“Dutch—“
“Please.”
Sure she was about to walk by me, but at the last moment, she took my hand and stood beside me. I wrapped my hand around hers firmly and led her out of the studio. Instead of going to her house, I continued across the road to my cottage with Mouse bounding after us in happy wiggles.
My stomach knotted with each step, but my chest eased at the same time.
Hell, I didn’t even let her get a jacket. I stopped in the middle of the lane and took off my flannel wrapping it around her before continuing on. The deep green and navy plaid dwarfed her, but the weariness left her face and some of that soft Phoebe started shining through.
Climbing the stairs to my porch, she didn’t let go and I took it as a good sign. Mouse herded us closer to the door, then darted around us to get to his bed in front of the fireplace. The bed I could never quite get rid of.
Because Mouse was just as important as the woman who stepped inside the cottage with me.I led her down the hall toward my office and she slowed down. “Dutch, you don’t have to.”
I turned around to her, taking her other hand, walking backward as I kept moving. “I do.”
She nibbled her lower lip, but nodded.
I drew her inside and in front of me, slipping one arm around her middle. “I use the wall to sketch out my ideas.” The tightness in my chest eased a little more as she settled against me. “It’s in my own shorthand. My dad used to poke holes in my stories.”
I’d never told anyone that before—not even Christopher. Sharing my novel was supposed to be enough. I knew it would have been because Phoebe was the kind of woman who just wanted me to share a little about myself. But I wanted her to know me.
The real me.
“He’s an architect. Facts, math, and logic are the only things he really understands. I’ve always been drawn to what makes people afraid and how to face that fear.” I lowered my lips to her temple. “It’s a bit different when I’m the one who has to do the same.”
“I’d never do that.”
“I know that. You don’t have a cruel molecule in your body.”
“Don’t put me on a pedestal, Dutch.”
“I’m not. Well, maybe a little, but it’s one you deserve to be on. That kindness and joy touches everyone you’re around, but it’s definitely poured into your art.” I pointed to the little drawing of the porcupine hanging in midair since I pushed my desk away from the wall.
“Fred.”
I huffed out a laugh against the wisps of her hair. “Of course his name is Fred. Better than my nickname.”
She started to turn in my arms, but I held her firm. “It’s not just sharing my story, Phoebe. I’ve been sharing my stories for over twelve years now. I’ve learned not to be precious with my words because there were always more pouring out of me. Until last year.”
Her fingers smoothed over my forearm, digging under the cuff of my sleeve to get to my skin. “We all go through creative droughts.”
It would be easy to blame it all on writer’s block, but she didn’t deserve half-truths.
Not if I wanted to keep her in my life.
And there was no doubt that I was choosing her. Not anymore.
“I signed the biggest deal of my career last year for a story I was proud of. It was a little different from my other books. Different enough that I’d actually been a little worried to bring it to my publisher. But they believed in me and entrusted me with an advance that proved how much they were behind me. I’ve only had that happen to me one other time.”
She leaned into me, offering comfort even now.
“Christopher has been my agent since the beginning of my career. He read my first submission, sold my debut with an enthusiasm no one had ever shown for my words before. I’ve always been a solitary writer. No writer groups and other authors for support.”
“This doesn’t surprise me.”
“It worked for me. I thought it kept my creativity undiluted. No one else’s input except a few people I trusted. Christopher and later, Monte, my editor. And that worked. The book was good. I’m arrogant enough to believe that, but I also hit a hole in the market. Luck and timing is a factor in any writer’s career. And I rode that luck and it fed me—not just with money, but it allowed me to write more stories without molding me into anyone else’s box.”
She lightly grazed my skin and listened. The bit of sunlight that streaked into the dark room stretched toward us, giving me a little more courage.
