Page 4 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
It’s good.
Maybe the best thing I’ve ever written.
And I’m terrified.
Because it’s the end and I’m not sure it’s good enough.
No. It’s good enough. I’ve never worked harder on a book. Not ever.
So the terror is coming from…not being ready to let it go?
Or maybe a worry because once this series is complete, my readers will forget about me and won’t read another one of my books.
Ever.
Maybe they’ll even hate this one.
Maybe—
“Jesus, Faye,” I whisper, slamming the door on those thoughts and shoving in my keyboard. “Enough.”
It’s good.
My hero is swoony.
My heroine is confident and sassy—the type of woman I’ve always wanted to be (and won’t ever be, but that’s the beauty of getting lost in a fictional world, am I right?).
The steam is…off the charts, so hot I’m shocked the words even came from my brain because just typing them on the keyboard made me blush. Speaking them aloud is absolutely never going to happen.
And my favorite part?
The thing that ties all of my books together—from small town to sports to romantasy—is the way the hero sees something special in the heroine, something that may seem normal to the outside world, may even seem boring to everyone. Except that hero. And those small pieces, the simple ones, the quiet parts that are so often overlooked…those are the reasons he falls for her, why he thinks she’s the most beautiful woman in the world, why his heart is hers and hers alone, and why he would do anything—put his body between hers and a bullet, battle a mystical mage, hit an asshole on the other hockey team for besmirching her honor—all just to keep her safe.
Emotionally. Physically.
That’s the part I live for.
That’s what has tears clinging to my lashes as I write the scenes where he shows the heroine she’s not ordinary—not only because she can wield a sword or has magical powers the world has never seen, not because she plays a sport better than any other woman or has the business acumen to take on powerful billionaires.
Because she’s her.
And that means she’s perfect for him. That he’ll bend over backward to be the perfect man for her right back.
My book is that.
It’s more.
It’s one of the special ones, the book babies I’ve tinkered with, agonizing over each and every comma placement, trying to be intentional about adjective and word choice, making certain the dialogue is tight and snappy.
Some books come easy.
This isn’t one of them.
It was a struggle, a slog, a gritting my teeth and forcing myself to sit in my chair, to move my fingers on the keyboard, to push through the tough scenes…
And now I’m through to the other side.
And it’s beautiful.
