Page 12 of An Unexpected Christmas
“I just prefer clean lines and order.” I shrug.
Her gaze flicks to the tiny tree. “I’m not sure that extends to your Christmas tree.”
“Why do I feel like you’re judging me?” I ask, setting the bread on the table instead of the breakfast bar this time.
“I’m definitely judging,” she says, taking a sip of her wine. “But only a little. I mean, this place could really use… something.”
“Not everyone needs their house to look like the cover of a Christmas catalog.”
“No,” she says, a teasing glint in her eye. “Just the ones who don’t want their neighbors to think they’re secretly the Grinch reincarnated.”
I chuckle as I set the pot of soup down. “You’ve got quite the imagination.”
She gives a half-smile, leaning back in her chair. “Yeah, my mom always joked I’d write children’s books one day. But here I am, working the maternity ward full time.”
I tap the ladle against the pot, pouring soup into our bowls, and nudge one toward her. “Helping bring new people into the world? Not a bad way to spend your time. Writing is overrated anyway.”
She inhales as the steam from the bowl that plumes around her. “No complaints there. I really do love my job. And this smells incredible.” She scoops a spoonful of the soup and hums when it hits her mouth. The noise of satisfaction is far too erotic for what this is. “Wait, I don’t know what you do for work…”
I pause, knowing that I can’t dodge that, as much as I might want to. “I’m actually a writer.” Or maybe I should consider myself a semi-retired writer at this point, who knows.
“You are? That’s awesome.” She drinks down a mouthful of soup before asking, “What do you write? I love reading, but with work I have more time for audiobooks.”
The soup in front of me suddenly doesn’t seem so appetizing. She might figure it all out, and then I’ll have to field questions about what I’ve been doing for years… And still, I swear this woman can get information out of me as fast as she does a snappy retort because I find myself answering her, as though I’m unable not to give her something. “I like to think of it as romantic suspense, but also, I guess it’s classed as thriller or just suspense since I sometimes kill off characters.”
Her brow creases, like she’s trying to reconcile the grumpy recluse in front of her with someone who writes kissing and crime. “Have I read your stuff?”
Hesitation clogs my throat. I never want to be that guy who assumes someone has read my books. And lately, the idea of being that guy feels worse than lying. “I’m really not that well known.” It’s a lie that burns my throat. My most recent bookreached the top three New York Times Bestseller list… the one before that, the top five. Not that it matters now. Not when I can’t even bring myself to open a blank document.
She taps the side of her mouth, in thought. “Okay, let me guess then. Do you write under your real name?”
“No. A pen name.”
She hums, the sound lingering between us. “Well, that makes this guessing game trickier. There are hundreds of authors you could be.”
I could tell her, and there’s a chance she won’t know my work. Or maybe she would, and I’d have to watch her face shift when she realizes she’s sitting across from the writer who disappeared, leaving readers hanging. The thought alone makes sweat gather under my sweater.
“If you kill off characters though,” she says, brightening, “then you have to know the author S.B. Taylor. They always kill off the most unexpected people, and I never ever guess the right bad guy. And just when I think I’ve figured out the twist, someone’s dead. It gets me every time.”
I swallow, my hand drifting to the back of my neck, rubbing at the heat spreading there. “Yeah,” I croak because it’s all I can seem to say. Someone in the same field should be able to talk about the books, especially since I wrote the ones she’s talking about. But I can’t seem to speak at all.
She’s watching me. I know she is because my face heats the longer she stares and assesses my lack of response and awkwardbehavior I’ve suddenly adopted. “Wait. Do you know them? Can you hook a girl up? I’d absolutely love to meet them. I know it’s a man, but he never shows his face in the back of his books, never does signings. He’s a mystery, and if you know him, then Ihaveto know.”
There wasn’t a reason I never showed my face. When I started writing, I wanted to keep it quiet while I worked my corporate job, and then, as things changed and grew, I just felt more comfortable behind the keyboard than at public-facing events.
“I, um, I do know S.B. Taylor.” Understatement of the year.
Frankie’s spoon clatters to the worktop as she makes a sound that would wake the neighbors. “Don’t play with me right now, Sam. You know him?”
Welp. Here goes nothing.Deep breaths, Sam.
My throat dries, and I try to swallow it away. “I… I am him.”
I wait for the words to register. She blinks once, twice. Then lets out a laugh that sounds like disbelief.
She hastily moves the curls falling into her face, huffing sounds I’m not sure are words. “No. You’re… Are you lying?”
Chewing the side of my mouth, I shake my head.
