Okay, one problem solved for me, and now it’s his turn.
“Before we discuss my job, let’s discuss yours. Tell me about the book you're currently writing.”
“Okay, let me just … done. Pizza is ordered.”
“Smart.” I cross my legs in the chair and rest my chin in my hands. “I’m ready.”
“Okay, well, it’s a fake marriage slash enemies-to-lovers story.”
“Tell me more. That’s a hit right now. You should see my Kindle. Everyone loves them, and—right, right, we’re talking about your books. Now, keep going. I need to know what happens to this fake couple.”
“Well, her ex shows up to get married at the place where she works.”
“And so, naturally, her enemy is also there, and he pretends to be in love with her so that her ex knows she’s not still pining for him?”
That laugh I love so much fills the room.
“You got it.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know. No chemistry between the characters, I guess.”
“You guess? Is there banter, hand brushes, does he touch her lower back, does he?—”
“It’s all there,” he cuts me off. “I think I need to change something with the whole process, but I don’t know what.”
“Hmm.”
I hate that I don’t have a solution for him.
“It still blows my mind that you can write all these love stories, and yet you’ve never decided to settle down,” I say instead of making up some crap advice to cheer him up. He’d hate that.
He shrugs and then asks, “Have you been talking to Grandma Betty?”
I shake my head. “No, but Betty is a smart woman. Did you know she just joined Snapchat? Last night, she snapped me a picture of you sitting in a muddy puddle in nothing but your diaper.”
“Jesus. I should never have introduced you two.”
“Mud looks good on you.”
“Everything looks good on me.”
I fake a gag, and then we get to work on his social media platform scheduling.
Tobias is a fantastic romance writer. I could tell him this over and over until his ears bleed from listening to me, but I also know him well enough to know that wherever is going on with him, he needs to come to terms with how to solve it on his own.
About twelve posts and one pizza down later, I grab the pint of chocolate chip cookie dough from his freezer and sit on the edge of the table. My gaze drifts to the small stack of nonfiction books he keeps around to enhance his writing craft. The one with two names on it sparks an idea.
“Hey, what if the change you need is to co-write a book?”
He pauses, his gaze snagging on my bare legs for a split moment.
“Co-write a book. With whom?”
“Me,” I say. “I told you I wanted to write a book the day I met you. I would be such a fun writing partner. I have no expectations of this business, so no pressure, you know.”
“No.”
