9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
They’d spent the entire afternoon working at their publisher’s office.
Not so much writing as brainstorming and plotting—at least as much plotting as Paige allowed.
And Ethan let her take the lead, partly because their contract dictated it, but mostly because she was unbelievably good at it, and had proven so over and over throughout the day.
He’d been so caught up in the way her mind worked that hours had slipped by in a blink.
“The meet-cute happens at the first archaeological site, the midpoint is when the jewel thieves first chase them, and their happily-ever-after comes when they find the necklace together,” Paige said, perched on the windowsill, cross-legged and fully in her element.
The office had served as a neutral ground for their first official writing session, and they’d taken over a sparse meeting room.
There was nothing but a table, a few chairs, and a wall displaying Windy City Press’s bestsellers—including his, and the first of her series.
Ethan sat at the table, his gaze shifting from his laptop to Paige.
The late afternoon sun bathed her in golden light.
“Yes,” he replied, typing a few notes.
“I love that Mary Anne was the one to save Aldean from the thieves.” Paige smirked over her screen, her enthusiasm palpable.
Ethan’s chest warmed. “Pops always said that was the moment he knew his heart was hers.” It meant more than he could say that Paige wanted to preserve the essence of his grandparents’ love story.
He knew this wasn’t a biography. It couldn’t be.
With his grandpa gone and his grandma’s memory fading, all he had were old news articles and the stories they’d passed down to him.
“She’s a spitfire,” Paige said, eyes gleaming. “And I love writing spitfire heroines.”
Ethan smiled. She was dang good at them too. That was one reason he’d devoured her Love, Lies & Alibis series. Paige’s heroines hooked him with their sharp wit and sheer determination. And now that he was getting to know Paige, he could see where that came from.
An idea struck, and he typed a few quick notes, already envisioning a scene that would cement Mary Anne and Aldean’s growing connection.
He was mapping out the chapters, adding scene ideas and notes for himself, but Paige didn’t want to know the details.
She only wanted to outline the beginning, middle, and end—needing creative freedom to let the story develop organically between those points.
“What if we alternate chapters?” Ethan asked, glancing at her over his laptop screen. “You write Mary Anne’s. I’ll write Aldean’s.”
Paige stilled, her nose scrunching like she smelled something foul.
“I don’t know . . .” She set her laptop aside and hopped off the windowsill, pacing a loop around the table.
It wasn’t the first time she’d done this.
In the past few hours, she’d sat across from him, sprawled on the floor, and perched at one end of the window ledge, then the other.
She’d filled pages of her notebook in bursts of messy scrawls.
She’d also taken her hair down and twisted it back into a topknot at least ten times.
Meanwhile, Ethan had barely moved. He’d stood to stretch, but he’d been in the chair now for an hour straight and his rear was officially numb.
“It could spark creativity, playing off each other,” he offered, tracking her movements with his gaze.
Paige tapped her chin, considering. “Maybe . . . but what if I hate what you write?” She winced. “I mean, what if I don’t agree with where you take the story?”
“You’ll have to trust me,” he replied. “At least a little.”
She pursed her lips, then grabbed her laptop and set it on the table across from him. “I like to be in control.”
“You don’t say?” he teased, smirking.
Her eyes narrowed, but she smirked back. “How do you see that working?”
He leaned in, seizing the opportunity. “We use a shared Google Doc. You write the first chapter from Mary Anne’s perspective. Then I’ll read it, add comments if needed, and then I’ll write Aldean’s chapter. And so on.”
She blinked at him, processing.
“Let’s just try it,” he coaxed.
A slow smile spread across her lips. “Actually . . . this could be fun.” She tapped a few fingers against the table. “We can build off each other’s ideas in real time.”
Relief loosened his shoulders. “Good.”
“I’ll write the first chapter this weekend.”
He exhaled, satisfied with how much they’d accomplished so far. But a twinge of something unexpected hit him. He’d enjoyed today—working together, bouncing ideas off each other, seeing her process up close. Would they lose that once they started writing separately?
“We should still meet weekly,” he added. “To brainstorm.”
“I like it.” Paige nodded. “But not here. I’m already over this tiny, lifeless room.”
“You pick the next location.” He drummed his fingers against the table, and her gaze flicked to his hand.
Before he could register what she was doing, Paige reached out and traced the scar across his knuckles. Her fingertips were featherlight, and a slow, warm shiver rolled through him—unexpected and far too pleasant. His breath stalled when her touch lingered.
“What’s this from?” she asked, her voice curious, not intimate—but his body didn’t seem to know the difference.
He flexed his fingers, glancing at the raised skin that ran across his first two knuckles. It’d been there so long, he barely noticed it anymore.
“Biking accident when I was a kid.”
Paige tilted her head, studying him like she could pull more out of him with her expression alone. “What kind of accident?”
“Actually, it was more like sabotage,” he admitted. “My brothers and I set up a ramp in the driveway—a concrete block and wooden plank. I was going full speed toward it when Ralph threw a steel rod into my front wheel. Jammed the spokes. I went flying.”
He paused, the story catching him off guard. He didn’t talk about his childhood often. Didn’t see the point. And yet, here he was, telling her anyway.
Paige’s mouth fell open, stunned. “That’s awful.”
“Broke my arm. Split my knuckles open. Got stitches.” He lifted a shoulder, like it was nothing.
Paige frowned, not looking convinced. “I bet your parents were furious at your brother.”
Ethan hesitated for half a second, then exhaled. “They weren’t thrilled.” But not for the reason she probably thought. His parents had been more annoyed about cutting a dinner with friends short to take him to the hospital.
Paige’s expression softened, her brown-eyed gaze searching his face. “That sucks.”
Something about the way she said it—like she really meant it—made his chest tighten.
“It’s fine. I healed. Could’ve been worse. I wasn’t wearing a helmet.”
She hesitated, like she had more questions, but wasn’t sure how to ask them.
“How many brothers do you have?” she asked after a few beats.
He could have left it at that, changed the subject. But he didn’t.
“Four. And two sisters.”
Her brows shot up. “You’re one of seven?”
He nodded, and more of the story bubbled up.
There was something about Paige’s curiosity that he wanted to satiate.
“My parents divorced when I was five. I was the only kid they had together. After that, my mom decided motherhood wasn’t her thing and took off to live her best hippie life.
” He said it casually, because it didn’t sting.
Not anymore. They’d reconnected, and he’d made peace with her decision, even though it wasn’t one he would ever understand.
“My dad remarried quick. My stepmom had four kids of her own, and they had two more together. We were like the Brady Bunch —if the Brady Bunch was wildly dysfunctional.” He smiled, making light of it.
“My older brothers never liked me much. Weren’t thrilled I ‘messed up’ their family dynamic.
And they thought I was my dad’s favorite. ” A sentiment he never agreed with.
Paige frowned, looking as though she might reach for his hand again. Instead, she curled her fingers into her palm. “I’m sorry. That sounds rough.”
He waved it off. “Everyone’s got their baggage. Therapy helped.” He shot her a grin, and she returned it.
“Are Mary Anne and Aldean your dad’s parents or your mom’s?”
“My mom’s.” His expression softened. “I was their only grandchild. They spoiled me with attention. They were my happy place.”
Paige sat with that for a moment. Then, quietly, she said, “I get it.” She folded her hands on the table, like she was seeing him in a new light. “I’m glad you had them.”
Something shifted between them—small, but Ethan caught it. And he wanted to hold on to that connection, grasp it with his hand.
Just then, Paige’s laptop beeped. She glanced down at it and sighed. “Ugh, I’m almost out of battery. Why didn’t I pack my charge cord?” She frowned at her computer.
“You want to go get coffee?” he asked impulsively, not ready for their time together to be over. “I could use some caffeine.” Plus, if he didn’t get up and move soon, he’d likely be glued to this chair forever.
She looked up, her face brightening. “I’d never say no to coffee. And a change of scenery would be nice too.”
Ethan stood, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. Paige gathered her things, stuffing her laptop into her tote. They left the office, stepping outside into a wave of warm air, thick with the scent of city pavement baking in the late afternoon sun.
“There’s a great coffee shop a few blocks from here,” Ethan said, moving his sunglasses from his head to his nose as they fell into step together.
“Lead the way.” Paige ran her hands through her hair again, maneuvering her wild waves into yet another tidy topknot. Ethan watched her work her magic with practiced ease.