Page 46 of Peaches

He finally looks up my way and smiles. “Every writer thinks that.”

“I don’t think it,” I hiss out as my eyes squint, and I lean forward, “I know it,” I insist further, as my pointer finger taps on my temple a few times and I wait for his hopefully educated, most needed, and possibly quite helpful response.

“I used to think that way, too.”

Wait, what? He used to think that way? But that would mean…

“And turns out, I was right, about myself that is. According to my father. But lucky for you, I’m always right.” Cue the roll of my eyes. “A fact that’s made me a lot of money scouting new talent.” Well, he’s right about that fact, even if I hate to admit it. “And the good news is, I’ve scouted you. I wouldn’t have agreed to sign you if I hadn’t. What’s more, I’ve read you. And hear this when I say it, because I don’t just tell it to anyone, but I’ve read shit, Grace. People that can’t seem to be able to rub two words together to save their career, let alone the thousands they need to make a novel. You are not one of them. I can admit that gladly, even if I don’t have a thing for romance. You’ll never be one of them, Peaches. ”

To say my ego isn’t slightly inflated after hearing that praise would be an understatement. But still, flattery will only get you so far. Hell, who am I kidding, it’ll get you as far as you need or want to ever go. Please, Mr. Beckett, tell me more.

“I’m stuck, in a big way,” I say as I power up the computer and flip it around, clicking on folders to bring up my current work in progress. He leans forward and watches, attentive, interested, and considerate, and God a part of my heart breaks off willingly and is forever lost to him.

A flash of slight embarrassment hits me as he starts to read in front of me. I’m never normally self-conscious, but having my words read by not only the man that’s inspiring them, but the man that will also soon hold the rights to all these words in his hands, (in a business sense), has my heart beating a little faster in anticipation of what he might think.

To say we’ve muddied the waters in our personal/professional relationship with this arrangement is an understatement.

But I’ve read before that muddy water is best cleared by leaving it alone. And so, I plan on doing just that.

“This is good, Peaches,” I eventually hear him say. “I don’t understand the issue.”

“Well,” I begin. “I think maybe I am making her a little too crazy. Like, I know she has mental health issues since her husband died,” he nods, we’ve talked briefly about my project before, “and her boss at her new job, the newspaper, is trying to only be her friend when he has shit of his own going on, even though hereallydoes want to be with her, but I just don’t know whatsaidshitis.”

He takes a moment and thinks about it. Like really thinks about it. Eyebrows knit in a tight line. Arms crossed over his bare, glistening, chest. If only I could see a bubble cloud above his head, I could save myself the suspense. Good thing there is not one over mine, or all Brett would be reading is dirty thoughts currently reserved for late at night when I know he’s sleeping.

“Maybe he lost his wife. Maybe they lost a kid,” he gives me a shrug and that sparks something in me.

Hmmmm, maybe he did. But how? I’m about to ask just that when he goes on.

“That’s why he wants to just stay friends. He’s afraid to get too close. He has feelings for her, and he’s worried, it’s more than just crossing that invisible line, boss and employee…”

“Current people excluded?”

He gives me a look, telling me to shut up, and I smile knowingly as I wait to see where his brilliant mind is going with this.

“He’s scared to lose. Like he lost before.” He shrugs and then begins to walk away. “Chicks love that kind of shit!”

Without thinking, I quickly pick up the towel sitting next to my laptop and throw it at his back as he sets his glass in the sink. His laugh assaults my ears as I think about what he just said.

Chicks love that kind of shit!

Yeah, well, something tells me you know all about what chicks love, but nothing about the feeling of losing anything,BrettlyBeckett!

“I don’t know,” I sigh, turning my attention back to my laptop and the story that I just can’t seem to make work.

“Maybe I just scratch it all together. Start new.”

He turns around to face me and goes to speak, obviously not agreeing, but I cut him off.

“Maybe, he’s a ball player, and she’s from Georgia,” that gets me a glare ofjust where are you going with thisfrom the man across the way. “And he’s rich. Like really rich. Lives in Hollywood Hills rich. And she thinks she’ll never fit into…”

“Boring! Been done a million times. Rich boy, poor girl. That’s an American classic as old as time. Give me something new, Grace!” He rolls his eyes and I feel the sting all the way through my heart to my fingers that moments before felt like they were itching to write. Not so much now, thank you,Brettly!

I think for a second as he starts to walk off towards the bathroom.

“Maybe…” I pause as he passes me and then turns around as I swivel in my seat to meet his eye. “Maybe he’s in the military. Yeah! And they knew each other a long time ago. They loved each other. But he told her not to wait for him. But she did. For a long time, she did. Until she couldn’t wait anymore and got married. Now she’s divorced with a little… girl! Yeah, a girl! Named Anna May, and he comes back and…”

“A dude with commitment issues, nothing less original than that,” he makes a jerk off motion at his waist, and I sigh as I roll my eyes.

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