Chapter 32 Wren
Wren
“I have to say, Wren, you sound lighter since the last time we talked,” my editor, Laurel, says, her enthusiastic voice crackling through my AirPods as I move laundry from the washer to the dryer. “Happier.”
I pluck a sock from the bottom of the basket. “Yeah? Maybe it’s all the fresh air. Or the complete lack of traffic.”
She chuckles. “Maybe. But I’m telling you, this move? Best thing you could’ve done.”
“I’m definitely feeling inspired again,” I admit, closing the dryer door with my hip. “It’s like everything slowed down just enough for me to breathe. And the ideas just . . . show up now.”
Laurel sighs dramatically. “God, I love that for you.”
We’ve been on the phone for twenty minutes, catching up on deadlines, contract talks, and the possibility of reviving my dying backlist. But now we’re veering into personal territory, which Laurel loves.
She likes to say she can’t technically be my therapist because of the ethics of it all, but that’s never stopped her from trying.
“What’s it like out there?” she asks. “Paint me a picture.”
“It’s peaceful,” I tell her, settling onto the couch. “Green fields and gravel roads for miles. Morning light that looks like a painting. There’s this wraparound porch with a swing, and some days it feels like I’m living in a Hallmark movie.”
“Do you have a cute farmer neighbor?” she teases. “Please tell me you at least have a cute farmer neighbor.”
I pause, biting my lip. “Actually . . . yeah.”
“Stop,” she gasps. “You’re telling me you’ve got all the makings of a small-town romance and you’re just . . . sitting on it?”
I laugh. “I’m not with him, Laurel. We’re just neighbors. He helped me out a couple times.”
“So you’re telling me you’re literally living in a romance novel and you’re not writing it? Wren.”
I roll my eyes, but she’s not wrong. Hunter is basically a romance hero come to life—grumpy, rugged, stupidly attractive. Private but quietly thoughtful. The type of man who builds things with his hands and looks at you like he’s already undressing your soul.
“I think you’ve got your next book,” she says with the confidence of someone who’s just cracked a long and difficult code. “My advice? Don’t let this go to waste.”
After we hang up, I sit at my desk and pull out my sunflower notebook. My pen glides across the page before I can second-guess myself.
Hunter—
You’re inspiring me in ways I don’t know how to explain.
Every time I see you, I get inspired. Last time, you made me want to write a scene where the hero looks at the heroine like she might be worth the trouble.
I imagine a female main character who feels like she’s always been too much and not enough at the same time, and a hero who sets out to show her she’s perfect . . . perfect for him.
I wish I could thank you for giving me my spark back, but I worry you’d see that as an open invitation. My life’s starting to feel a lot less complicated lately, and I’m not looking to change that.
But dreaming about it? About you? It’s enough—for now.
—Wren
I set the notebook aside, open my laptop, and pull up a blank Word doc.
The cursor blinks at me, a quiet dare. Within moments, a story begins to come together in my mind, bit by bit, scene by scene, piece by piece.
A broody farmer. A romance writer with writer’s block.
She writes him letters he’ll never read, and he affects her in ways he’ll never know.
I title the document Unsent Love Letters.
And I write the first chapter.