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“I can’t seem to find the drive to open my computer.” She picked the clipboard up.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to write anymore. I’m not any good at it. You were right; it’s not very lucrative.”
Her father stood with his hands on his hips. “Do I need to remind you that you have two books in the top ten of the New York Times bestsellers lists, with another title climbing steadily? That alone says you’re pretty damn talented.”
Her head lifted, surprise on her face. “How do you know that?”
“Who do you think was the first person in the Books-A-Million on the day of your release? I waited outside for an hour. I bought every copy they had in stock. I sent one to your high school guidance counselor and one to your grandmother. I kept the other for myself.” He chuckled. “I read it too.”
She was amazed at the confession. “What did you think of it?”
He took her hand. “I’m glad you didn’t listen when I told you to find a more realistic occupation. I wanted you to do something worthwhile with your life. You have, Coley. Your books are wonderful. In just three hundred pages, you take a person to another world, helping them forget their problems for a while. I didn’t want to put that book down. Your mother scolded me for keeping her awake the night I stayed up to finish it.” He looked away and back again, his expression full of remorse. “I’m sorry I tried to crush your dreams.”
Nicole hugged him hard. “You didn’t, Daddy. I’m too much like you to give up on something I wanted, no matter how well intended the advice.”
He crossed his arms. “Did you know I wanted to be an artist when I grew up? I have folios full of sketches, paintings, and watercolor drawings, with a few odd sculptures hidden in the attic.”
She didn’t know this about him. “Why didn’t you pursue it?”
“My will wasn’t as strong as yours. I crumbled under that well intended advice.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
He chuckled. “Don’t be. I wasn’t very good at it anyway. But you, Coley, have an amazing gift. You shouldn’t waste it. Besides, I created my greatest masterpieces with your mother.”
“You did?”
His head tilted to the side, as if the answer should be obvious. “My children are my finest works of art.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “You have no idea how much this means to me—to know you’ve always believed in my dreams.”
“I still have the first story you wrote in the third grade.”
Her eyes widened. “You kept the awful story about the cow and the frog?”
He smiled. “That’s the one. Thankfully, your story telling abilities have improved with time.”
She laughed. “It was a horrible story. Why did you keep it?”
“I kept it because you wrote it. Maybe I’ll have you autograph it for me.”
“I’d love to.”
He moved back to the desk, collecting the invoice. “You know, Coley, you shouldn’t give up on anything you want in this life. Or anyone for that matter. If Reece Collins is the man for you, fight for him.”
She shook her head. “He’s not the man for me.”
“How do you know? You keep fighting the inevitability of it.”
“What inevitability?”
“Nicole, you’re like a moth to a flame whenever you hear his voice. He’s your sun, always pulling you into his orbit.”
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Her lips twisted. “I don’t belong in his orbit.”
