Chapter 33 OLIVE
OLIVE
Two Surprises
My fingers fly over the keyboard, the steady rhythm of typing syncing with the rush of energy building in my chest. There’s still an ache—yes—but it’s quieter now, shaped into something sharper. Purposeful. The words are the only thing I want, the only thing that matters right now.
I haven’t brushed my hair. I’m still in one of Nina’s giant hoodies and sleep shorts. A forgotten mug of cold coffee sits beside me, flanked by half-eaten chocolate and a lopsided stack of post-its. But I don’t care. I feel alive.
Because the words are coming fast, faster than I can keep up. And they’re good.
My heroine is standing in the rain, mascara streaking down her cheeks, yelling at the man who walked away from her—but she’s not begging him to come back. She’s choosing herself. Her voice doesn’t shake. It rises.
And maybe it started as me on that page—but now? Now it’s something more. It’s a story I believe in. One I need to tell.
I pause only when I hear the familiar ding of a new email.
My eyes flick to the corner of the screen, expecting spam or a rejection or something from my bank reminding me I don’t have an income anymore.
Instead, I see the subject line:
“Inquiry from Bloom & Finch Publishing”
My fingers freeze.
I blink, sure I’m hallucinating.
But no—there it is. A real email. From a real person. At a real publishing house. Sent to the anonymous contact address I keep on the blog—the one that doesn’t use my name, just the site’s inbox.
My heart lurches.
I click it open.
Hi there,
I came across your (beautifully) anonymous blog a few weeks ago and was blown away.
There’s something so raw and honest in your voice, and it stuck with me.
I shared a few posts with my editorial team, and we’d love to discuss the possibility of developing your work into a full-length novel under our imprint.
If you’re open to it, could we set up a quick video chat today or tomorrow? (Totally fine to remain anonymous on the call at first—we can talk next steps and what you’re comfortable sharing.)
Warmly,
Eliza Martin
Senior Editor | Bloom & Finch Publishing
I reread it twice, then a third time just to make sure my brain isn’t playing some cruel trick on me. My pulse is doing cartwheels in my ears.
I suck in a breath and press a trembling hand to my mouth, laughing a little through the tears
A notification pings—there’s a follow-up. A Zoom link. A request to meet.
Fifteen minutes.
Oh God.
My brain kicks into gear like I’ve been struck by lightning.
I bolt upright, slam the laptop closed, and launch into motion.
I’ve never gotten ready this fast in my life.
A cardigan over my tank top. Dry shampoo.
A haphazard ponytail. I swipe on the most neutral lip balm I own and avoid looking too closely in the mirror. This is happening now.
Only after I’ve thrown the mess of chocolate wrappers and coffee mugs behind the couch (out of sight, out of mind) do I finally approve the Zoom meeting.
I settle onto the couch, laptop balanced on my knees, legs folded, heart pounding.
I click the link.
The screen loads—and there she is. A kind-looking woman in a floral blouse with cat-eye glasses and a warm, curious smile.
“Hi, there!” she says brightly. “I’m so glad we could connect.”
“Me too,” I manage, my voice wobbling. “Thanks for reaching out. I’m Olive.”
We talk. About my blog, about the kind of stories I want to tell, about female characters who take up space even when they’re afraid they shouldn’t. I tell her how writing lately has felt like spilling, like bleeding on the page. Eliza nods and says, “That’s exactly what I want to publish.”
She asks if I’ve ever thought about writing a full romance novel. I laugh and say, “Oh, I already have. I’m two-thirds done.”
She grins. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”
Halfway through the call, while I’m explaining the character arc I’m working on, my phone buzzes beside my laptop. Liam. Not now. I hit decline and refocus on the meeting.
The phone buzzes again. A text preview flashes.
Liam:
Can we talk?
I ignore it for now. This might be the most important meeting of my life and Liam will have to wait.
Eliza’s still talking. I swallow, set the phone facedown, and refocus. I owe myself this moment. This call is mine.
By the time we hang up, I feel different. Like something inside me has shifted. Like maybe—just maybe—there’s still a version of my life that doesn’t orbit around someone else’s gravity.
“Nina!” I shout, stumbling off the couch like I’ve just been electrocuted. “Nina!”
She peeks her head around the hallway. “If this is about the ice cream pint I finished, I have a very good explanation.”
“No—better!” I practically tackle her in a hug.
She squeaks, nearly drops her coffee, and stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Okay, what’s going on? You’re glowing.”
I’m practically bouncing. “I just got off a call with an editor from Bloom & Finch. She read my blog. She loved my voice. She wants to work with me. On a book.”
Nina’s jaw drops. “Wait. Wait. Like… a real book? A published, printed, ‘buy it in a bookstore and make strangers cry’ kind of book?”
“Yes!” I squeal. “She said my writing has strong commercial potential—and they would love to publish my novel. I will send her the first few chapters and we will go from there.”
Nina’s jaw drops. “Oh my God, Olive!”
I nod so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. “I know! We talked about comps—like similar authors and titles—and market trends, and how the emotional tone of my book could hit that perfect sweet spot between heart and heat.”
“She actually said that?” Nina gasps.
“She actually said that.” I clutch my chest dramatically. “She wants the full manuscript. She said if the book is anything like what she’s read on the blog, it could be a serious contender for their spring romance lineup.”
“You’re almost done, right?” Nina asks, eyes wide.
“Basically! A few more chapters and a polish. I could send it by the end of the week.”
Nina puts her coffee down like she’s afraid she’ll throw it in excitement, then grabs both my hands and shouts directly in my face: “YOU ARE GOING TO BE A PUBLISHED ROMANCE AUTHOR!”
I let out a shriek that probably violates at least three apartment building rules.
Then we’re jumping up and down in the living room like two giddy kids on a sugar high, knocking into furniture, laughing like lunatics.
We collapse on the couch, tangled in throw pillows and each other’s limbs.
“This couldn’t have come at a better time,” I say softly, breathless.
Nina gives me a sideways look and squeezes my knee. “You’re starting something real here, Olive. Something you built.”
I nod, tears prickling again—but these aren’t from heartbreak.
They’re from joy.
***
By the time the sun begins to dip behind the buildings outside Nina’s apartment window, the day feels like it’s passed in one big, breathless blur.
The call with Eliza from Bloom & Finch lit a fire under me.
Since then, I’ve barely stopped moving. Outlines.
Blog post drafts. A pitch sheet she asked me to polish and send over.
I’ve even revisited my manuscript, poking at the messy middle section that’s been haunting me for weeks.
Somehow, now it doesn’t scare me. It excites me.
It's all happening so fast—and for once, in the right direction.
I pace across the living room, waving my arms as I talk a mile a minute, my laptop open on the coffee table beside us. Nina lounges on the couch, eating popcorn straight from the bag, nodding along with half-focused amusement.
“So if I cut chapter twelve entirely, I think I can streamline the pacing and shift the emotional climax toward the end, right? Make it sharper. Cleaner. More of a gut-punch,” I say, fingers twitching like I need to get back to the keyboard right now.
“Sure,” Nina says, amused. “Gut-punches. Always good in fiction.”
My phone vibrates on the side table with another call.
I glance over.
Liam again.
I sigh, internally wincing. I know I’ve been ignoring him—not on purpose, exactly, but I’m also kind of busy, working with an urgency like never before to get everything to Eliza, that she asked for. This is important.
I’ll call him later.
My thumb hovers over the call notification. Then I hit “decline” and tap out a quick message.
Olive:
Hey! In the middle of something—I’ll call you tonight.
I watch the message send, the familiar whoosh giving me a flicker of relief—then I’m right back to work, mapping out the last few chapters, brainstorming titles, and figuring out how to make the reader feel everything my characters do.
***
I wake up tangled in too many blankets and not enough rest. The light slanting through the blinds is soft and golden, but my head feels like it's stuffed with wool. I blink blearily at the unfamiliar ceiling.
It takes me a second to remember where I am. Nina’s. Her guest room.
I groan and stretch, limbs heavy from too little sleep and too much adrenaline the day before.
Yesterday feels like a fever dream.
The email. The call. The overwhelming swirl of plans and possibilities and lists scribbled across Nina’s kitchen whiteboard in three different colors of dry-erase marker. I was running on pure adrenaline and half a sandwich.
I reach for my phone.
And freeze.
There’s a notification from Liam. A message, timestamped just after midnight:
Liam:
You need to listen to Ash’s voice message. Please.
My stomach flips. The kind of flip that warns a crash is coming.
I blink at the screen, brain scrambling to remember—Oh God. I never called him back. I meant to. I just—
I sit up fast, covers falling off me in a heap. My fingers fumble to unlock the phone as I hit the call button with a racing pulse.
He answers on the first ring.
“Olive.”
His voice is tight. Urgent. On edge.