Page 35 of Healing Hearts
I chuckle, watching her dramatics. She flops back into the couch, clutching her heart like she’s Harley herself. At least how I saw her when I wrote it.
“Richard gave her an ultimatum! Live with him in Italy, on his vineyard or be the famous movie star. I thought she’d say no and go back to her old life, but she didn’t. She really loved him,” Kendall sighs.
I nod along, though my mind is racing—of course, I know the story well. I wrote the damn thing.
Suddenly, Kendall sits up, pinning me with a serious look. “I still can’t believe you only thought it was ‘good.’ If Hallmark doesn’t make a movie out of it, I’ll riot.”
I laugh.
If only Hallmark would call. That would be a dream come true.
“Oh! Did you hear?” she says, her tone taking on a note of excitement.
“What?”
“Someone thinks they figured out who Sophie Quinn really is.”
My heart skips a beat. “Isn’t the author… Sophie Quinn?” I ask, feigning innocence. Could this be the fan who’s been sending those cryptic emails to me?
“No, duh! That’s just the pen name. No, they say they know therealidentity of Sophie Quinn. There’s this blog that’s been piecing together clues. The blogger says they live inFlorida and claims they know Sophie’s real name and maybe even her location.”
Panic settles in, and I force a smile. “Really?”
Kendall nods eagerly. “I’ll send you the link. It’s like a real-life mystery! I’m hoping it turns out Sophie lives nearby. I bet we’d be best friends.”
The irony nearly makes me choke on my taco. “You think so?”
“Oh, totally,” she says, oblivious. Then her expression shifts. “Though they say, ‘never meet your heroes.’ Maybe she’s a total diva or… I don’t know, a psycho.”
I laugh, despite the knot in my stomach. “She’s probably just a regular person, like you and me.”
Kendall raises an eyebrow. “Oh, fuck. What if Sophie Quinn is a guy. That would ruin the entire franchise for me. I could never read another Sophie Quinn novel if that is the case. Never.”
I smirk, lifting my glass. “You’d better hope not.”
But even as we laugh, the weight of the secret presses down on me because the truth is, Sophie Quinn isn’t a guy, she’s not a diva or a psycho, and she’s certainly not a stranger.
She’s just little ole me.
Chapter 14
Trevor
The sharp scent of motor oil fills my nostrils as I slide under the Mustang's gleaming chassis. Coltrane's mellow saxophone drifts from the speakers, usually soothing my restless mind, but not today. Today, every note reminds me of Brooke's laugh, soft and melodic.
I reach for a wrench, my hands moving on autopilot as my thoughts wander. The cool metal against my skin brings back the feel of her fingers brushing mine as we reached for the bottle of wine the other night.
I roll out from under the car, wiping my hands on a rag. My gaze falls on the radio, and I can't help but smile. Brooke's enthusiasm when I mentioned my love for jazz was infectious. Her eyes had lit up, and she'd said, ‘I never pegged you for a jazz man, Dr. Jacobs. You're full of surprises.’
I chuckle at the memory. "You have no idea, Brooke," I say to the empty garage.
The urge to call her is overwhelming. I want to hear her voice constantly, to tell her about this classic car restoration project I’m working on. She'd probably tease me about being a ‘grease monkey’, her eyes sparkling with mirth.
I run a hand through my hair, realizing too late that it's covered in oil. Smooth move, I groan. Real smooth.
"Focus," I tell myself sternly. "The car needs your attention. Brooke doesn’t."
But even as I say it, I know it's a lie. The truth is, I need her. Her warmth, her kindness, the way she sees right through my carefully constructed walls. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
