different. He was still as smooth faced and
bright eyed as ever, and his cheeks still dimpled when he laughed, but he seemed bulkier
and much more confident than the lean, uncertain young man she’d first met over a
year ago. He was coming into his own.
Olivia couldn’t help but wonder whether Millay was seeing him through new eyes too,
or if Harris would end up being just another man she dated for a spell before growing
bored and moving on to the next bad-boy type. Harris was nothing like the surfers,
punk rockers, bartenders, or mechanics Millay was typically attracted to. It was clear
that he was in love with Millay, that he’d been in love with her since the first meeting
of the Bayside Book Writers. Whether Millay was capable of returning those feelings
was another story. However, Olivia had no interest in getting involved in someone
else’s romantic drama. Having one of her own was enough.
Rawlings’ name surfaced in her mind, making Olivia acutely aware of his absence. She
glanced at her watch. The critique session would start within minutes. Laurel already
had her copy of Harris’s chapter on her lap, the notes she’d taken in green pen clearly
visible in the margins.
“Am I ever going to stop being nervous about handing a chapter over to you guys?”
Harris asked, trying to catch a glimpse of Laurel’s comments.
“Probably not,” Laurel said. “And that’s a good thing. It shows that you want to improve—that
you care what your readers think.”
Harris smiled warmly at her. “Even if you ripped me to shreds once a month, I’d still
write. I’ve scribbled sci-fi stories since I could hold a pencil. I think we were
all born with the writing chromosome. We can’t stop. It’s a part of our genetic makeup.”
Millay snatched the bottle of beer from Harris’s hand and headed to the sofa. Flopping
onto the soft cushions, she kicked off her trademark black boots and put both feet
on the coffee table. She gave her toes, which were encased in pink and green argyle
knee socks, a satisfied wiggle and then pulled a stack of papers out of her messenger
bag.
“Okay, Harris ‘Watson-and-Crick’ Williams, just promise not to turn into a total sellout
when you finally get published. Half of the authors on the bestseller list don’t give
a crap about the quality of their writing anymore. They discover a profitable formula
and wham!” She snapped her fingers. “All they do after that is pump out the same book
over and over again.”
“That’s still an accomplishment. I can’t imagine what it would be like to write more
than one book,” Laurel said. “The whole process is so unpredictable. I was cruising
along on
The Wife
. It was practically writing itself until, at about sixty thousand words, I hit a
wall.”
Olivia gave her friend a sympathetic look. “You’re trying to sort out some big issues
right now, Laurel.” She paused and then gently asked, “How are you and Steve doing?”
Laurel shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Better.” She took a sip of chardonnay. And another.
“We’re being so polite to each other now. So careful not to hurt each other’s feelings.
It’s weird. I hate all the tiptoeing.”
“You just need to have a huge fight followed by drunken make-up sex,” Millay said.
“Smash some plates, rip off some clothes, and you’ll be good to go. You can say please
and thank you
after
you’ve done the horizontal tango.”
For a moment, Laurel’s eyes went wide, but then she laughed. “Actually, you’ve given
me a great idea for my next chapter. Thanks for curing my case of writer’s block.”
“I won’t charge you. This
time,” Millay said wryly and then glanced at Olivia. “So what gives? Where’s the chief?”
“Late again,” Olivia said. She’d been wondering the same thing. “But he knows the
deal. We start on time as long as the author’s here. Ready, Harris?”
Harris devoured the
bright eyed as ever, and his cheeks still dimpled when he laughed, but he seemed bulkier
and much more confident than the lean, uncertain young man she’d first met over a
year ago. He was coming into his own.
Olivia couldn’t help but wonder whether Millay was seeing him through new eyes too,
or if Harris would end up being just another man she dated for a spell before growing
bored and moving on to the next bad-boy type. Harris was nothing like the surfers,
punk rockers, bartenders, or mechanics Millay was typically attracted to. It was clear
that he was in love with Millay, that he’d been in love with her since the first meeting
of the Bayside Book Writers. Whether Millay was capable of returning those feelings
was another story. However, Olivia had no interest in getting involved in someone
else’s romantic drama. Having one of her own was enough.
Rawlings’ name surfaced in her mind, making Olivia acutely aware of his absence. She
glanced at her watch. The critique session would start within minutes. Laurel already
had her copy of Harris’s chapter on her lap, the notes she’d taken in green pen clearly
visible in the margins.
“Am I ever going to stop being nervous about handing a chapter over to you guys?”
Harris asked, trying to catch a glimpse of Laurel’s comments.
“Probably not,” Laurel said. “And that’s a good thing. It shows that you want to improve—that
you care what your readers think.”
Harris smiled warmly at her. “Even if you ripped me to shreds once a month, I’d still
write. I’ve scribbled sci-fi stories since I could hold a pencil. I think we were
all born with the writing chromosome. We can’t stop. It’s a part of our genetic makeup.”
Millay snatched the bottle of beer from Harris’s hand and headed to the sofa. Flopping
onto the soft cushions, she kicked off her trademark black boots and put both feet
on the coffee table. She gave her toes, which were encased in pink and green argyle
knee socks, a satisfied wiggle and then pulled a stack of papers out of her messenger
bag.
“Okay, Harris ‘Watson-and-Crick’ Williams, just promise not to turn into a total sellout
when you finally get published. Half of the authors on the bestseller list don’t give
a crap about the quality of their writing anymore. They discover a profitable formula
and wham!” She snapped her fingers. “All they do after that is pump out the same book
over and over again.”
“That’s still an accomplishment. I can’t imagine what it would be like to write more
than one book,” Laurel said. “The whole process is so unpredictable. I was cruising
along on
The Wife
. It was practically writing itself until, at about sixty thousand words, I hit a
wall.”
Olivia gave her friend a sympathetic look. “You’re trying to sort out some big issues
right now, Laurel.” She paused and then gently asked, “How are you and Steve doing?”
Laurel shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Better.” She took a sip of chardonnay. And another.
“We’re being so polite to each other now. So careful not to hurt each other’s feelings.
It’s weird. I hate all the tiptoeing.”
“You just need to have a huge fight followed by drunken make-up sex,” Millay said.
“Smash some plates, rip off some clothes, and you’ll be good to go. You can say please
and thank you
after
you’ve done the horizontal tango.”
For a moment, Laurel’s eyes went wide, but then she laughed. “Actually, you’ve given
me a great idea for my next chapter. Thanks for curing my case of writer’s block.”
“I won’t charge you. This
time,” Millay said wryly and then glanced at Olivia. “So what gives? Where’s the chief?”
“Late again,” Olivia said. She’d been wondering the same thing. “But he knows the
deal. We start on time as long as the author’s here. Ready, Harris?”
Harris devoured the
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