Page 10 of Love is an Open Book
“Maybe not, but the process is the same. Brainstorm, plot, write, repeat,” she says. “But I can’t deny knowing this book will end up on-screen hits different.
“Especially since I know how excited Rob and Jayla are for their season,” she adds. It’s no surprise she’s just as concerned about the actors who play the roles of Victor and Sydney as she is about her own career.
I search my mind for something to tell her that won’t invalidate her feelings. I’m in awe of her and hate seeing her lose confidence.
“Maybe I need to take a step back,” she says, before I can respond. “Set it aside and come back to it with fresh eyes.” She dusts off her hands, grimacing when she looks at her nails. “I could take Kim’s advice and get back on the dating apps, just to shake up my routine.”
“The same apps you call cesspools?” I’ve had some luck with dating apps, but lately I haven’t felt the urge to log on. Does that have anything to do with Mia being single for going on two years? I’d like to think not, but then again, I try not to think like that at all. Too dangerous for my heart.
“The dates don’t have to be good,” she says, rolling right past my objection. “I just need to do something out of the ordinary. Get out of my writing cave—”
“Is that any way to talk about a place that serves ten-dollar lattes?”
“—and get some clarity. Live life, instead of writing about it,” she says, ignoring my joke, so I try again.
“Sounds like a throw pillow.” I make a face, trying to lighten her mood, but inside I’m shook. Since when is she feeling like this about her work? Things must really be bad.
“If only I had one to smack you with right now.” Empty threats, just like her fake scowl that’s already close to slipping into a smile. She talks tough, but she has the softest heart of anyone I know. The corner of my yard is overgrown because she spotted an anthill and begged me not to mow over it.
All the more reason to not let her risk her heart just to gether mind off writing. “Taking a break isn’t a bad idea. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.” I stand up and dig my fists into my sore lower back. “Why not go on vacation?”
“By myself?” She shakes her head. “I’ll just wind up spending the whole time thinking about the book, or pull out my laptop and write in circles. I need to get out of my head. Short of a year in a Parisian apartment, this is the best idea I’ve got.” She doesn’t mention it, but I picture a man with her in that scenario, maybe an artist. Serious and soulful and everything I’m not.
I shove aside the image of Mia writing at an antique desk next to balcony doors thrown open to reveal a view of the Eiffel Tower, a painter sprawled on the bed, sketching her. “You’re leaving out the part where you’d be going out with strangers. Guys who don’t know they’re signing up to be your distraction.” It’s not them I’m worried about, it’s Mia. But she hates the idea of anyone worrying over her.
“Who’s to say I won’t make a real connection?” She grabs her phone off the chair. “And I won’t be leading them on. I updated my dating profile.” Passing it over, she hops across the torn-up path to stand next to me, cheek pressed to my arm like she’s eager to see her handiwork.
Shielding the screen from the sun with my cupped palm, I read aloud.
“‘Single woman (30) seeks single man for casual date(s) which may or may not result in an exclusive relationship.’” Lowering the phone, I hook my fingertip into the nosepiece of her sunglasses and ease them down to look in her eyes. “Mia. You write books for a living, and this is the best you can do? It sounds like a contract.”
“Perfect.” She takes off her glasses, brown eyes aglow in the afternoon sun. “I won’t have to worry about them getting the wrong idea.”
“The whole thing is the wrong idea,” I tell her. “It won’t work.” Or it will, and she’ll find herself catching feelings forsome weirdo who jumped at the chance for no-strings-attached court-mandated romance.
“Something’s got to.” Sliding the sunglasses back on, she crosses her arms, her cream linen crop top showing off the smooth, bronze skin of her belly. I pull my focus off her distracting curves and back to her predicament as she says, “At least it will get my mind off the fact that I’ve got nothing to show for months of work.”
An idea comes to me, one foolish enough that I don’t allow myself to think it over. “Does it have to be a stranger?”
“What do you mean?”
“Date me.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize my mistake. Somehow I’ve gone and asked out my best friend, the woman who thinks dating is the death sentence for friendships.
“Gavin—”
“Not for real,” I say, scrambling. Damn. How can I save this? “But you want to do something out of the ordinary. What could be more out of character than me and you going on a date? I could pick you up for dinner—”
“We do that a lot—”
“At a fancy restaurant.” All of a sudden, I want this, very badly. “I’ll bring flowers. Living ones,” I add with a grin. “Open all the doors for you.”
“You do that for everyone,” she says.
It’s how I was raised. Midwestern nice that I sometimes get teased for. “Fine, then we could go to one of those wine and painting nights or something.”
“Last time we tried that, you got tipsy and accidentally drank paint water.”
Let me tell you, it sobered me up fast. “The point I’m trying to make is that you can escape your routine without going out with a stranger. Us pretending to be a couple would be the furthest thing from reality.”
