Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
JULIET
J uliet leaned against the door frame, her fingertips pressed against her lips. They still tingled from Nate’s good-night kiss. In all her life, no man had ever kissed her like that. She tried to put the intensity of the experience into words, but not even utterly transcendent could do his kiss justice.
There was something special about Nate. He had this extraordinary way of looking at life, of turning a painful past into something positive—something powerful. He had an outlook—and a story—that should be shared.
At the thought, her gaze fell to her laptop occupying the small desk by the window, exactly where she’d left it earlier that evening. The smooth metallic case glowed in the golden light of the antique floor lamp.
Driven by an impulse she couldn’t explain, she sat at the desk. The quiet whisper of wind swirled silver snowflakes past the frosted window, but she barely noticed, lost in a world of words inside her head as scenes and characters magically came into being.
She opened her laptop, and the screen blinked to life. Positioning her fingertips over the black backlit keys, she gathered a breath, then let the words flow freely, without judgment or overthinking.
Callie Holloway hated Christmas.
Candy canes made her cringe.
Santa Claus made her shudder.
And mistletoe… don’t even get her started on mistletoe.
Didn’t anyone see the irony in making a poisonous plant the official mascot of holiday romance? They might as well force couples to kiss under a sign that read, Your romantic dalliance is doomed to fail .
Juliet chuckled as the playful prose effortlessly appeared on the page. Why didn’t anyone tell her writing could be so much fun?
Consumed with a creative energy she’d never experienced before, she indulged her secret, long-suppressed dream to write a “frivolous” romance novel. Without restraint or apology, she made a list of her favorite tropes—Opposites attract. Holiday homecoming. Unexpected inheritance—jotting down notes on how they’d each unfold. With every punctuated click of the keys, her heart beat faster, bursting with artistic anticipation.
By the time she paused to take a break, the characters felt like close friends. For the heroine, Callie Holloway, she borrowed bits and pieces from women she’d met at Reclaim, mixing in a pinch of herself. As a result, Callie felt real, with a personality—and challenges to overcome—that rang true to life. Her hero, Private Nick Anderson, bore a more direct resemblance to her inspiration, mirroring Nate’s backstory almost word for word.
Exhausted and exhilarated, she leaned back in the chair, stretching her fingers. She gazed in awe at the wealth of words sprawled across the screen, shocked by how much she’d accomplished in a relatively short amount of time.
In a few hours, she’d completed a comprehensive outline and five solid chapters. But what would she do with them? She loved what she’d created, but a romance novel wouldn’t live up to her parents’ expectations or her editor’s. Besides, she’d stolen Nate’s life story. His private, intimate thoughts and experiences weren’t hers to tell. She wouldn’t do anything to exploit him or betray his trust.
And yet, she couldn’t bear to delete all her hard work, either.
She saved the document onto her desktop under the acronym SCP for A Soldier’s Christmas Promise , surprised by the physical ache she felt knowing the unfinished story would never see the light of day. These characters didn’t even exist a few hours ago, so why did it hurt so much to say goodbye?
Before she could give the question more serious thought, her phone buzzed, signaling an incoming text.
Hi, sweetheart . Just got a call from Debra.
Uh-oh. Why was her editor calling her mother? Whatever the reason, it probably wasn’t good news.
Buzz . Another text.
She’s going to Singapore for New Year’s and won’t have a chance to read your chapters until she gets back.
Juliet felt her pulse skip a few beats, daring to hope. Would this mean an extension on her deadline? Please say she’s giving me more time . Holding her breath, Juliet stared at the three dots indicating her mother was composing another text.
I know you’re excited and want to keep the ball rolling, so rather than postpone, I told her you’d email your chapters early, by the end of this week.
Juliet stared at the screen, reading the text again. No, no, no… This couldn’t be happening. Please, no. Tears burned at the backs of her eyes as guilt and panic swelled in her chest.
She’d wasted so much time succumbing to her writer’s block, hanging her entire career on the ridiculous hope that some spectacular storyline would miraculously appear in her mind. She should’ve tried harder; she should’ve forced a story onto the page. Instead, she’d lived in denial at the expense of her future—of her parents’ respect.
And what did she have to show for her months of fear-induced avoidance? Absolutely nothing.
As she read the next text from her mother, a tear slid down her cheek, scorching her skin with shame.
Let me know if I overstepped, sweetheart. But I told Debra, I know my daughter. She’s a Klein, through and through. Ink runs in our blood. I said, Juliet probably has twenty chapters by now. And I know every one of them is brilliant. XXO
Sick to her stomach, Juliet dropped her head in her hands, surrendering to her tears. She had four days to turn in ten chapters with aplomb. Ten extraordinary chapters worthy of awards. Or implode her career before it ever got started. A career that she’d only just realized she wanted for herself, not merely to please her parents.
That night, somewhere amid the joyful haze of creative inspiration, she’d discovered a startling truth.
Her literary aspiration ran deeper than living up to a lofty family legacy.
She had an authorial dream all her own.
It just wasn’t a dream that would make her parents proud.