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“Hayes.”
“Delaney.” He opens to the marked page. “Is this the part where your hero learns to cook?”
“No.”
His grin turns wicked. “Even better.”
I reach for the pages, but he lifts them just out of reach. “Relax. I won't read anything you don't want me to.”
He means it. I can tell by the way he lowers the manuscript into my hands and waits.
That, more than the grin, is what makes me brave enough to leave it open.
“Okay,” I whisper. “But no dramatic voices.”
“You're taking all the fun out of this.”
“Bishop.”
“Fine. One serious, devastatingly handsome narrator. Coming up.”
He clears his throat.
I cover my face. “Oh my God.”
Then he starts reading.
Not loudly. Not like he's performing for a crowd. His voice is low and warm, and the words sound different coming from him. More real. More dangerous to the very small amount of composure I have left.
The scene is about a woman standing in a doorway, afraid to cross the room because she knows that once she does, she won't be able to pretend she doesn't want the man waiting for her.
I wrote it months ago, on a night when Bishop was only a few rooms away and might as well have been on another planet.
He reads a line about the hero setting aside his pride about him asking her to come closer—not because he can take what he wants, but because he wants her to choose him.
Then he stops.
“You wrote this before we were together?”
“Yes.”
“Becks.” He looks at me over the pages. “You were writing about us.”
“I was writing about what I wished we could be.”
His thumb strokes the edge of the paper. “And what happens in the next part?”
“You have the book.”
“I'd rather hear it from the author.”
I swallow. “He tells her she doesn't have to be brave alone.”
Bishop closes the manuscript and lays it on the nightstand. “Then let's get one thing right.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You're editing my book now?”
“No.” He slides off the bed and stands a few steps away, holding out his hand. “I'm auditioning.”
