Six #2
“You sped it up to three times the normal rate.” He fixes me with a glare. “It was like listening to caffeinated chipmunks.”
I swallow a laugh, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Enemies-to-lovers?”
“Like Tiffany and Dylan’s book,” he says. The feuding booksellers in the first book of this series, who made more and more
outrageous window displays in their attempts to one-up each other. I had a blast writing their story because I had no trouble
encouraging them to go all-in for love, unlike Sydney and Victor, who stand to lose it all. “The scene in the back room when
they were unpacking stock...” He trails off.
I’d forgotten that one. “You remember my books better than I do.”
“Because unlike you, I’m not dreaming of new plots. I get to sit with yours for a while after I read them,” he says offhandedly,
like that isn’t the highest compliment a writer could receive. “But we’re friends. How would we act out enemies-to-lovers?”
“Remember that time we tried to build furniture together?”
He laughs. “Yeah, that would work. A little too well. I’m actually not sure our friendship could survive it.” He flips the
page. “Celebrity romance? Nah, that’s our daily life, minus the falling-in-love part.”
“You make it sound like I can’t walk down the street without getting recognized.”
“There was a line around the block at your last signing,” he says.
“But it’s not like I have to go incognito for a night out.” I point at the next trope on the list. “Also, no need to do snowed-in.
Remember last year in Colorado Springs?”
He flops backward. “The ratings for that vacation rental were a total scam. Four-point-nine stars my ass.”
Despite myself, I chuckle. “The hot tub alone.”
“Don’t.” He gags. “The sound of sludge churning out of those filthy jets still haunts me.”
I’d flown to Colorado at the end of his trip to visit his brother last year so we could spend a long weekend in the mountains.
The vacation rental was a nightmare, but we got snowed in and had to stay the night.
Needless to say, no romance ensued, but there was an epic battle with a cockroach who lived to fight another day.
He rakes a hand through his damp hair, and I catch the comforting scent of the body wash–shampoo combo he’s used since college.
“All of this seems a lot more complicated than going on a few dates. I’ve been thinking... The other day when you brought
this up, it wasn’t just for the sake of switching up your routine in hopes of getting unstuck. You planned to go on actual
dates, with men you had the potential to start a relationship with. Unlike me,” he adds, glancing away. “And I didn’t mean
to...” He faces me again, this time meeting my eyes. “I shouldn’t have tried to convince you not to.”
“I was kind of hoping you would,” I tell him. “I didn’t expect you to offer yourself as sacrifice, but—”
“It’s not a sacrifice, Mia.”
I want to believe him, but part of me feels guilty for pulling him into this. It might have been his idea, but I’m the one
who can’t let it go, even though I probably should. “If I’m really going through with this ridiculous scheme to get out of
my head, then you’re the only person I want to do it with.”
After a long moment, he says, “All right. So we act out these tropes...” He glances at me as if to confirm he’s used the
word properly, and I nod. “And our goal is to help you get to the point where Syd falling in love with Victor doesn’t seem
farfetched?”
I know intellectually how to craft a romance plot. How to ignite chemistry and make characters fall in love. I’ve done it
a dozen times. But knowing hasn’t helped me believe the best friends in this book can successfully make the leap to something more. So maybe this is a tactile sort of learning.
Feeling things out. There’s nothing rational about it. And maybe that’s what I need.
All I know is I need something to get past this block. Something more than long walks and new surroundings and music or silence and enough candles to set
off the building’s sprinkler system, nearly. I’ve tried all those. I’ve scene-charted and word-webbed and mood-boarded and
still, I can’t find the heart of the story.
“I know it’s a weird plan, but I feel excited to write this book for the first time since I shelved it back in college. Maybe
it’s time to switch up my process.” I write on a strict schedule. I plot the whole book before I begin, and my outlines are
as detailed as many writers’ first drafts.
“What’s wrong with your methods?” Gavin asks.
Lots of authors I know—Evie included—pour out thousands of words before the book takes shape, and that works for them. But
rather than coaxing the story out of a messy first draft, I chase down the plot, then drag it kicking and screaming back to
my laptop and interrogate it before starting to write. I once used that analogy in an interview and was gently asked by my
publicist to refrain from kidnapping analogies.
“I’m a plotter, but sometimes I feel like the pantsers get credit for being more artistic, even though we’re all weaving a
story from our imagination.” Seeing his confusion, I explain, “It’s a term for people who write by the seat of their pants,
so to speak. They don’t have to know where they’re going before they begin.”
“Everyone has a process. So, what if yours is less starving artist and more—”
“Formulaic?” I cringe, remembering the words of an ex-critique buddy.
He shakes his head. “Structured.” He gestures toward the bookshelf that holds rows and rows of author copies. “People are
obsessed with your books for a reason, Mia. Your stories are magic, and if the way you create them is a reliable process,
all the better.”
He’s echoing my own convictions, or at least how I used to feel before I got stuck.
It’s comforting to have a process that allows me to produce great books.
To know that readers will laugh and cry and swoon when they read a Mia Brady novel.
But the flip side is, now that my method has failed, I’m doubting my abilities.
“But it’s not working anymore.”
“Which is why you’re thinking outside the box.”
“Or inside the binder.” I waggle my brows at the joke, but Gavin is having none of it.
“Don’t make this nerdier than it is.”
“Nerdy is my wheelhouse.”
“And I love that for you,” he says. “But some of us have a reputation to maintain.”
“As a guy who tucks in his flower beds with blankies before a frost?”
“Good landscaping isn’t sexy?” He quirks a brow, leaving me momentarily speechless, then says, “And I’ve heard people love
a man in work boots.”
They do. I’ve written plenty of rugged heroes, and don’t get me started on the way my own heart flutters at the sight, not
that I’ll ever admit it to Gavin. “Boots don’t make a man.”
“The shade you’re throwing right now...” He shakes his head.
“Only because you implied nerdiness is unattractive.”
“What?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “I said I wasn’t one. Never said I didn’t find it hot.”
Hot. Nerds. Me? Words turn to slush in my brain, an unusual sensation. “You have a thing for nerds? How am I just now hearing
of this?”
His cheekbones turn crimson. “It’s not like a woman puts on glasses and—”
Pushing my glasses up, I say a tad defensively, “So all nerds need vision correction?”
“You know what I’m saying. It’s not the concept of nerdiness I’m attracted to. But if a woman is really passionate about...” His eyes dart to the binder, and he clears his throat. “Date or not, can we continue this discussion over dinner? I’m starving.”
Come to think of it, so am I. “Give me a second to change.” There’s a splatter of tomato soup on my shirt. All part of my
plan to make sure Gavin got the message nothing between us has changed. But I draw the line at looking this sloppy in public.
I’m in the middle of swapping my stained shirt for a clean one when I hear him say, “We’re going to that new place by the
center for the arts.”
Since I’m only wearing a bra, I poke my head back around the corner and see he’s scrolling on his phone. “The one with a wine
list?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But that’s so fancy. I’ll have to put on real clothes.” He looks up and seems to register for the first time that I’m not
dressed. His gaze skims my neck and shoulder, catching on the crimson strap of my bra before he glances away, clearing his
throat. “If I have to take notes, the least you can do is wear pants with a zipper.”
“I draw the line at a zipper,” I say, wondering why my skin feels suddenly flushed. “And who mentioned notes?”
“Mia, I’ve known you for years. Don’t think for a second that I believe you’re going to leave that binder behind.”
Biting my lip, I duck back inside my room, unable to shake the image of how Gavin’s eyes darkened when he caught sight of
me, his gaze on my bare skin almost tactile, like the slow tug of satin. Suddenly my unfinished manuscript is the last thing
on my mind, and isn’t that the point of all this?
I slip on a gauzy sundress I bought on a recent procrastination shopping spree, fluff my curls, swipe on some lip gloss, and at the last second, take off my glasses.
I usually wear contacts on dates, and even though this isn’t a date.
.. Stepping back out into the living room, I find Gavin by the door, spinning his keys on his finger.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was nervous.
I turn for him to zip my dress, and he obliges, fingertips warm.
“Thought you said no zippers.” This close, his words land like rose petals on the sensitive skin of my nape. Instinctually
I turn toward him, but he takes a step back.
“Figured I could make an exception.” I actually like getting dressed up, but standing here next to him in heels and a dress
makes this feel disconcertingly like a real first date.
I slide my fingers into the cutaway at my rib cage, loosening the fit, and his eyes dip for a moment, dark blond lashes lowered.
Just as quickly, he pulls the door open, beckoning me through. “We’ve got a reservation.”
He wasn’t exaggerating—he really is committed. And even though this might be the most farfetched thing I’ve ever done, so
am I.