Page 80 of The Write Midlife

"Melody, you can't?—"

"I can. And I am. Because I finally understand something. Success doesn't mean anything if you're too scared to live while achieving it."

She placed her phone on the table, the Hollywood contract rejection email clearly visible. "I don't want a watered-down version of my story anymore. Just like I don't want a watered-down version of love."

Nate's hands gripped the armrests, knuckles white. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I love you." Her voice trembled but held strong. "I love how you challenge me to be better. How you see the heart of my stories, not just their commercial potential. How you werebrave enough to risk everything for what you believe in." She took another step closer. "I'm saying I want to build something real with you. Something that might terrify us both, but God, Nate—" Her voice caught. "Isn't that what we write about? Isn't that what makes a story worth telling?"

He started to rise, but she shook her head.

"Wait. Let me finish. Because this isn't just about the Hollywood deal, or the imprint, or even the sauce I spent all evening making because I was finally ready to create something of my own instead of hiding behind old fears." She moved until she stood directly in front of him. "This is about us. About how I walked away when you were brave enough to stay. About how I've been writing love stories for years but was too scared to live one."

Something shifted in Nate's expression—hope blooming through the cracks of his careful control. "You know this won't be easy. The industry, my father, the board?—"

"Good."

He hesitated. “You sure you ready for that? Even if it means risking everything? Even if we fail?"

“Even then.” She stepped fully into his space. "I'd rather fail spectacularly at something real than succeed at playing it safe. I'd rather write one honest love story with you than a hundred commercially successful ones without you."

He pulled her closer, until there was barely space between them. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in her throat.

For a split second, she just stared at him, unblinking, as if waiting for him to respond. He was waiting, too. He felt incapable of words.

His throat was dry, his chest tight. Then his expression shifted, his lips curving into the kind of smile he’d forgotten, over the last few days, that he was capable of giving.

He rested his forehead against Melody’s, breathing her in.

"You have no idea how badly I needed to hear that," he murmured.

She nodded. “I think I have some idea.”

"I love you too, by the way. In case that wasn't clear from my very public declaration that sent my father into an apoplectic fit."

Melody laughed, the sound warm. Familiar. Hers. "Sorry about that. Though I hear Elizabeth handled him pretty well."

"She did. Turns out my mother's been waiting years for someone to shake things up." His hands tightened on her waist. "But enough about my parents. Tell me more about this sauce you made."

"Well," she tilted her head up to look at him, "I figured if I'm going to write my own story, I should start by creating my own traditions. No more hiding behind other people's recipes."

"No more hiding at all. Now, if you don’t mind spoiling it…I want to know. What happens next in this story of ours?"

"Well," Melody pretended to consider, "traditionally, this would be where the hero and heroine ride off into the sunset. But since we're all about breaking conventions..." She glanced at the conference table. "How about we start by having dinner? I hear the sauce is pretty good."

“Not as good as this…”

He tugged her closer, drawing her flush against him.

The time, when his head dipped, Melody rose on her tip-toes to meet him, and for this go-round, their kiss was anything but tender—it was desperate, hungry, raw.

Nate's hands tangled in Melody's hair, pulling her closer as if he couldn’t get enough. She moaned into his mouth, her fingers gripping the front of his shirt, tugging it free from his dark slacks. She broke away, gasping for air, and his lips immediatelyfound her neck, nipping and sucking, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

"God, Melody," Nate growled, his voice like a bout of thunder through the air. "Do you have any idea how many nights I’ve stayed up thinking about this? About you?"

She gasped, her hands roaming under his shirt, feeling the hard lines of his stomach. "Probably about as many as I have," she admitted. "Now, make me yours, Carlisle."

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a wicked grin. "Yes, ma’am." His hands slid down to grip her thighs, lifting her effortlessly onto one of the tables. The wood beneath her body was cool, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her body.