“Ah. The real-life second-chance romance didn’t play out the way it would in a book, huh?”
“Maybe it played out exactly like it would in one of my books. And that’s the problem.”
Gina settles back in her chair and levels me with a look. “You know, I hate editing the endings of your books.”
Not much could snap me out of this funk, but hearing my editor—someone I consider my partner in this whole writing game—tell me she hates a major part of my books does the trick. “You hate the endings?”
She nods, lacing her fingers together and resting them in her lap.
“Then why do you let me write them?”
“It’s not my place to tell you what to write. I’m here to make your books better, Nick. Make your plots stronger and your characters deeper. But I’m not here to change something that’s so fundamentally who you are as a writer.”
“The funny thing is, it’s not who I was as a writer. At least it wasn’t in the beginning.” I think back to the days when all my stories ended happily. I loved finding thething that broke my characters apart, but I loved putting them back together even more.
“What about this new book? The holiday second-chance romance. Did you and Jess end up collaborating?”
“We did. I don’t know where the project is going to go, though. I think that’s kind of up to her.” I tap my fingers on my knee. “We still have to figure out how it ends.”
“I think you know how it ends.” She straightens the hem of her pencil skirt, which she’s wearing even though we’re technically trapped on a work vacation. “Would it help if I told you I may have mentioned the idea to the higher-ups while I was forced to dine with them against my will, and they loved it?”
“How much did they love it?” It doesn’t matter for me so much, but I know what this could do for Jess.
“Enough to get your girl off the midlist.” She stands, adjusting her shirt, though not a stitch is out of place. “I’ll be in touch with more after the holidays. Now might be time to start planning your grand gesture.”
“What do you mean?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know, that thing that’s missing from most of your books, when the person who messed up—usually the hero, if we’re being honest—does something big and impressive to prove how much they love the other person? It’s the thing that leads to all those happily ever afters.”
“And you think I need one? To get Jess back?”
“Certainly couldn’t hurt.” She pats my cheek. “You also might want to think about shaving.”
“Haha.” I capture her hand with mine and squeezetightly. “Thank you, Gina. I really appreciate you and I hope you have a good holiday.”
“Thanks to your book sales and my resulting holiday bonus, I usually do.” She throws a wink over her shoulder as she heads out the front door. “Do what you need to do to write a good story for yourself, Nick.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jess
Is there anything more depressing than coming home to an empty house two days before Christmas feeling absolutely destroyed, mentally and emotionally?
That’s a rhetorical question.
I let myself into my apartment after an hour-and-a-half train ride and a subway transfer and a ten-minute walk through the brisk cold, my overnight bag slung over my arm, a literal weight on my shoulder to mimic the figurative one in my heart. The snow is no longer pouring down from the heavens, but it still litters the sidewalks, and the gray sky still hangs heavy and foreboding. But the weather doesn’t matter much at this point. I’m back at home with nowhere to go and no one to see.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. I’m still scheduled for a shift at the coffee shop tomorrow, a real jolt back to reality. As much as so much of this past week sucked, it was a glimpse at life as a full-time writer, a glimpse I sort of hate to give up. But I text Morgan to let her know I’m back in town and that I’ll be in tomorrow, before I can let myselfdwell on it too much. I need the money, and tips should be good on Christmas Eve.
After a long hot shower, I put on my coziest sweats and climb into bed. It’s not even close to bedtime yet, but I don’t really care at this point. I need comfort and reality TV escapism, and to not think about Nick Matthews for a few minutes.
Ha.
Like that’s going to happen.
Once I get a vintage episode ofReal Housewivesgoing, I take out my phone and open my very much neglected text chain with Alyssa and Kennedy.
Me:I made it back home!
