Emma. Even when you don’t think I am.”
This made me smile.
He glanced at his hands. “But here’s the real question. I would have pegged your writing for something more serious, something more…I don’t know. Literary. You certainly have the talent for it, from the stuff I’ve read of yours. I actually read your steampunk romance novel, and it was quite good. Not my usual choice of reading—”
“Of course. I know how you love a good William F. Buckley biography. And that was kind of a backhanded compliment, no?”
He tilted his head and a little smile played on his lips, which made me wonder if he was toying with me. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“You basically said I was too good of a writer to be in the romance genre. As if romance writers on the whole were less talented.” I took a sip of my drink and swallowed. I pushed my bottom lip out and pretended to be offended.
He laughed. “Yours was excellent nonetheless. And I am truly in awe of your ideas, that you can think up any stories at all. I couldn’t do it. Seriously. I have no imagination.”
Indeed, he looked so serious that I grinned at him. “I’m sure you do have an imagination.”
He could’ve taken my quip as flirtation, but for some reason, didn’t. “Why do you write romance?”
I twisted my mouth in uncertainty. I hadn’t known he’d actually read more than a paragraph or two of my writing and assumed he’d only done so to make fun of me.
“Because I believe in it,” I said softly, looking into my drink.
“Believe in what?”
I looked up into his pale blue eyes. For the first time, I noticed how they sparkled just so, or maybe it was the flickering candle votives along the bar inspiring the effect. Okay, after knowing him for three years, I was just now beginning to realize why women were attracted to him. When he turned his charm on, it was powerful. Hypnotizing.
I shivered and grinned.
“I believe in the happily-ever-after, no matter how unrealistic. I want to think rakes can become honorable men, that insta-lust can turn into forever love, and cynical women can somehow be made innocent again through the power of love.”
Colin’s mouth lifted on both sides now, and then he chuckled, which made my heart sink a little from the callousness of the tone. “But that’s not real life. Not realistic at all.”
I shrugged. “I know it’s not realistic. But when people read it, they believe in the magic for a little while. And it’s why I write it. So I can believe. Or why I wrote it once upon a time, anyway.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Do you think you’ll write romance again?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. I haven’t written in months. I’d been writing a journal to Caleb but…” I allowed my voice to trail, and I tipped my glass to my lips, taking an ice cube in my mouth.
“Hmm.” He motioned to the bartender, probably asking for the check. Crunching the ice, I took it as a cue to use the bathroom, and once inside, I leaned against the door and rolled my eyes. I was definitely on my way to being drunk. Three drinks had been my limit before I was pregnant. Now that I hadn’t imbibed at all in nine months, I was on the verge of being hammered after two.
I should go back to my room and sleep. Pray I wouldn’t get a hangover.I had an early flight and was anxious to see my daughter.
And yet, I didn’t want to hole up in my hotel room. The Miami breeze felt too good and so did my light head. I was enjoying talking to Colin. We were relating as two adults, not two grief-stricken zombies.
I reapplied my lipstick and smiled at myself in the mirror.
Live in the moment.
For once.
Chapter 7
W hen I returned , I laughed when I saw what was in front of us on the bar. “What’s that? Another drink?”
“Whiskey.”
My eyes widened. “Whiskey? Wow. It’s been years since I’ve drank whiskey.”
“Just sip it. It’s very smooth,” he said in a low voice. So I did. Liquid fire burned my throat, and
This made me smile.
He glanced at his hands. “But here’s the real question. I would have pegged your writing for something more serious, something more…I don’t know. Literary. You certainly have the talent for it, from the stuff I’ve read of yours. I actually read your steampunk romance novel, and it was quite good. Not my usual choice of reading—”
“Of course. I know how you love a good William F. Buckley biography. And that was kind of a backhanded compliment, no?”
He tilted his head and a little smile played on his lips, which made me wonder if he was toying with me. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“You basically said I was too good of a writer to be in the romance genre. As if romance writers on the whole were less talented.” I took a sip of my drink and swallowed. I pushed my bottom lip out and pretended to be offended.
He laughed. “Yours was excellent nonetheless. And I am truly in awe of your ideas, that you can think up any stories at all. I couldn’t do it. Seriously. I have no imagination.”
Indeed, he looked so serious that I grinned at him. “I’m sure you do have an imagination.”
He could’ve taken my quip as flirtation, but for some reason, didn’t. “Why do you write romance?”
I twisted my mouth in uncertainty. I hadn’t known he’d actually read more than a paragraph or two of my writing and assumed he’d only done so to make fun of me.
“Because I believe in it,” I said softly, looking into my drink.
“Believe in what?”
I looked up into his pale blue eyes. For the first time, I noticed how they sparkled just so, or maybe it was the flickering candle votives along the bar inspiring the effect. Okay, after knowing him for three years, I was just now beginning to realize why women were attracted to him. When he turned his charm on, it was powerful. Hypnotizing.
I shivered and grinned.
“I believe in the happily-ever-after, no matter how unrealistic. I want to think rakes can become honorable men, that insta-lust can turn into forever love, and cynical women can somehow be made innocent again through the power of love.”
Colin’s mouth lifted on both sides now, and then he chuckled, which made my heart sink a little from the callousness of the tone. “But that’s not real life. Not realistic at all.”
I shrugged. “I know it’s not realistic. But when people read it, they believe in the magic for a little while. And it’s why I write it. So I can believe. Or why I wrote it once upon a time, anyway.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Do you think you’ll write romance again?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. I haven’t written in months. I’d been writing a journal to Caleb but…” I allowed my voice to trail, and I tipped my glass to my lips, taking an ice cube in my mouth.
“Hmm.” He motioned to the bartender, probably asking for the check. Crunching the ice, I took it as a cue to use the bathroom, and once inside, I leaned against the door and rolled my eyes. I was definitely on my way to being drunk. Three drinks had been my limit before I was pregnant. Now that I hadn’t imbibed at all in nine months, I was on the verge of being hammered after two.
I should go back to my room and sleep. Pray I wouldn’t get a hangover.I had an early flight and was anxious to see my daughter.
And yet, I didn’t want to hole up in my hotel room. The Miami breeze felt too good and so did my light head. I was enjoying talking to Colin. We were relating as two adults, not two grief-stricken zombies.
I reapplied my lipstick and smiled at myself in the mirror.
Live in the moment.
For once.
Chapter 7
W hen I returned , I laughed when I saw what was in front of us on the bar. “What’s that? Another drink?”
“Whiskey.”
My eyes widened. “Whiskey? Wow. It’s been years since I’ve drank whiskey.”
“Just sip it. It’s very smooth,” he said in a low voice. So I did. Liquid fire burned my throat, and
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