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“Stop reading into it. It just sounded hot, okay?”
“Fine.” She waggled a finger at the screen. “And if the powers that be don’t like the idea?”
I sighed heavily through my nose. “It is a shift in my brand, so I can understand if they say no. But I’m excited about it. So I think I’d try self-publishing it.” When her eyes widened, I gave her a look. “I know how much work it is, but you do both, so you know all the things. You can help a poor thriller author like me figure it out.”
At the helpless flutter of my eyelashes, she snorted. “I’ve been doing this for years, and I still don’t have it figured out. But yes, I can help if they pass on it. Romanceland is a wonderful place to be. I can’t wait for you to join me.”
Running my finger along the edge of a book beside my computer, I twisted my lips in a thoughtful frown.
“What else?” she asked. “You decide on your dark moment yet?”
I pushed back in my chair and stretched my arms over my head. “That’s what I’m working on. I still can’t decide if it’s too cliché or not to have the climax be that she suspects he’s the stalker for a while.”
Paloma tugged her hair tie out and dug her fingers into her hair as she shook it out. “I like it. You’ve never done it before, and it’s a good relationship test. Makes her question everything that came before and if she was overlooking things because she was attracted to him.” My friend clucked her tongue and wrapped her hair back up. “The sex feelings make everything complicated.”
Well, that had me squirming in my chair. And I’d done such a good job shoving my own teeny tiny little sex thoughts into the forbidden portion of my brain. The part that I locked down with deadbolts and chains and iron walls. “Mm-hmm.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” She leaned in closer to the screen. “You’re thinking thoughts and don’t want to say them out loud. Spill it. Now.”
“You know, you’re very bossy sometimes.” I tapped my laptop camera. “Oh shoot, my connection is cutting out.”
“No, it’s not, you coward. Tell me about your sex thoughts,” she yelled.
“Did you get new eyelash extensions? I like them.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
My phone buzzed with a text from my mom. I held it up so she could see it. “Gotta go! My mom is texting.”
“You don’t even like talking to your mom. Harlow, don’t you dare?—”
I disconnected the video call with a grin. She’d blow up my DMs immediately. Paloma and I shared an agent. She’d connected us about five or so years earlier. Writing was a solitary job, and because I didn’t do events or signings or conferences out of my desire to keep my private life private, I hadn’t formed many close friendships with other authors.
Other than some surface-level social media “friendships,” Paloma was about it, and she didn’t even know everything about Ian. She knew I was living with him and knew he and I had been friends growing up, but that was about it.
If I told her about the prompt and The Thoughts (caps necessary because they felt incredibly significant), she’d take that shit and run with it like an Olympic sprinter. If it were a book she was writing—because her stuff did err spicier than mine—she’d have us banging by chapter two or three. It would be a journey of erotic self-discovery, and friendship would be a loose thread that tied us together. And that was not any sort of story that could play out realistically for Ian and me.
Not telling Paloma about The Thoughts was a boundary for my own mental health.
“Speaking of boundaries,” I muttered, turning over my phone to check the text from my mom.
Mom: Your sister and her family are coming for lunch on Sunday, and since it’s right by your birthday, why don’t you and Sage come too. I’m making casserole and a salad. Your sister will bring my cinnamon cake.
“By all means, let’s make Rachel’s favorite cake on my birthday,” I muttered.
I eyed my calendar, and even though we didn’t have anything planned on Sunday, I still would’ve loved if she’d asked. Most people might not have thought anything of it, but when you’d lived separate from any sort of family for well over a decade, this type of balancing act required a bit of careful handling.
Folding my arms onto the kitchen table, I sank my forehead onto my arms with a groan.
Before I could lift my head and formulate a response to her text, the sound of a truck had me sitting up. Ian’s truck.
He was home early.
I’d avoided being alone with him since The Thoughts, and it did help. When we weren’t alone, I could distract myself with things like my daughter. My job. And not thinking things I shouldn’t be thinking.
