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“My father believes reading a romance novel will only make a woman discontent with her life. No real man can ever live up to those expectations.”
“You obviously don’t agree with that assessment.”
“Of course I don’t. Romance novels are an escape to a fantasy world. The reader knows this. They don’t want the man on the page. They want the momentary escape from reality.”
“It sounds like your dad is the one with the insecurities.”
She shrugged. “I think he means well. He just doesn’t want me or my siblings to have to struggle or work as hard a
s he had to.”
“There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”
“His well-meant advice normally comes across to me as criticism—harsh criticism.”
“And?”
She studied the computer screen. “I don’t handle it well. I mean, if my editor rejects my work, it’s coming from a professional in the field, so I take my medicine like a big girl and fix what needs fixing. But when it comes from family, I get angry. An argument will ensue, and I walk away, feeling worthless.”
He leaned his head against the seat. “That’s too bad, but I know how you feel. When a critic dismisses my performance, I take the opinion with a grain of salt, accepting it as a learning experience. But when a fan does it, it’s annoying. Sometimes, I feel like yelling at them to do it themselves if they think it’s so easy.”
He really understands. She smiled.
He noticed it. “What’s put that smile on your face?”
“I was considering a random thought.” She slid the laptop toward him. “Here, I trust you.”
His eyes widened. “Are you certain?”
She smirked. “As long as you sign the standard privacy clause, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“And what are you going to do while I’m reading your masterpiece?”
She raised her arms above her head, stretching her back. “I think I’m going to close my eyes and try to make this headache go away.
His shoulders slumped. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am about that.”
She laughed. “Stop apologizing; it was an accident.” She hit the button on the edge of the armrest, and the seat reclined.
“Do you want me to order you a pillow?”
“No, I’m good.”
“If you’re certain . . .”
“I’m sure.” She closed her eyes, listening as he situated himself in the seat beside her.
~ ~ ~
Reece fiddled with the computer, scrolling the pages backward to one. Soon enough, he was caught up in the story. Good God! It was quite good. Not spectacular, but exceptionally good. From the first paragraph, he was hooked. Anyone who told her she couldn’t write was an idiot.
He glanced over. She was sound asleep; the blanket he had Sara bring her was draped across her shoulders. She hadn’t stirred when he placed it around her. He grimaced. Her face looked awful—the skin around her eye swollen and black. She probably wouldn’t be able to see out of it when she woke.
It was a shame. She had such a pretty face. And her hair . . . it had to be her natural color. It was like the red of the sun at sunset, blazing in its final flames. And her eyes were the prettiest brown—very light, almost yellow or gold, like wine or fine champagne. What a striking combination.
“How long have I been out?” Nicole shifted in the seat, moaning, as the blanket fell to her lap.
He closed out of the program, closing the lid on her computer. He turned to her. “You’ve been asleep for a few hours. How do you feel?”
