“And how’s the story coming?” he asks, picking up his gaze from where it accidentally dropped into my lap. “Writing another bestseller?”
The question catches me off guard. “Honestly?”
He nods.
“I’m not sure.” I exhale, leaning my head back with a softthunkagainst the cedar planks. “I sent the first half off to my agent, and I’m not usually nervous about feedback, but I’m writing in a new genre, and I guess…” I swallow, and sweat that’s been collecting in the dip at my throat makes a ticklish escape down the center of my chest. “I guess I’m worried I sent her a trash fire and she’s trying to figure out how to put me down gently.”
Forrest makes a scoffing sound, and I look up from where myeyes have drifted to the planes of his stomach. “No way,” he says, shaking his head.
“You seem awfully confident for someone who’s never read my work,” I say.
At this, Forrest takes a long drink of water. Shifts a quarter inch to the left, like it might remove his giant body from my line of sight.
“Haveyou read my work?” I ask, astonished.
His gaze lifts to mine, and for the first time since I met him, he looks nervous about something other than my lack of wilderness know-how. His already flushed cheekbones deepen in color, and he rubs the back of his hand across his sweaty brow.
“Youhaveread my work.” I gasp, clutching at my towel like I’ve been exposed. “Which book?” I demand. “Between Two Worlds?Warmest Regards?”
For a moment, he bites his lips together, studying me. “Honestly?” he asks, echoing my own uncertain question from earlier. I nod, feeling like I’m standing on the precipice of something I’m too scared to look down at.
He sighs, and his expression turns apologetic. It’s my only warning before he takes that final step off the ledge and pulls me with him.
“All of them.”
My stomach bottoms out, but the initial shock soon crystallizes into an unfamiliar anxiety. I’m not ashamed of my work. I carefully craft stories designed to provide escape, hope, and pleasure to a well-deserving audience I’ve been missing more with every passing day. But I never imagined Forrest, aka Dr. Serious McEyebrows who casually pulls in $2.5 million research grants, would take the time to read all my smutty romance novels. It makes me feel like I’ve been caught with my pants down, except worse, because I’m not even wearing any.
It begs the panicky question: Has he readallof my work? Asin my Happily Never Afters too? Does he know about my fall from grace?
“And by ‘all of them,’?” I say delicately, hoping he doesn’t notice the pulse racing in my neck, “do you meanallof them?”
His eyes never leave mine. After a very loaded pause, he says, “Yes,” and I can hear it in his somber voice. The regret for having pried into the tattered remnants of my career. For finally figuring out why I ran away to Alaska. But there’s something else in his voice. A ringing edge to that “yes” that almost sounds angry.
“And?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
That small opening is all he seems to need. His fists clench, and even through the steam, there’s no mistaking the rising anger in his eyes. “It’s bullshit,” he declares. “It’s no one’s business what you write for yourself, and it’s no one’s business to punish you for what you’ve obviously been through. That list of Happily Never Afters was honest and raw, and your readers should have fucking applauded you for it. They don’t deserve your words after what they’ve done, and if your new book is half as good as your other ones, you’re giving them way too much.”
In the silence following this—outburst? proclamation?—it takes me a few moments to pick my jaw up off my lap before I can even think of responding. Forrest has read my entire backlist. Forrest loves my words. But somehow this is nothing—nothing—to how it makes me feel that he loves those words too. The ugly, mean, and wounded ones that I tried hiding away from the world.
In the low, misty light, he’s staring at me like a sweat-streaked warrior ready to do battle for my right to tell the truth about chronically limp dicks and late child support. I blink as the corners of my eyes begin to sting. Ever since I arrived in Alaska, I’ve done my best to shove the fallout of the HNA leak into a tiny box so I could focus on my new book. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how truly exiled I’ve felt from the world. But having another person in my corner—havinghimin my corner—makes mefeel braver. Like I’ll be able to leave this retreat from society with my head held high.
“Forrest, I—”
But I stop myself, because the last thing I want to do is accidentally reveal the dangerous rush of emotions that are making my insides feel like a wind turbine. Instead, I say faintly, “I can’t believe you read romance novels. You seem more like aScientific Americankind of guy.”
The tension breaks, and he laughs in surprise. “I am aScientific Americankind of guy,” he confirms before his smile fades slightly. “But I guess I’m a Margot Bradley kind of guy now too.”
I let out a breath of disbelief as my ribs tighten around the sudden unfurling, unspooling, and unfolding happening in the center of my chest. I pull my towel tighter, afraid it might come undone from the expansion happening inside me.
“You never answered my question,” I say suddenly, latching on to anything that will take his focus off me.
“Your question?” he repeats, dragging his eyes away from where my hands grip the towel beneath my cleavage.
“Why you couldn’t sleep.”
His lashes lower. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Just leftover work stuff from back home.”
My insides twist a little. He’s been honest with me, hasn’t he? On the mental scoreboard I’m keeping, there’s a solid one in his column and an unacceptable nothing in mine.
