13. Brooke
Chapter 13
Brooke
T he soft, sultry notes on a CD of an indie jazz saxophonist I found when I was in New Orleans for a weekend during college fills my cozy library, wrapping around me as I settle back into my chair, closing my eyes for just a moment. The music seems to wrap around me, seductive and smooth, and somehow, it's not just the jazz setting my skin alight. It's the phantom memory of Trevor's hands, rough and gentle, lingering from last night.
The memory of his touch is still vivid—his fingers trailing lightly across my collarbone, his lips brushing my ear as his low voice murmured my name like a prayer. My body betrays me with a shiver, the warmth blooming in my chest and radiating outward.
“God, what are you doing to me?” I murmur, almost to myself, fingers hovering above my laptop keyboard. When I open my eyes, reality floods back in. The blinking cursor mocks me—a stark reminder of my current predicament. Writer's block. Every author’s worst nightmare, and right now, it’s mine.
I groan, leaning back. "Come on, Sophie," I whisper, using my pen name as a kind of motivator. "It’s just another steamy scene. You've written hundreds of them."
But this scene doesn’t feel like any other. It’s flat, uninspired, the spark is nowhere to be found. No matter what I try, I can't seem to capture that electric tension, the raw passion that two people truly wrapped up in each other would feel. And I know why.
My mind is entirely consumed by Trevor. By the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the world. By the way his hands find mine so effortlessly, like they were meant to. By the way he kissed me this morning—slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to savor me.
My gaze drifts to the window, where the hibiscus flowers outside sway in the ocean breeze. "Maybe I need a change of scenery," I muse aloud. "Or maybe…"
Trevor's face flashes through my mind, and heat creeps up my neck. His playful smirk, the twinkle in his blue eyes, the way his voice deepens when he’s teasing me. "No, Brooke," I mutter, trying to chide myself. "You can't use him for inspiration. That's... crossing a line."
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. I’ve already crossed that line in my mind a hundred times. My fingers itch to type, to let the emotions flow, to finally break through the writer’s block.
"Just one paragraph," I bargain with myself. "One little taste, and then I'll delete it. No one will ever know."
My fingers skim the keyboard threatening to set it on fire as the words fly faster than I think possible, each one carrying a little more intensity than the last. I let myself sink into the details, the sensations, the emotions—the sheer want that’s been bubbling inside me.
"His hands traced a path of fire down my spine," I murmur as I type, my cheeks warming. "Each touch ignited a spark, a promise of?— "
My phone vibrates on the desk next to me, jarring me out of the haze. I glance at the screen: Trevor . My heart skips, and a nervous smile tugs at my lips. I swipe to answer, holding the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual, though my pulse is anything but.
“Hey yourself,” he replies, his voice like warm honey. “Just checking in. How’s your day going?”
I glance at the half-finished sentence on my screen, the heat still lingering in my cheeks. “Oh, you know. Lying in bed just hanging out.”
“Need help?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a hint of curiosity there.
If only he knew. “I think I’ve got it under control.”
“You’re a perfectionist,” he says, chuckling softly. “It’s one of the things I think I like about you.”
His words send a flutter through my chest. “Careful, Dr. Jacobs. You’re dangerously close to distracting me.”
“That’s the idea,” he says, and I can practically hear his grin through the phone. “Dinner tonight? My treat.”
I hesitate for a split second before nodding, even though he can’t see me. “Dinner sounds perfect.”
“Great. Seven o’clock?”
“Seven,” I confirm, the smile lingering on my lips even after we hang up.
I turn back to the laptop, staring at the half-finished sentence. The memory of his voice, rich and teasing, lingers in my ears, and I know there’s no way I’ll be finishing this chapter without at least some wine in me.
A few hours and at least seven written chapters later, a sharp knock at the door yanks me from my reverie. I jump, slamming the laptop closed, heart racing like a guilty teenager caught in the act .
“Brooke! Open up, girl!” Kendall’s voice calls out, muffled but unmistakable.
I take a deep breath, smoothing my hair before heading to the door. When I open it, Kendall stands there with a mischievous grin, a bottle of wine in one hand and a bag of delicious smelling tacos in the other.
“Well, well,” she says, pushing past me into the room. “Looks like someone’s been busy. And I don’t mean with library books.”
I feel my cheeks flush. “What are you talking about?” I only let her in because she’s got tacos.
Kendall plops down on my couch, uncorking the wine. “Oh, please. Charlie told me about your cozy dinner with Dr. Dreamy. Said the chemistry was sizzling so much, she could have cooked dinners at your table.” Kendall wiggles her eyebrows, which is not a good look on her.
“It wasn’t like that,” I protest, but images of Trevor's intense gaze across the table flash in my mind, and I know I’m fooling no one. It was totally like that. “and don’t wiggle your eyebrows like that. It’s creepy.”
“Uh-huh,” Kendall smirks instead as she’s pouring us each a glass. “So, spill. I want all the juicy details.”
I sigh, settling into the armchair across from her. The wine is rich and smooth, helping ease my nerves. “It’s complicated, Ken,” I admit, twirling the stem of my glass. “Trevor’s... he’s different. But I’m nervous.”
Kendall’s playful expression softens. “Nervous over what, honey?”
“Getting hurt again,” I whisper, feeling the weight of the words. “You know how it was with Jake. I don’t think I can go through that again.”
“Trevor is not Jake,” she says firmly.
I nod, taking a long sip. “I know. But… it’s everything. Do you know how people look at teachers and librarians? Li ke we’re supposed to be these pure, saintly creatures. Virginal.”
Kendall snorts. “As if.”
“Exactly,” I say, laughing a little, feeling a bit of the tension ease. “If they only knew…” I pick up a taco, then gesture at her. “I mean, look at me. I’m fine with how I look, but how long will a hot trauma surgeon want me? Especially with all those cute nurses bee bopping around him all day?”
Kendall’s eyes narrow as she sets her taco down. “Stop it right there! No way am I letting you get away with that. I wouldn’t let someone else talk bad about you – what makes you think I’m going to let you talk bad about yourself? You’re incredible, smart, and beautiful – inside and out - and if this Trevor guy doesn’t see that, he’s not worth your time.”
I frown, knowing she’s right but still feeling a trace of insecurity. “I’m just… I don’t know how to explain it.”
“There is no ‘ just .’” Kendall says, her tone is fierce. “You’re beautiful, and if Trevor or anyone else doesn’t see that, you move on. Got it?”
I hesitate, and then finally, I nod. “You make it sound so easy to do.” It’s easy for her to say since she’s a size zero with the best hair in town. How she gets those natural waves to sit perfectly on her head I’ll never know.
She squeezes my hand. "You do it by being you, Brooke. All of you. The passionate, complex, amazing woman that you are."
A warmth settles in my chest, and I feel a flicker of hope. “You really think I should go for it with Trevor?”
Kendall grins. “Honey, I think you'd be crazy not to. Life’s too short to be second-guessing yourself all the time like you do.”
A smile tugs at my lips. "Maybe you’re right. Maybe it's time to take a leap."
Kendall lights up, pointing at me with her wine glass. “ Speaking of taking leaps—have you read that new Sophie Quinn book I lent you yet?”
I nod as I finish off my taco. “Yes, it was… good.”
Kendall’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Good? Just good? It was amazing! I mean, did you see how Harley gave up everything for love? She left behind all that money and fame for a guy with a vineyard!”
I chuckle, watching her dramatics. She flops back into the couch, clutching her heart like she’s Harley herself. At least how I saw her when I wrote it.
“Richard gave her an ultimatum! Live with him in Italy, on his vineyard or be the famous movie star. I thought she’d say no and go back to her old life, but she didn’t. She really loved him,” Kendall sighs.
I nod along, though my mind is racing—of course, I know the story well. I wrote the damn thing.
Suddenly, Kendall sits up, pinning me with a serious look. “I still can’t believe you only thought it was ‘ good .’ If Hallmark doesn’t make a movie out of it, I’ll riot.”
I laugh.
If only Hallmark would call. That would be a dream come true.
“Oh! Did you hear?” she says, her tone taking on a note of excitement.
“What?”
“Someone thinks they figured out who Sophie Quinn really is.”
My heart skips a beat. “Isn’t the author… Sophie Quinn?” I ask, feigning innocence. Could this be the fan who’s been sending those cryptic emails to me?
“No, duh! That’s just the pen name. No, they say they know the real identity of Sophie Quinn. There’s this blog that’s been piecing together clues. The blogger says they live in Florida and claims they know Sophie’s real name and maybe even her location.”
Panic settles in, and I force a smile. “Really?”
Kendall nods eagerly. “I’ll send you the link. It’s like a real-life mystery! I’m hoping it turns out Sophie lives nearby. I bet we’d be best friends.”
The irony nearly makes me choke on my taco. “You think so?”
“Oh, totally,” she says, oblivious. Then her expression shifts. “Though they say, ‘never meet your heroes.’ Maybe she’s a total diva or… I don’t know, a psycho.”
I laugh, despite the knot in my stomach. “She’s probably just a regular person, like you and me.”
Kendall raises an eyebrow. “Oh, fuck. What if Sophie Quinn is a guy. That would ruin the entire franchise for me. I could never read another Sophie Quinn novel if that is the case. Never.”
I smirk, lifting my glass. “You’d better hope not.”
But even as we laugh, the weight of the secret presses down on me because the truth is, Sophie Quinn isn’t a guy, she’s not a diva or a psycho, and she’s certainly not a stranger.
She’s just little ole me.