Chapter 44
GEORGE
I close the laptop. My body aches. When did I move to the sunporch? Oh right. Hours ago. My coffee sits cold on the floor beside me. Outside, the sun is setting, the sky all pinks and oranges. I think I forgot to eat lunch.
I blink.
And then I grab my phone.
“George, are you calling to tell me you’re done with the manuscript?” Anabel singsongs as soon as she picks up. She sounds happy. Relaxed. Joyful, even. Like she might be enjoying her holiday vacation time. I hope I’m not about to ruin that for her.
“No. Well, almost actually, but listen, hear me out.”
“If you’re going to try to pitch me that ending where Steele ends up in the hospital and it’s a cliffhanger again, I’m not going for it.”
“No, I…” I blow out a breath, run my hand through my hair. This is hard. I knew it would be, but still. “Just… just let me talk for a minute, okay?”
“Okay.” She sounds worried, and I don’t want her to worry. So I hurry on.
“I’ve been writing Sebastian Steele for”—oh God, has it actually been that long?—”Ten years, right?”
“Right…”
“And I enjoy it.”
“Good…”
“And I know it brings in a lot of money to the publishing house.”
“It does. George, what—”
“But, Anabel, listen.” And then I just blurt it all out. “I have another project. I didn’t mean to be working on it, but I have been, and it is really my passion, and I would like to pursue it.”
“You have another project?”
“Yes, um, sorry, it’s, well. It’s historical romance.
Queer historical romance. And it’s kind of sweet and a little sappy and generally very emotion-based.
And I know it would be a whole different audience than Steele is, but I could use a pen name, maybe, and I know it’s not what you’re expecting from me.
It’s not what I expect from me, but it’s what I wrote anyway, and I really, really, really enjoyed it.
And I’m not going to stop writing Steele, but I want to do this too.
I think maybe I need to do this too. And I was hoping you’d want to do it with me. ”
There’s a long pause. Long enough I get nervous waiting for her to respond.
“Or I could take it to another publisher, if you prefer. We could work out an exception in my contract. I mean, if anyone would even pick it up, I don’t know, and—”
“No! No. Don’t go anywhere else, George. I’d like to read it.”
“Seriously, Anabel, you don’t have to. I can—”
“No. I’m sorry, I was just recalibrating. I promise you, I’d like to read it. I’d actually love to read it.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Seriously, you do not have to oversell your interest.”
“No, I’m not, I… I’m actually really excited about this,” she says. “Like, really excited.”
Which makes me feel like I’m missing something. Am I missing something?
“Spill.”
“Okay, this is not official yet. Like you can’t tell anyone.”
Anabel and I have been working together since the beginning, since she was a baby editor going through slush piles and I was her slush. She is a professional to the core, but she’s also a true friend. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“I’m getting my own imprint.”
My mouth goes dry. “You’re leaving me?”
“Frieda will be taking over my existing authors, yes. But—”
“Oh. Well, congratulations. I guess I pitched all that to you for nothing.” I try to sound cheerful. I am happy for her. Anabel deserves this kind of creative opportunity. And Frieda’s great, I’ve worked with her here and there before. It’s just—
“George. I’m starting a queer romance imprint. And I really, really need a few stellar books to launch it with. So will you please send me your freaking manuscript?”
Oh. Oh. Ooooooh.
I clear my throat and try to sound casual. “Uh, yeah. I can do that.”
“Good. And George?”
“Yeah?” I am grinning like an idiot now.
“Finish the Steele book first.”
Right. “Yes, ma’am.”
I hang up the phone. I’m still grinning. I feel like I might break into hysterical laughter. Or tears. Or both. I don’t know what to do with myself.
The hugeness of this can’t be overstated. I made one phone call. I asked for one thing. A thing I really, really wanted and probably wouldn’t have asked for on my own.
And I got it.
What if I asked for other things I wanted?
And then my hands are shaking, and my heart is racing, and I’m still so high on everything that just happened that I manage to pull up my contacts and call before I can talk myself out of it.
It rings twice, and then he answers.
“Hello?”
Oh God, his voice. Soft and warm and low and sweet, like flannel and maple syrup and other lumberjacky things, and I can’t even think straight, and I do not care because I’m doing this.
“Hi, Owen.”
“Hey,” he says, and I can hear his smile. I did that. I made him smile. “I was wondering if I’d hear from you today. I didn’t want to bother you if you were working.”
“I was. Or sort of. I got a lot done, anyway, and—do you want to go out?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Uh, what?”
“With me. Do you want to go out with me? On a date? I mean obviously not… you’re there, and I’m here so not…
but somehow, some way I just… aaah!… It’s been a crazy day.
I read over the romance manuscript because you said it was good, and I didn’t believe you.
But then I looked at it, and I thought maybe you were right, and then I pitched it to my editor, and she actually wants it, and maybe it’s happening, and that’s all because of you, so thank you.
” I pause to breathe, because breathing is important.
“George, that’s great. Congratulations. I—”
“And I have just liked getting to know you so much this last week. I like you. And I don’t think I’ve been imagining how we…
click.” I take a deep breath. “I really, really like you. And I guess I was afraid to say that. But what’s the point of wanting things if you don’t even try to have them?
And I want you, Owen. I mean not… I don’t… want you want you. Well, I do but—”
“George—”
“Oh Lord, yes, please save me from myself.”
I expect a laugh, but I get a deep sigh instead.
“I like you, too.”
“Well, good. That’s good…”
“And you haven’t been imagining anything…” Except right now I really, really hope I’m imagining the pained tone in his voice. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Oh.” And then, because when I humiliate myself, I really like to dig in deep, I say, “Is it because of the distance, because I was thinking that we could—”
“No. It’s just… No, George. I’m sorry. It just wouldn’t work.”
For a minute, there’s no sound except both of us breathing over the line. Then I finally realize I need to say something.
“Okay,” I say. Because I’m brilliant that way. And because there isn’t anything else to say.
And then I hang up.