
It’s midday, and I’m having middling success on the masquerade ball action sequence in the Steele book. It’s fine. I came up with a clever bit with a fake sword hiding a real gun. But every time I pause, I remember all over again that Owen is reading that other book.
And, yes, I recognize it’s a little odd for a man whose writing has been translated into fourteen languages to be wound up about someone reading his work. But it’s not just any book.
There’s nothing personal or revealing about scenes with Sebastian taking down an international spy or escaping a bank vault full of snakes.
Or even seducing someone. For one thing, half his conquests are women.
So… yeah, I’m really just making that shit up (okay and maybe digging a little into the deep recesses of Reddit when I’m in need of some specifics I can’t get IRL).
But also, a torrid affair with a billionaire prince? Yeah. It’s called fiction for a reason.
And The Secret Book is fiction too. It is. Obviously.
But… well, maybe not the emotional foundation. The embarrassing, earnest, deep private feelings that fueled the whole thing. Those are a little more real.
And I know I told him to read it. I want him to read it. I do.
… And yet, I kind of don’t.
Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t know what I want. I feel… I feel…
I feel naked. And not in a good way.
I check my phone. Again. I can’t help it. I think if I heard something from him—anything—I’d be able to relax at least a little. It’s the not knowing.
Unless, of course, what I heard from him was “why the hell did you ever think writing this over-sincere derivative piece of drivel was a good idea, George?”
I scrunch my face up and let out a groan. I’m spiraling. This is ridiculous. I can handle this. Deep breath in, and deep breath o—
Oh God! I just remembered the cringy masturbation bit I wrote into chapter five. Jesus Christ.
I cannot believe I let someone read this book.
I’m head-down on the kitchen table when my phone rings. Anabel. Perfect.
“Feliz Navidad! How’s my favorite editor?” I answer, over-brightly.
“Frazzled and short on time. I’m calling from my aunt’s bathroom in the Bronx. And I’m getting enough poorly pronounced Spanish from my sister’s fiancé today, so I appreciate the nod to my heritage and all, but let’s not.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“No te preocupes!”
“What?”
“How is our old amigo Sebastian?”
“Currently screwing a cocktail waitress in a coat check room.”
“Excellent. And?”
“And I’m on track to finish the draft right on schedule.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. Though I know I don’t sound very excited about it. Still, it’s good to know I’m still capable of earning my paycheck.
“Okay, then. I guess your wackanana friend was onto something with this home swap thing after all.”
“She has her moments.”
“So you keep saying,” she says, but I hear the grin in her voice. “All right, carry on, my friend. I gotta go try to explain to an 80-year-old Puerto Rican woman that, yes, ‘lesbian’ does in fact mean I won’t be dating her hairdresser’s grandson.”
I laugh. There’s a reason—more than one—I chose Anabel as my editor and she me.
“Merry Christmas, Anabel.”
“Feliz Navidad, George.”
We hang up. Well, that went well. She’s happy.
Good, good.
I look down at my hand, where I’m still holding my phone.
Fuck it.
I type out a text to Owen.
George
Hey… Just thought I’d check in.
And make sure you hadn’t blocked my number.
You know, because of the torture of reading my book.
Jesus Christ. Okay. Enough of that.
I set my phone aside and go back to my computer. Give the man a chance to respond.
Besides, I do have work to do here.
The cocktail waitress asks Sebastian his name. He gives the name of a Russian spy he slept with and then turned over to MI6. She types it into her contacts along with the number he gives her. It’s just 1-877-KARS4KIDS in numbers. She’s not very bright.
Okay, Owen hates the book.
He hates it and I texted him and now everything is super awkward because I made it that way.
I check the phone, just to make sure the wifi’s still on. It is and I have bars. Of course I do.
Maybe he doesn’t have bars. In New York City.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll just give him more time. I have spy stuff to spin anyway.
A couple hours later, I’m deep into self-loathing, halfway to acceptance, and almost all the way through Sebastian’s chase through Zurich on a stolen e-bike when the phone buzzes.
I’m afraid to look. I’m sure it’s a group message urgently letting me know my non-existent car is about to be repossessed. I brace myself and look anyway.
It’s from Owen.
I prepare for the worst.
Owen
I am so sorry. Zoe kidnapped me for a Christmas Day Adventure. I had to stop reading. I’d only just gotten to their first scene in person together and I’m DYING to know what happens.
No spoilers!!
My entire everything relaxes.
I mean. I knew he didn’t hate it. Kind of.
But also: thank God.
Suddenly, I’m almost giddy with relief.
Spoilers? I would NEVER.
Where’d Zoe take you?
So far? Window displays at Saks, Macy’s, and Bergdorf Goodman, dim sum in Chinatown, and now skating at Rockefeller Center.
She’s off trying to figure out if she can rent rhinestone-bedazzled skates like she saw some teen girl wearing (even though we already rented our skates). Only reason I had a chance to text you.
Not that I couldn’t text you in front of her, but…
My chest feels unduly warm. I don’t know exactly what kind of friendship or connection or whatever this is going to be is blooming between me and Owen, but yeah. It feels private.
No, I know what you mean.
Good.
So, just to clarify, you did not despise my manuscript with every fiber of your being?
I’m shameless.
I could NEVER.
I’m full-on melting.
Good.
So, did Zoe tell you any more of her plans, or is this a true captive situation?