Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
JULIET
J uliet set her laptop on the small desk by the window and flicked on the floor lamp. A warm glow flooded the room, illuminating worn leather bindings in muted hues of chocolate brown, navy blue, and dark plum. Coupled with the soothing thrum of rain, Frank’s study served as the idyllic setting for writerly inspiration. And yet, as Juliet stared at the blank screen, her thoughts weren’t alive with character and prose. She couldn’t stop thinking about her conversation with Nate.
Why had she blurted “no” so hastily when he’d asked if she’d written anything he might’ve read? Especially without clarifying. She should’ve said, “No, I haven’t been published yet. I’m working on my debut, but every idea I have reeks of desperation.”
Now, he probably thought she’d written him off as a literary Neanderthal. Although, to be fair, most men, in her limited dating experience, didn’t read all that much. In fact, on one of her more abysmal dates, the guy had actually told her to give up her author aspirations because in five years or less people would either stop reading altogether or only read books written by artificial intelligence. What a creep .
Deep male laughter rumbled from down the hall—Nate’s laugh. It was a rich, pleasant sound. But she wasn’t sure what to make of the man behind the laugh. He’d read Remarkably Bright Creatures , which earned him a check mark in the pro column. But he’d also assumed she wrote romance based solely on her gender. Definite con.
A sour taste rose in her throat as she recalled her intense reaction to his sexist presumption. Was pegging her as a romance writer really so insulting? Or did she feel defensive for another reason?
Her thoughts flew to the contraband buried in the bottom of her bag. The heartwarming, feel-good, put-a-smile-on-your-face holiday romance about two polar opposites who fell in love beneath twinkling lights and mistletoe. The kind of novel her mother derided for cluttering the shelves of bookstores with useless drivel. Her secret vice.
Her cell phone pinged, indicating a new text message.
Mom . Her ears must have been ringing.
Got to brag about you at a dinner party tonight.
Juliet checked the time, 8 p.m. in California, which meant it was around 4 a.m. in England. Must’ve been some party.
Another text came through before she had a chance to respond.
My daughter, the famous author. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?
Not famous yet , she texted back. Not even published yet, she refrained from adding.
It’s only a matter of time. You have Klein blood. Have you sent your chapters to Debra yet?
Not yet. I still have a few weeks.
Don’t dawdle. You want your novel front of mind before the holidays.
Before the holidays? Yeah, right, Juliet scoffed. She’d be lucky to make her original deadline. No way would she voluntarily turn in her chapters sooner.
I’m working on it.
Good. Proud of you, sweetheart.
Juliet’s stomach twisted as she texted her mother good night, knowing she’d been less than forthcoming. But as nauseous as she felt withholding the truth, she couldn’t admit her struggles or self-doubts. She needed to maintain the illusion. To fake it until she made it. The cost of failure was too high.
Before the book deal, her mother barely ever spoke to her. Even as a child, Juliet felt more like a nuisance to her parents than a source of pride—an inconvenience that got in the way of their literary genius. Then she’d taken a behind-the-scenes position at a nonprofit, and their opinion of her sank even lower. Such a waste of potential, they’d said.
But now? Now, everything had changed.
For the first time in her life, her parents respected her. They were genuinely proud. And they made an effort to spend time with her, to get to know her.
After years of existing in their shadows, she finally had a real relationship with her parents. And she’d do anything to hold on to the deeply coveted connection for as long as possible.
Even if it meant relying on a miracle.