Page 36 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

She buries her face in the crook of her pink silken arm again. “I can’t tell you.”

“It’s a nude, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not a nude!” She groans.

“Fine. A partial nude?”

I can see the corner of her mouth curl up from behind her arm. It does something to me. “There’s definitely nudity in it, but it’s not mine.”The hell?

I open my mouth, but no words come out. There was not a single part of me expecting that answer.

“I wrote…” She pauses, looks at me, presses her lips together, and then I see the moment she decides to trust me. “I wrote a romance novel. A sexually explicit one that no one in the entire world knows I was writing. And after a terrible day and feeling sorry for myself that Madison didn’t come home when I reallywanted her to, I had some wine and then thought it would be a great idea to send the book to an agent. But I accidentally sent it to Bart instead.”

I am floored. Speechless. Emily Walker…is a writer too? How is this possible? How are we always living parallel lives to each other?

She blinks at me expectantly and then shoots up from the couch. “See! I shouldn’t have told you! I feel so stupid.” She grips her hair, pacing a few steps back and forth, talking loudly and slurring a few words together. “How could I have done this?How?I never should have written that damn thing. And now Bart is going to open the email, read the titleThe Depraved Highlander and His Lady,and fire me on the spot.”

The Depraved Hi—

I can’t process this all quickly enough.

But when the shock wears off, I stand. “You wrote a book titledThe Depraved Highlander and His Lady?”

Emily levels a finger at me. “Don’t you dare make fun of me, Jackson.”

“I’m not.” I raise my hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t do that. I asked a question because I’m processing. I’m an auditory processor.” And this is anonslaughtof information. “Wait…did you attach your full manuscript to a query email?”

“Yes.”

“You know you’re not supposed to—”

“YES!I know! But I did it because I’m apparently a mistakes factory tonight.” She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. “You think I’m an idiot now.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth, I would never think that about you,” I say firmly, pulling Emily’s attention back to my face. “And stop pacing. Sit back down. You’re swaying like you could fall over any second.”

She sits but doesn’t look happy about it. “Once Bart opens it,the whole town will know by sunrise and then my life will really and truly be over. It was one thing for my sisters to know I like to read romance, but…I’m not ready for the whole town to be in my business about writing it. Not to mention the bigger consequences it could have. Do you think I could get fired over this?”

“I honestly don’t know. I guess it comes down to how Bart feels about it and if he decides to tell anyone else on the school board.”

Bart is a great guy, but…let’s just say he’s not the kind of guy you’d want stumbling over anything explicit. I once heard him telling the other teachers how disappointed he was in the Hallmark Channel for how inappropriate their kissing scenes have become. He also fired a substitute teacher last year for accidentally cursing in front of the class when she slammed her toe into the desk.

However, this is Emily we’re talking about. And she is undoubtedly the best teacher at the school. I’ve never seen anyone go above and beyond like her. She’s always studying new teaching techniques and adapting so that her lessons are more inclusive for different learning types. And yes, she’s definitely known as the no-nonsense teacher who gives more homework than the rest and does not tolerate rowdiness in her classroom, but she also goes to every kid’s birthday party she’s invited to and brings a gift. She organized our school’s annual talent show to take place at a nursing home so that the kids could learn the importance of community outreach while also having fun. And last year, when one of her students lost his granddad who he was very close to, Emily saw how he was struggling, and she put together an impromptu class project. She asked each of the kids to bring in a square of fabric, and using liquid stitches, she let all the kids help iron the pieces together to form a little grieving blanket that Frankie could take home and snuggle when he felt sad. She wanted him to know he had a class of kids who cared about him.

Parents don’t always like her because she tends to call them outwith very little sugarcoating when she sees they’re not aiding their children like they should—like when they repeatedly bring their child to school late. And the other teachers think she’s a know-it-all who does too much. And I think she’s annoying because it’s so damn hard trying to keep up with how incredible she is.

Because the fact is, it takes so much emotional energy to be a teacher. And an outrageous amount to be agoodone. I know it takes a toll on her, and still, somehow, she comes in every year sacrificing so much of herself that most parents and kids will never even know about or appreciate.

No, I’m not all that worried about her getting fired. I’ll start a town riot before I let that happen. I’m more interested in recovering her manuscript out of creative sympathy. I know how vulnerable it is to share your writing. Her news shouldn’t have to come out like this—where it could become a potential punch line with the town she loves so much.

She groans. “Do you think you can you get it back?”

I’ve been playing around with her email while we’ve been talking, and I have my answer. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

“The bad.”

“You can’t retrieve the email. Some providers allow it, but not this one, it seems.”

She is one step away from complete devastation. “What’s the good news?”

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