“Wait. This sounds familiar,” I said.
“It should. You wrote it.”
I handed it back. “Blech,” I said and stuck out my tongue. “How did you do that?”
“I have a software that reads for me. Honestly, I’m still trying to explain the shared doc to you. At this point, it won’t be worth the time.”
“Listen. I’m not technologically ignorant.” I cocked a hand on my hip. “Need I remind you that I am the one digitizing everything? I’m firmly in the twentieth century.”
“Twenty-first,” he corrected.
Dammit! I always got that wrong. “Oh, you’re snarky today.”
“Never,” he said.
But he was.
“Go on.” I grabbed a towel and snapped it at him. “Tell me about your fake girlfriend.”
The tips of his ears went red as he finished folding, avoiding my gaze. “The short of it is that I can’t always process words on a page. She reads it to me so I can focus.”
“You didn’t seem to be focused when I walked in.”
“Actually, just the opposite. I was so into it, I lost track of what I was doing.” He gestured to the unfolded laundry. When he finally looked at me, I noticed his eyes were red-rimmed. “This is the chapter about Adam’s decision to leave. It’s really good.”
I swallowed down the compliment, unable to fully digest it, so it stuck like heartburn in my esophagus.
I shook my head. “It’s mostly George,” I mumbled.
“It doesn’t seem like it’s him.”
“Don’t say that,” I said, instantly worried. “Wait, does it really not sound like him?”
“I meant … never mind. Trust me, readers won’t notice. Now that I know what to look for, the hints of you are all over this. It’s good, though. Don’t worry. Fix your face.” He leaned up to press a finger into my cheek. I pretended to bite it.
He put the earbuds away and started to fold another towel. Was the story really that good that he got lost in it? Or was he just that bad at staying focused?
I was debating what I would prefer when he cleared his throat.
“What’s up, Francesca?” He rolled my name off his tongue. I couldn’t be sure, but ever since our almost kiss, I swore he’d turned up the volume of his flirting. It was at a solid eleven. (That was a movie reference I understood now because of the mandatory movie night that was imposed after the wholeStar Wars“I am your father” debacle.)
“Well. It’s about that, actually.” I gestured to his headphones. “The manuscript. I’m stuck, and George is having a tired day. I really don’t have time to get behind.” I sighed and looked anywhere but at him. “And as much as I hate to admit it, your notes always help.”
Harrison gasped, forcing my attention back to him. He grinned like he just won an Oscar. “I make you a better writer. I am a critical component in your creative process. You need me. You can admit it.”
“I do,” I said easily. “Your ideas are just so terrible that it helps me decide what direction to go in.”
His smile turned into a pout. “Now, who’s snarky?”
“Sorry. Sorry. I do need your help.” I proffered the laptop tucked under my arm. “I was going to ask you to read this scene really quick. Please? It’s just like five pages.”
He cleared his throat, and a flush spread up his neck. “I-I can’t always read fast. It’s not that I can’t read. I have a hard time readingandprocessing at the same time. I’m not an idiot.”
I flinched back. “I would never think that.” I didn’t even want to say the word. I wouldn’t even let Collette say it. Was that what he thought?
He scratched at the back of his neck. “Some people think that.”
“Those people are wrong. And what did you tell Collette? ‘Other people’s opinions are none of our business.’ But I’m sorry, I didn’t know. You got through the other chapters so fast, I assumed you were reading them.”
