Chapter 13 #2
Cole’s amber eyes narrow in assessment, the steadiness of his stare an almost physical force. “So are you?”
Playing dumb, I ask, “Am I what?”
“Taking a writing class? You’ve mentioned wanting to be an author.”
I sputter at his question. The word author sounds so outlandish and out of reach that I feel ridiculous for ever having admitted that to him. “No, I’m not. Sophie suggested I find a hobby. That’s not reading, I mean.”
“But you’re not sold on taking a writing class.” It’s more of a statement than a question.
When I don’t answer, he puts down his fork and rests his forearms on the table, his focus homed in on me.
“I told you I took a shit in my mom’s vegetable garden because I was scared a goldfish was going to resurrect itself from the toilet. I highly doubt anything you could say would be more embarrassing than that, so spit it out. What’s bothering you?”
I can’t help but laugh at the memory of that story. He has a point, though. My insecurities aren’t nearly as embarrassing as that.
“I don’t know.” Fork in hand, I pick at my food, moving it around on my plate.
“I guess the idea of turning what’s forever been such a pipe dream into a reality makes me nervous.
What if I spend months or years working on a manuscript, and then it’s not even good?
There are so many books and authors out there.
The Book Nook is big, and we only sell a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of published works.
Who am I to compete with the Sarah J. Maases and Emily Henrys of the world? ”
His nose scrunches up. “This is how you feel when I name sports players, isn’t it?”
A smile blossoms across my face as warmth blooms in my chest. “Yup, pretty much.”
“Okay, well, who are they? Besides authors, obviously.”
“Obviously.” I laugh. “A fantasy author and a romance author, respectively.”
“But you read fantasies and romances written by other authors, right?”
I flick my hand, gesturing toward the other side of my apartment, where books live in every nook and cranny. “Of course.”
“Just because a reader likes those authors doesn’t mean they can’t also like you.” He grins, pleased with himself. “Plus, you already have the perfect plot. You can write a memoir about a bookstore manager falling head over heels for a hockey player.”
Cheeks heating, I avert my gaze. What was I thinking, letting him into my apartment? Alone? During my child-bearing years?
“What a great idea for a work of fiction,” I stammer, shoveling a load of lo-mein noodles onto my fork. I shove them into my mouth, uncaring that I’m at serious risk of choking, because the alternative is to stare at him like an absolute idiot.
“I’m full of great ideas.” He licks a drop of sauce from his lips, and suddenly the room feels about twenty degrees too hot. “And I think you should take the writing course. Make it your New Year’s resolution or something.”
I lift a brow. “And what’s your New Year’s resolution?”
“To read more,” he says simply.
It’s impossible to keep the smile off my face. “You’re liking Alien Lovers of Planet Dexxar that much?”
“I like you that much,” he corrects, “but the alien lovers aren’t too bad.”
I’m too dumbstruck by his boldness to do more than gape.
“I know you like me, too,” he says, his smile a little arrogant. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be hanging out with me when you could be reading. But I’m more than happy to take things at your pace.”
I’ve never been flustered by a man before. Don’t get me wrong, I’m nowhere near cool, calm, or collected, but I rarely care enough to let a guy’s reaction or opinion affect me. Cole? He’s a different story. At a loss for how to respond, I awkwardly blurt out, “I got you a Christmas gift.”
A little too abruptly, I stand, banging my knee on the table in the process. Then I scurry to my coat closet, where I stuffed the box wrapped in snowflake paper.
I’m a decent gift giver, but I usually know how my audience will react. Cole’s a wildcard, so I can’t help but squirm a little as I hand it to him. “I went shopping with my brother and Logan and saw these. Thought you’d like them.”
Cole chuckles. “Shopping with Logan’s an experience.”
“One I’d be happy to never suffer through again,” I agree.
Logan’s the most indecisive person when it comes to clothing. He tried on the same pair of pants no less than thirty times before he decided he hated them and left the store with nothing.
Cole unwraps the gift and pulls out the two rocks glasses. They each have a hockey puck embedded into the side, making the glass look warped and broken.
A grin of genuine appreciation causes tiny lines to crinkle next to his eyes. “These are amazing, bean. Thank you.”
Hit with a wave of relief, I sink back into the chair and take a large gulp of wine. “Merry Christmas.”
“And happy Hanukkah to you,” he says. “I got you something as well.”
My insides light up with delight. “Really?”
“Really.” He shuffles to the front door and picks up a nondescript bag from next to his jacket. One I hadn’t noticed among all the to-go bags, I guess.
Wiggling in my chair, I tamp down on the temptation to squeal with excitement. I usually only exchange gifts with my siblings and Kennedy, so this is a surprise. Although maybe it shouldn’t be.
I gracefully take out the tissue paper so I don’t seem like a complete animal and pull out a forest green fabric-bound journal with one day these thoughts will be worth millions embossed on the cover.
“It’s a creative writing journal,” Cole explains as he sits back down. “There are a bunch of prompts and stuff.”
Emotion bubbles up inside me, warming me from the inside out.
“This is the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten.
” Granted, my mom once got me a gift card for the bookstore where I work, so the bar’s pretty low, but still.
I hold it against my chest like it’s a signed first-edition copy of The Great Gatsby. “Thank you. It’s amazing.”
“There’s no need to thank me.” He grins. “The smile on your face is more than thanks enough.”
And the smile he gives me in return makes me wonder if my New Year’s resolutions should include more than just giving writing a chance.