Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Melody stumbled into the writer's workshop, her heart still racing from her unexpected encounter with Nate. His words echoed in her mind: "I'm full of surprises, Archer." The nerve of that man, still trying to charm her after everything.
The room was already buzzing with activity, authors of all genres huddled in small groups, chatting animatedly. She scanned the crowd, looking for a friendly face or an empty seat.
"You look like you've just seen a ghost," a voice said beside her. She turned to see a woman with wild curly hair and thick-rimmed glasses. "Or maybe an ex. Same difference in this industry, am I right?"
Melody blinked. “I know you, don’t I?” The woman nodded, a small smile gracing her red-lipstick lined lips, and recognition clicked. “Ah, that’s right. Marco's Thursday night cooking class. Back corner station, right?”
“Right. I’m the one always arguing with him about adding wine to the sauces.”
“And we thank you. The more wine Marco buys for the class, the more my best friend Hannah sneaks into her bag for us to drink later.”
“Just doing my part to the deconstruction of wine-loving women everywhere.” The woman grinned, extending a hand, which Melody promptly shook. "I'm Zoe.”
“I’m Melody." After a few seconds, Melody released Zoe’s hand. “And I’m sorry I get so distracted that we hadn’t officially met until now.”
“Oh no. Don’t apologize. That’s what wine classes are for.
Making delicious, badly-shaped pasta and losing yourself for a few hours in marinara sauce.
Besides, I recognize you. I read your last book—the one about the divorce lawyer who falls for the wedding planner?
Brilliant stuff." Zoe gestured to an empty seat.
"Come on, I got an extra spot. We can dish about both writing and Marco's opinion on my heavy-handed approach to Chianti. "
"Thanks," Melody said, following her. "So what brings you to a literary workshop? Don't tell me you're secretly writing a cookbook that'll drive Marco to tears?"
Zoe snorted. "Close. I'm actually a food critic for the Seattle Times, but I'm branching out into novel writing.
Working on a culinary mystery series—think amateur sleuth who solves crimes through her work as a restaurant reviewer.
Marco's class has been amazing research, even if he does think I'm butchering his grandmother's recipes. "
"A culinary mystery? That's fantastic! No wonder you're always taking notes during class."
"Those aren't just recipe notes, honey. I'm documenting every time Marco clutches his chest when someone overcooks the pasta. Pure gold for character research, by the way.”
Melody followed her to a table near the front, grateful for the distraction from her Nate-induced turmoil. As they settled in, the workshop leader, a stern-looking woman with a no-nonsense bob, called the room to attention.
"Welcome, everyone, to 'Maintaining Your Voice in a Market-Driven World.' I'm Dr. Eleanor Rigby, and no, I wasn't named after the Beatles song. My parents just have a twisted sense of humor."
A chuckle rippled through the room. Melody found herself relaxing, drawn in by Dr. Rigby's dry wit.
"Now," Dr. Rigby continued, "who here has ever felt pressured to change their work to fit market trends?"
Every hand in the room shot up, including Melody's. Dr. Rigby nodded grimly. "I thought so. Let's start with you." She pointed at Melody. "Tell us about a time you felt your creative vision was compromised."
Melody swallowed hard, suddenly aware of all eyes on her. "Well, uh, recently I was offered a ghostwriting deal. It would have meant writing under a different name, following strict plot guidelines. Basically, selling my soul for a paycheck."
Murmurs of agreement filled the room. Dr. Rigby leaned forward, intrigued. "And how did that make you feel?"
"Angry," Melody admitted. "Frustrated. Like they didn't value my unique voice."
Zoe patted her arm sympathetically. "Been there, sister. It's like they want us to be vending machines. Insert market trend, dispense bestseller."
The workshop dissolved into a lively discussion. Authors shared horror stories of editors demanding happy endings where there shouldn't be any, of being told their characters weren't "relatable" enough.
"But here's the million-dollar question," Dr. Rigby interjected. "How do we maintain our artistic integrity while still, you know, eating and paying rent?"
A silence fell over the room. It was the question they had all been grappling with, the tightrope they were all trying to walk.
"Maybe," Melody found herself saying, surprising even herself, "it's not about refusing to compromise at all. Maybe it's about finding the right compromises."
Dr. Rigby nodded encouragingly. "Go on."
Melody took a deep breath, thinking of her conversations with Nate, with Elizabeth. "What if we looked at it as a collaboration? Not us versus them, but finding a middle ground where both creativity and commercial viability can coexist?"
The room erupted in debate. Some authors nodded vigorously, while others looked skeptical. Zoe turned to her, her eyes wide.
"That's... actually not a bad idea. But how do we do that without losing ourselves in the process?"
As the discussion continued, Melody found her mind drifting back to Nate. Had she been too quick to dismiss him? Too stubborn to see that he might have been trying to find that very middle ground?
The workshop flew by in a whirlwind of brainstorming sessions and heated debates. By the time Dr. Rigby wrapped things up, Melody's head was spinning with new ideas and perspectives.
As they filed out of the room, Zoe linked her arm through Melody's. "So, I need the tea…Who's the guy?"
Melody blinked, caught off guard. "What guy?"
Zoe rolled her eyes. "The one who's got you all twisted up. Don't think I didn't notice you zoning out every time someone mentioned 'compromise' or 'collaboration.'"
Melody sighed, realizing there was no point in denying it. "He's... no one. My editor, actually."
“Ooh, forbidden office romance. Spicy!"
Melody laughed, shaking her head. "It's not like that. We just... we had a disagreement about my work. But now, I'm starting to think maybe I didn't give him a fair chance."
"Ah, the classic 'I was too stubborn to see he might have a point' scenario. So what are you going to do about it?"
"I think... I think I need to talk to him. Really talk, without all the anger and defensiveness."
“Thattagirl,” Zoe grinned, as if she was on the verge of actually patting her back. “I say go get your man. Or your creative freedom. Or both. Preferably both."
They exchanged numbers, promising to keep in touch, before parting ways. As Melody navigated through the conference crowds, she spotted a familiar head of perfectly tousled hair near the coffee stand.
Her heart did a little flip. Nate. He hadn't seen her yet, engrossed in conversation with another man in a sharp suit. Probably some bigwig publisher, she thought wryly.
She watched him for a moment, struck by the passion in his gestures as he spoke. This wasn't the cool, corporate Nate she was used to seeing. This was a man fighting for something he believed in.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled out her phone and typed out a quick text: "We need to talk. Professionally.”
She hit send before she could second-guess herself, then watched as Nate pulled out his phone. His eyebrows rose as he read the message, then his eyes scanned the crowd, searching.
Their gazes locked across the busy conference hall. For a moment, it was like everyone else faded away. Nate's lips curved into a small, hopeful smile as he typed his reply.
Her phone buzzed. "Absolutely. Name the time and place.”
Her mouth went dry. Not a date, she wanted to protest. A professional meeting. But as she watched Nate turn back to his conversation, a new energy in his stance, anticipation swirled in her stomach.
This conversation could change everything—her career, her relationship with Nate, her entire approach to writing.
As she headed towards the main hall for the closing keynote, she steeled her nerves. All she knew was this: she wasn’t going down without a fight. And she was starting to believe that this time, the fight would lead to something beautiful.
Time to see what surprises Nate Carlisle really had up his sleeve.