Page 35 of Tell Me You Love Me

Shirtless in front of Alana Page.Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool.

“I enjoy watching the kids work on their skills.”Not a complete lie. “In a group of twelve, one or two of them might be champs someday.” But when Franklin steps forward and kicks a bag, only to fall on his ass and whip his embarrassed eyes this way, I smirk and add, “Heprobably won’t be one of them.”

“Shut up.” She gifts him with an encouraging smile, nodding to entice him to stand again. To keep trying. “Don’t speak badly about my son.”

“I don’t consider it speaking badly. I wasn’t ragging on the boy.” I slide my gaze across and meet her eyes. “You had to know mixing your genes with a corporate jockstrap wasn’t gonna land you with an athlete. I hope you weren’t banking on him taking you all the way to the NFL or anything.”

“I said shut up.” Her jaw turns to granite, rock solid and unshaking. “Don’t speak about him at all. You think you know me, Tommy, the girl who fell into your arms and begged you to make the world a kinder place. But you have no clue anymore. Maybe you’re pissed about it, but becoming a mother was the best thing that ever happened to me. It gave me strength I never knew I could possess. Now?” She glares straight into my eyes. “I’ll slit a man’s throat for looking at him wrong. So stop.”

ROUND ELEVEN

ALANA

I don’t bother asking Mrs. Middler’s grandson for help to move books. And I sure as hell don’t ask Chris—because the risk that he might bring Tommy is too much to bear. So I spend the next few days hauling dusty books from one end of the shopto the other, clearing out space and creating some semblance of organization, starting with fiction on one side and non-fiction on the other. Soon, I’ll break the fiction into genres, and after that, authors and series.

But until then, I destroy my sinuses with years-old dust and work muscles I’d forgotten I owned. And all the while, I fend off all the things I don’t want.

Like Helen.

“Marianne has had another discussion with acquisitions,” she drones, tired of this conversation and ready, surely, to toss me on my ass.

Is that what I want?

“They’re willing to increase your offer by fifteen percent, Alana. They can pencil you in for a summer release next year. But you need to come to the table, babe. You long ago sprinted past difficult-to-deal-with and dove headfirst into diva. You’re making a name for yourself in the publishing world, and I have to admit, it’s not a good one.”

“I’m not playing hard to get.” I heft a heavy box, lifting with my legs and ignoring the pain in my back as I straighten out with a huff, and then I slowly carry it toward the back of the store where my piles are growing. “I’m not trying to be a diva. I’m telling you, I’m not willing to sell the story right now.”

“Why the heck not? This is literally why we’re here, Alana. I’m an agent. You’re a writer. We put you on submission. You even went to auction, which is a dream most others would kill for. But at the eleventh hour, you refuse the deal that shook out. They’re offeringmoredespite having won the auction fair and square, and now you’ve got cold feet?”

“It’s not about cold feet, either.” I waddle, much like I did in my seventh month of pregnancy when my son’s head was tucked perilously low, and his little body was ready to evacuate, albeit a little too soon. “I changed my mind. I’m not ready to share my story with the world. It’s as simple as that.”

“Well, whenwillyou be ready? Because accepting the deal today doesn’t mean publication is today. Next summer is a full year away, and by then, you might wish you didn’t screw around so much this year.”

“I’ll write you a different book.” I set the box down with a grunt and press my hands to the top, leaning over it and taking a moment to catch my breath. “I can write something else entirely, and we’ll submit that. Give me, like…” I draw a heaving breath and swipe my sweaty brow. “Three months.”

“They do not want a different book!” She shouts and still, somehow, makes it sound classy. Sophisticated. A gift my mother possesses, too. “They wantLove and War, Alana. They want the story you wrote about a boy whose heart was bigger than the chaos surrounding him. This isn’t a game, and stories are not interchangeable in this world. Not when you’re a debut and have yet to prove your worth. They’re not asking for any old book penned by this unknown author. They wantthatspecific story, and if you don’t cut the shit soon, you’re going to have their lawyers crawling up your backside.”

“I’ve yet to accept a single dollar.” Turning from the box, I head back across the shop to get more. “And even if I had, my only penalty would be to repay the advance. You won’t spook me with legal threats, Helen.”I’m untouchable. Those are the words that tickle the back of my throat.I’ve already walked through hell and come out the other side. But those are not the words I share with her. Instead, I grab another box and earn the sundae I intend to eat after dinner tonight. “I’m not playing games, and I’m not interested in arguing about it. Pull the book. I’ve already told you more than a few times.”

“You’re impossible!” She huffs and ends our call, so themusic I was playing before she interrupted starts again, filling the shop with its tinny sound. And because I think of it, I make a mental note to request decent speakers from Mrs. Middler’s budget. Just a modest stereo or something, so when customers wander through and end up at the very back end of the warehouse-esque building, the music they hear won’t sound like it’s coming from a tin can.

“Are you here alone?”

“Argh!” I throw the box and spin, ninja hands at the ready and the ghost of a memory of what were once fight lessons pulsing through my veins. But my lips peel back into a feral sneer when I find Tommy freakin’ Watkins standing by the shop door, a tight shirt hugging his chest and jeans that wrap around his thick thighs, emphasizing what I suppose I’d forgotten.

He was always stocky. Solidly built, even when he was young and hungry. But now he has his own money, a training regime, dietary plans, and though it’s only an assumption, I doubt he’s living with a tyrannical abuser who kicks the shit out of him simply for existing.

The boy he used to be grew into a man swollen in all the right places.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” And yet, he kicks one foot over the other and chews on a Silly Stix straw, his lips curling around the plastic and his perfect, white teeth glittering behind a smug smile.

Ten years ago, I’d have killed to see his eyes dance the way they do now. To see him so outwardly happy would have made my heart sing. But today, when he looks at me like that, it’s like he has an inside joke, and all mocking fingers point toward me.

“Did you hurt yourself?” He gestures toward the dropped box, the sides split wide open, and books splayed on the floor between us. “That was probably too heavy for you.”

“What are you doing here?” Anger courses through my veins as I crouch and try to pull the box back to its bottom. I straighten what’s twisted and stack books before the covers bend. “I’m working, and you look like you’ve got somewhere to be. So why don’t you…” I slap a heavy hardcover book to the top of the pile and wave toward the doors at his back. “Go.”

“I asked you a question.” His kindness slips, revealing something darker, something menacing and dangerous beneath. “Are you here alone? It’s almost dark outside, and maybe we’re in the asshole of nowhere, and most psychopaths linger around the cities, but times have changed since you were last in Plainview. Where’s Franklin?”

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