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That didn’t make it sound any less creepy, did it?
Balls.
I’d built my career on writing strong, independent heroines who could weather storms and handle anything that was thrown at them. If one of my characters were in this situation, she’d grab it by the balls and run with it.
She’d say she was attracted to the guy. She’d go for it. She’d hold no prisoners while she stood her ground and said her piece.
But I wasn’t one of my characters.
And that was why it worked.
I would never have the confidence of my characters. Most women wouldn’t—that was why I wrote fiction. It allowed me to write the kind of woman I wished I could be, and it allowed others tobethat woman for a short period of time.
It was escapism at its finest.
But now I was in the kind of situation I’d put my heroine in and let her figure her way out of.
Except nobody was writing my story. I was the one who had to do that.
And now I had to work out how to navigate this.
What would my characters do?
What would Grace, my artist, do right now? What would Maisie, my party planner, say to her hero in this spot of bother? What would my beloved debut heroine Lola do if she was in the situation I was?
Three knocks at the door drew me out of my thoughts. Winston was sleeping happily in the window seat, so I knew he wasn’t the reason for the visit, whoever it was.
Like I didn’t know.
I stood up from the sofa, adjusted the neckline of my dress to make sure my bra was covered, and made my way to the door. I knew it was Max without opening it—the glass in the door allowed me enough of a view despite the distortions, and I took a deep breath before I pulled it open to look at him.
He was looking down at the bouquet of flowers he clasped in one hand. It was made of what looked like giant daisies in pink and white, plus various white and green accents that I just didn’t know the names of because my knowledge of flowers was seriously lacking.
Max peered up, his lips turning into an apprehensive smile. “I believe I owe you an apology.”
I wrapped my fingers around the edge of the door and leant against it. “You do?”
He nodded once. “It was wrong of me to read your manuscript. Regardless of the title, it wasn’t mine to read, and I am very sorry if I upset you by doing so.”
I looked at him for a moment, then said, “Did your grandma make you say that?”
His laugh was punctuated by a slow smile that broke out across his face before he reigned it in with a harsh cough. “No, surprisingly. I came to the realisation entirely on my own.”
“Oh, look at you go.” I bit down on my lower lip, glancing at my feet. “Thank you. I appreciate that. What you read is something that should only be seen by those who are obligated to do so.”
“It was far from terrible.”
“I appreciate the compliment, but if you ever tell anyone what you read on that laptop, I’m going to have to kill you.”
He slowly nodded. “That’s fair.”
I dipped my chin, laughing. “Did you come all the way here just to apologise?”
“No. I brought these, too.” He held out the flowers.
I took the bouquet from him and brought it to my face. It smelt divine. “These are fresh, aren’t they?”
“From our gardens,” Max said quietly. “Grandma likes fresh flowers, so we have a whole section devoted to cut flowers. I might have stolen these.”
