Chapter 19
By Friday Dana called with her apologies for taking a few days. “I hate to say this, but I think this is more of the same
of what you’ve been doing.”
I groaned, nearly breaking down in tears. Fifty pages of the same thing.
“It’s pacing, Alex. They’re looking for hipper, crisper dialogue and a faster start.”
“I don’t kick from page 1. I like to set my story world up.”
“I’m aware. But Sally doesn’t want that. Either you’re writing young and fast and hip or you need to go for a more women’s
fictiony romance with trauma. That’s the market.”
The weight of Sally’s demand sucked energy from every inch of my body. “What am I supposed to do? This is how I write.”
Dana released a long breath, and all I heard was silence on the other end. “You need to read some of what’s hot.”
“I can’t read. I’m writing.”
“You should do some research on the market.”
“Like a rookie writer.”
“Like someone trying to get their next contract,” Dana corrected. “You are not the first author not to have their option book picked up, Alex.”
Of course I wasn’t, but it still hurt. It cut me to the core to face rejection like this.
Dana was not telling me a single thing I didn’t already know. Having a pity party about what was happening was a waste of
time.
“I’ll read and see what I can do.”
“I put some notes in the document. I’ll finish up and email my thoughts.” I could hear the relief in her voice that I didn’t
break down on the phone.
“Sure,” I said, but I was already done talking to her. My emotions were spinning like a pinwheel in a hurricane. We finished
the call. I did not check the bestseller lists. I did not go on social media to look at trending hashtags for the genre. I
dropped on the sofa and slid down to the floor and cried. I had fifty pages of nothing.
It took a while, but I picked myself up off the floor. I opened the digital app for my library and checked out a few ebooks
from popular authors. The problem wasn’t that I didn’t know who was popular. The issue was that I had stopped reading romance—contemporary
anyway. I preferred historical fiction and historical romance. Because I wasn’t reading my writing genre, I was being accused
of not keeping up with the business. I was a fast reader, and with some skimming, I was able to get through two novels by
the end of the day. It was easy to see what Dana was talking about. It grieved me. I wasn’t this type of writer. I couldn’t
change my voice to match the current trends in what was considered good.
I closed the library app and scrolled through my ebook app. The digital shelves reflected my neglect—rows of historical fiction
and historical romance. Not one contemporary romance among them. Not even the ones released by my own publisher.
The realization landed heavily. How could I expect readers to fall in love with what I wrote when I hadn’t been in love with the genre myself? I’d been writing romance on autopilot, plotting by formula. I wasn’t feeding my own creative well anymore. No wonder it had run dry.
I set the phone aside and rubbed the bridge of my nose. I could feel that ache again, the sting of betrayal that came after
I’d read Sally’s email. But this time I was the betrayer. I’d betrayed myself.
My phone buzzed with a text message.
Gabe: You up for a video call?
I opened the camera, checking for puffy eyes. My reflection passed inspection—mostly. I pressed the Call icon before I talked
myself out of it.
His face appeared after a few seconds, the light around him dim. “Hey,” he said, his voice smooth and easy. Gabe-ish.
“Hey, yourself.” I leaned closer to the screen. “Why is it so dark? Are you hiding out in a cave somewhere?”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Power’s out. Something hit a transformer about three hours ago. Half the street’s dark.
I’ve got one candle and a dying laptop battery keeping me company.”
“A hotel without a generator?”
“I’m not in a hotel. I’m staying in a historic B&B.”
I smiled despite myself. “Sounds very nineteenth-century of you. Should I start calling you Mr. Darcy?”
“Only if you promise to write the love letter.”
His grin widened in the flickering light. The tension in my chest loosened a little. The shadows softened his face, made him
look less like the Gabe everyone else saw—the Pulitzer finalist—and more like the one I was slowly, dangerously getting to
know.
“Rough day?” he asked, and I liked that he saw me.
“Long one,” I replied. “The kind where you realize you’ve built an entire career on something you’re not even sure you love
anymore.”
“Ouch,” he said, his forehead crinkling.
“I am in pain,” I confirmed.
He tilted his head, his tone gentle. “Is it so terrible to know that, Alex? Maybe it’s an opportunity for an awakening.”
I tried to smile, but it came out small. “You make it sound poetic.”
“Everything’s poetic if you sit in the dark long enough.” His lips tipped upward, like he was only half serious.
I got the meaning behind his words, but Gabe and I weren’t the same. He was in a different league. The league where no one
told you what you could write. He could do whatever he wanted.
His candle flickered, casting soft gold light over the wall behind him. He meant well, and as always, looking at his face
made me feel better.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I sighed and shook my head. The heaviness left a gap in our conversation until Gabe asked about the students. I updated him
on the contest.
When I was finally ready to get back to book talk—the only other thing we had in common—I asked about his tour.
He said, “My event for next weekend was canceled, which means I’ll be in town Friday and Saturday.”
I had no idea why he was telling me that, so I waited without uttering words.
“I have tickets for dinner. On Friday. I was wondering if you wanted to be my plus-one.”
Dinner. That wasn’t a plotting session. I was curious about the ticket thing. “Dinner tickets?”
“It’s a thing better understood in person. You look like you could use some cheering up.”
“Is it going to do that?”
“You like good food, right?” he asked. Lights came on behind him, and he blew out the candle. “I think that’s a sign that
you should say yes.”
Before I knew it, I’d pitched an eyebrow. “I don’t believe in signs.”
He chuckled. “Yes, you do. Romance readers believe in magic. I bet romance writers do too.”
Our eyes locked and held. “So, dinner Friday?” he asked.
“I’m curious about what you have planned, but I can’t stay out late. I have a book event the next day.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
“Until next Friday,” I replied. Before I gushed like a teenager, I pushed the button to end the FaceTime.
Talking to Gabe reminded me of how much I missed male attention and conversation. A male voice for goodness’ sake. “Flirting,”
I whispered.
But even as the thought lingered, it didn’t quite fit. It wasn’t the attention alone. It was Gabe. The steadiness of him—unrushed,
unshowy. The way he listened. The way he waited before answering, choosing his words carefully. Nothing was wasted between
us.
It seemed silly to feel pulled toward him so quickly. But maybe our story had been writing itself all along, from my first
book signing at his store. After he’d introduced himself, I recalled thinking, He’s nice and handsome.
And that thought was a perfectly acceptable opening to a romance.