Yum. I wanted to climb him like a tree. Slow, Elle. He wanted to go slow.
Why was that again?
Trying to move my brain off the track that screamed it wanted to go to the bedroom, I glanced at the plates of food. “You made breakfast?”
“Yup. Figured we’d eat while I went over the info for my apartment listing, if that works for you.” He placed a hand on my lower back and steered me toward the island. I noted that my laptop was also there. I let him pull out a stool, and I hopped up, grabbing a napkin from the counter and placing it over my lap.
I forked up a bite of eggs, and flavor burst forth as soon as it hit my tongue. Holy Jesus, this put all scrambled eggs I’d ever had to shame. I looked to Nate with what could only be an incredulous look. “What on earth did you do to make these eggs so unbelievably yummy?”
“Low and slow,” Nate said, wiping off the corner of his mouth. “My grandmother said it was the secret to amazing eggs, and she was right, as always. She said Europeans took their time with eggs and it showed. Americans cook them too fast and at too high of a heat.”
Of course we did. I gestured at my laptop. “Okay, what do I need to know about your place?”
Nate finished chewing some bacon before talking. “I emailed you photos of my place, an overall list of what features you might want to note, and a few comps.”
“Cool,” I said as I opened my computer to pull up the information. I quickly found the info Nate sent and opened the documents.
“What were you writing at the library yesterday?”
I glanced from my screen to him with a quirked brow. “What?”
He gave me a measured look. “What were you writing?”
I thought back to yesterday at the library. “Umm, some work stuff?”
Nate nudged me with a handful of toast. “Was that it?” His voice was skeptical.
“Why do you ask?” My heart was hammering as it did anytime I thought of my book.
Nate put down the bacon in his hand and wiped his fingers on the napkin. He swiveled to put a knee on either side of me.
With a glance in his direction, I put my napkin on the counter and turned to face him. Nerves swarmed my belly. He looked serious, and I couldn’t figure out where this was going. How did we go from a discussion about his condo to whatever this was?
“Sweetheart, did you know that when you are working on writing fiction, your entire appearance changes from when you’re working on work writing?” His hand came up and tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear.
“What? How so?” My cheeks heated up because I had been working on what I called my pipe-dream project yesterday.
Nate’s thumb skated up my jaw to my forehead and rubbed between my brows. “When you’re working on work-work, your brows crease here and you look frustrated.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the spot. Pulling back, his brown eyes found mine and his voice softened. “And when you’re working on your dream project, your entire face softens and you fight a smile as you type.”
I didn’t fight the smile that popped up at his comment. “That’s nice,” I murmured.
“It is, Elle. So why aren’t you trying to work on that dream project more?” He sat back, watching me.
I looked away, my gut alight with nerves. “Dreams don’t pay the bills, Nate. My job pays well, and I can’t just give it up.”
“Babe, look at me.” His voice was serious but kind. Springsteen sang on about stones, and I wanted to wrap myself around Nate and skip this conversation. “Remember who you’re talking to. You’ve told me about the agent who you met. The one who wants to represent you, to shop your book around. Why aren’t you doing that?”
Yep. My cheeks were on fire. Why had I told Nate about this dream I was still holding on to? I’d met the agent at the convention hall last summer near one of the publishers’ booths. We’d seen each other at these things over the past four years, and I still didn’t know why I’d shared my idea with her that day, but she’d encouraged me to take the young adult historical fiction novel that was dancing around in my head and put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and get back to her.
I wanted to, I really did. Since I was a kid, my dream had been to be a novelist. But now? Now that I could actually try? What if I failed? My job might be boring, but it was reliable.
I loved my story. But sharing it with the world seemed like taking a piece of my soul and letting others hold it up to the light to judge and deem worthy. I didn’t know if I could risk it.
I looked to Nate, my eyes watery. This story, this dream—I wasn’t sure if I could examine it right now, even with Nate.
“Can we talk about something else?”
Nate watched me, then leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on my lips. “Okay, babe. I want to come back to that another time, but we can let it drop for now.”
