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I’ve also found the man has a sweet tooth that rivals his hot sauce obsession (he keeps a bottle in his car. Seriously, RIP to his tastebuds) because the moment he came home to honey joys (learned from a retired Australian cattle farmer), he’s been trying to get me to make more.
“I think you missed a spot,” Cassie calls out, causing Emerson to turn away from the fence.
When I mentioned that Becca’s cousin was coming over to paint, Cassie didn’t waste any time. She’d said it was to “finally get the last few chapters of the book,” but we’ve been huddled on the porch for the better part of three hours, and she’s had her eyes on him more than the manuscript.
“If you think you could do any better, you’re welcome to help,” he calls back, then proceeds.
I nudge Cassie with my elbow. “Stop it. He’s doing me a favor.”
“But he’s just so cute when he’s cranky,” she whispers back.
From the way Emerson ducks his head, I think the feeling is mutual.
“Excited about your date tonight?” I tease. “Let’s hope this one doesn’t show up in flip-flops like last time.”
She groans. “I still can’t understand it. At a sushi restaurant, seriously?”
Shaking my head, I gesture back to the book. “Aren’t you supposed to be reading?”
Usually I would want to be as far away as possiblewhile someone reads my unedited words, but she’s at the climax now, and I want to see the moment the twist reveals itself.
Progress has been slow, so much slower than when I’m ghostwriting, but at this point, it would be better to fail miserably than never finish.
I’ve been waiting for my life to begin. Lingering in a limbo of my own creation.
It didn’t hit me until now how much I appreciated working with someone. Getting their input, collaborating on the end result. Sure, it isn’t always easy. I’ve lost count of the number of hills I’ve died on when arguing about edits with a subject. It seems I’m not the only one who wears cloudy fucking lenses when seeing their own reflection. Lord help me if I ever need to write a memoir about myself.
Ghostwriting a ghostwriter… I’d be coming full circle.
Doing this alone requires a lot of self-management, which is not my strong suit. I can never quite tell where I’m being too indulgent or too critical. And while Sebastian continues to offer support—and some extremely effective motivational techniques involving his tongue—I’m wary of relying on him too much. He’s already helping me a lot.
Which is why I’m infinitely grateful for Cassie.
Her jaw drops.
There it is.
Cassie blinks.
She slaps the papers against her thighs and stares at me.
“Oh. My. God.”
This is why I’ve always wanted to be a writer.
“So that’s why she kept getting headaches and why Lucas broke out of Raven’s control when Haisley touched him. Bee, you are a genius!”
“I don’t know about that.”But please, tell me more.
“Promise me I get the first signed copy. I need a claim to fame once you’re too big to remember me.”
“Whatever,” I say, but I’m smiling too much for the complaint to land.
“You’re a writer?” Emerson asks, moving along the fence. It’s almost finished. “Bec didn’t tell me that.”
“Yeah,” I say, a little euphoric. This might be the first time I’m admitting it without feeling like a fraud. “I am.”
“Cool,” he says, returning to work.
