Skylar #2
"Now that you've witnessed my highly sophisticated method of researching a novel," I say, unable to resist a self-deprecating smile, "it's your turn. You and Vince were talking about editing."
I lean slightly toward the empty seat between us, pretending to study the screen of his laptop.
"What kind of book are you writing?"
"Me?"
He looks from me to his computer as though making sure I've asked the right person.
"The Great American Novel, I guess. Isn't everybody?"
A rich laugh escapes him, warm and genuine, and despite every effort to remain unaffected, I feel myself smiling.
"Sounds like a bestseller."
Maybe I'd judged him too quickly.
He doesn't seem arrogant at all.
He seems... normal.
"I've been writing it on and off for years," he says with an easy shrug. "I'll probably never publish it. It's just something I enjoy."
I settle back in my chair, surprised by how quickly the conversation begins to feel comfortable.
There is an ease about him that doesn't fit the opinion I'd formed only minutes earlier.
His smile carries a hint of mischief that makes me wonder whether he's naturally playful or simply enjoys keeping people guessing.
As he gives me a brief description of his novel, I realize I've stopped listening to the words.
Instead, I'm studying the man.
Purely for research purposes, of course.
His cheekbones are strong and well defined, his jaw square enough to make a sculptor jealous, and every now and then a lock of dark hair slips forward before he brushes it back with absentminded ease.
Then there's his voice.
Whether he's writing the next great American novel remains to be seen, but with a voice like that, he could have made a living singing to sold-out concert halls.
"You never know," I say, finally dragging my attention back to the conversation. "Yours could be the next literary phenomenon. Look what happened to the woman who wrote Fifty Shades of Grey."
He closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath, his chin dropping toward his chest before he gestures dismissively toward his laptop.
"What I'm writing has absolutely nothing in common with those books. Nothing. This is literature. A period piece. A story about discovery, perseverance, and grit. There's no kink in my novel."
I can't resist.
"Oh, I think Ms. E. L. James might object to you dismissing her multimillion-dollar success quite so quickly." A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. "The only thing fluffy about those books is probably the cloud she floats on every time another royalty check arrives."
His expression shifts, and I continue before he has the chance to interrupt.
"Besides, the first book alone sold more than one hundred and twenty-five million copies, and that doesn't even include the rest of the trilogy."
He gives me a knowing look, his smile never leaving his face.
"Have I offended you? I'm not trying to. I'm just pointing out the difference between a romance novel and serious literature. You can't compare War and Peace to Fifty Shades of Grey."
"I can if we're talking about readership."
The response leaves my mouth before I have time to soften it.
"Lord of the Flies has sold a little over twenty-five million copies.
To Kill a Mockingbird has sold more than forty million.
Even Gone with the Wind, one of the most beloved love stories ever written, sold around thirty million.
" I tilt my head, unable to resist smiling.
"You should probably know the facts before dismissing a genre you clearly haven't taken the time to understand. "
He studies me for a second before a slow grin spreads across his face.
Good.
He isn't offended.
Neither am I.
I don't mind defending romance. My bank account isn't anywhere near E.
L. James's, but writing love stories has given me a career I genuinely love, and I'll happily stand beside every writer who's ever been told their work somehow matters less because people happen to fall in love before the last chapter.
His laugh rolls out low and effortless, the sound deep enough to settle somewhere beneath my ribs. I silently scold myself for noticing. Apparently my ears haven't gotten the memo that they're supposed to stop reacting every time he opens his mouth.
Before I can dwell on that unfortunate reality, another question pops into my head.
"What part of the country are you from?"
He looks mildly surprised by the abrupt change in direction.
I suppose most people would be.
My brain doesn't always travel in straight lines.
One question inevitably leads to another, and after years of researching novels, I've accepted that curiosity rarely waits its turn.
I've searched everything from the best place to bury a body to obscure R&B trivia because some random thought refused to leave me alone until I chased down the answer.
Writers don't research one subject at a time.
We collect hundreds of them, each waiting patiently until the story needs it.
"I'm originally from the Midwest," he says, "but I've lived all over. Up and down the East Coast, then out West for a while. I've bounced around a bit."
A pang of guilt nudges me.
Maybe I'd come across more combative than I'd intended. I wasn't trying to pick a fight. I was simply defending something I care about.
"So where are you headed now?"
"I'm flying back to Florida. I'm in the middle of moving from there to Annapolis."
That catches me off guard.
"You're leaving Florida?" I ask before I can stop myself. "Why? Winter is coming. Maryland weather can't decide what season it wants to be."
He shrugs.
"Florida's nice, but I'm ready for something different. A few years ago I took some time off. I honestly thought I was settling into semi-retirement."
I blink.
"Semi-retirement?" I can't hide my disbelief. "What are you... thirty?"
His laugh returns.
"Yeah, there's that. Turns out you can only sit around for so long before every day starts looking exactly like the one before it.
I got bored." He leans back comfortably in his chair.
"Truth is, I missed Maryland. Annapolis feels like home.
Everything's close. A few hours west and you've got the mountains.
A few hours east and you've got the ocean. "
He lifts both hands as though balancing invisible scales.
"Beach in the summer. Skiing in the winter. What's not to love? They don't call it the Land of Pleasant Living for nothing."
Retired?
That single word captures my attention more than anything else he's has said.
Questions begin multiplying faster than I can answer them. Did he sell a company? Win the lottery? Inherit money? Invest early? Every possibility seems more unlikely than the last, and my imagination happily runs with all of them.
Now I'm genuinely intrigued.
What I want to say is, Have you completely lost your mind? Last winter Maryland buried us under snow three separate times.
Instead, I exercise remarkable restraint.
"I think I would've stayed where the beaches are warm."
A playful smile curves his mouth.
"I don't think things would've worked out very well if I'd stayed in Florida."
"Really?" I ask. "Why not?"
His brown eyes hold mine, warmth replacing the teasing I'd grown accustomed to over the last several minutes.
"Because if I had, I wouldn't have met a nice girl like you."
Every coherent thought abandons me.
Heat races up my neck and floods my cheeks before I have any hope of stopping it. My lips part in complete surprise, and I'm suddenly very aware that he's watching every reaction unfold.
"You're blushing," he says with obvious satisfaction. "And it's a very pretty shade of pink."
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