Page 3 of Book Boyfriends
“He did?” Queasiness swirls in my stomach at the idea that Jackson is telling people about my writing.
“He says it’s a hobby of yours.”
And there it is, the reason for that churn in my belly. Hobby may be the kindest term my brothers used to describe my writing.
I clear my throat. “It’s not exactly a hobby. I’ve published three novels.”
“Really?” His head tilts. “Impressive. Jackson didn’t mention that. Who’s your publisher?”
“I am.”
After years of scribbled story ideas and starts/stops with manuscripts, I completed my first novel four years ago. Instead of the traditional path of querying agents even to have a chance at a publisher, I took a different route. Not waiting, I got a freelance editor and cover artist and did all the things to independently publish. And honestly, that’s a big deal, all businessy and stuff.
“Did you self-publish because you couldn’t get an agent?”
“No.” I narrow my gaze. “I prefer to have control over my career.”
He nods. “And you make a living at it?”
“Not yet.”
It’sthedream, though. Even if my bank account sometimes reflects my older brother’s concern that this is just an expensive hobby, just like Jackson’s many intramural teams. Somehow, our younger brother’s pickleball, flag football, and basketball leagues don’t seem to drum up the same level of disapproval.
Still, I do okay enough… Enough to keep me going. To reach for the dream of days spent crafting my stories and seeing my book on the shelves of all bookstores instead of just a few indie ones in Southern California.
“In the meantime, I’m a hospice social worker. Not sure I’d want to give that up. It’s a tough job, but I love it.”
His smile dips. “All that death must be hard.”
“It’s not a giggle-fest, but it fills me up. The end is just the beginning for so many, and I get to help those left behind find their way.” I slosh out a breath at Davis, whose gaze is fixed to his phone. “What do you do again?”
“I work with your brother at No Boundaries, remember?”
That’s right, Mr. Glued To His Phone works at the new startup where Jackson is deputy chief financial officer. My love for my younger brother is unquestioned, but he’s a finance bro.
Forbes and spreadsheets are my brother’s porn. No doubt Davis shares that same predilection. I’ve interacted enough with Jackson’s finance bros to know the type. In every romance novel, Davis is the man the main character drops for the grumpy mechanic with a heart of gold.
“You must enjoy writing if you’re paying to do it.” He takes a long drag from his habanero strawberry cider.
“I do,” I say, determination tightens my expression. “Everyone needs a heart to live. Writing is mine.”
It’s something my dad says. Nolan Lane isn’t the sitcom dad with pretty speeches and sage advice outside the belief that a life without passion is not worth living. This truth is rooted so deep inside me that it’s almost the steady beat pulsing me toward mypassion. No matter how many times the voices, both inside and outside, try to steer me away, I always come back to writing.
“I get it,” he murmurs.
“You do?” I say softly, my gaze linking with his.
Something akin to understanding glints in his dark pupils. So few people in my life seem to get this, let alone understand my passion for writing.
Davis blinks out of our tethered gazes. “Surprised you’d keep doing it, even though you don’t make a living at it.” He dips a fry he’s already bitten into the ketchup.
Eww… Double-dipper.My stomach twists at both his action and question. “Most authors don’t make enough to support themselves. A lot of us keep our day jobs to supplement.”
“You’re not George R. R. Martin or J.R.R. Tolkien level yet.”
Not a single woman or marginalized author.Perhaps shared french fries were too hopeful for this date. Rem lectures that my standards are too high, which is why I’m single, but there is a bare minimum. A man who doesn’t double-dip into the joint condiment before we’ve even had our first kiss and whose writer references aren’t only white, heterosexual, cis, non-disabled men isn’t too much to ask.
He juts his chin at me. “What do you write?”
