by Ali Parker
I smiled to myself as I finished sweeping and pulled over the mop bucket. I plunged the mop and wrung out the head before slapping it on the tiles and setting to scrubbing. “I have it on good authority that W. Parker is actually a man.”
Callie snorted. “Oh please. You sound like a conspiracy theorist. Think about it. What real-life man could write stories like that? The women feel like real people and the men? Oh God, the men.” Callie slumped against the counter so she could fan herself. “I’m getting all hot and bothered just talking about it.”
“I’m telling you Parker is a he. No doubt about it.”
Callie scoffed and rolled her eyes at me. “I’m going to tell Mare she definitely was wrong about you and that you’re delusional.”
“I mean it.”
“How can you be so confident? What man could write so concisely about what sex feels like for a woman? It’s downright impossible is what it is. I’d bet so much effing money on this. I’m that sure of it.”
I licked my lips. “Maybe I know him in real life.”
Callie eyed me suspiciously before inching forward and crossing her arms over her chest. “Maybe? Or you actually know W. Parker?”
I cleared my throat and kept mopping. “I actually know W. Parker.”
“What’s his real name then? Go on, spill it.”
I giggled as Callie pleaded with me to tell her who Wes was. This was a big city, and I doubted it would get out, so I leaned in conspiratorially and whispered. “His name is Wes and I’ve been on three dates with him. Well, sort of three. Only one of them was an official date.”
Callie’s mouth fell open. “You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious.”
“Have you two, you know, had sex?”
“No, not yet. We almost did but I wanted to slow things down.”
Callie laughed incredulously. “A man who writes books that make me come like a fucking fountain wanted to bang you and you want to take it slow? Girl, you have more self-control in your entire body than I do in my pinky finger.”
I snickered. “It’s not just about the sex with him.”
“Have sex with him and then tell me if you feel the same way. Actually, just have sex with him so you can report back and tell me how glorious it was. Can you imagine? I bet he’ll bend you over his desk and—”
The bell chimed above the door and Callie pointed a warning finger at me as I moved up to the register. “We’re not done with this conversation,” she said.
I smiled over my shoulder at her. It felt good to have another friend in the city. Sure, we’d only known each other for a few hours, but just like Sonia, Callie was someone I could tell I would know for a long time.
It helped that we could gush about Wes together, of course. Sexy men had a way of bringing women together in situations like this. They could also rip them apart just as easily but I didn’t see that happening unless Wes walked in here and fell for my much younger, doe-eyed colleague.
Something told me that wasn’t going to happen.
Chapter 18
Wes
The pen pinched between my cramped fingers weighed about thirty pounds. Well, not really but after another wild writing sprint that had lasted several hours, it truly felt that way. I let it fall from my fingers, which remained poised like they were still clutching its squishy grip. The pen fell to the page, smudged a little bit of the freshest ink, and rolled to the edge of the notebook where it bumped up against the binding and stopped.
I pushed away from my desk and leaned back in my seat.
I’m done.
Finishing a book never stopped feeling surreal. There was so much that went into it—and still had to go into it—that once the last sentence was written I never quite believed it. Endless hours of toiling over word choices, avoiding spiraling down tangents that didn’t serve the story, and just writing, which was the biggest struggle of them all, among many other things.
It felt good to be finished with this one.
I massaged my right hand with my left until feeling returned to the aching fingers and wrist. I was fairly certain I had a bad case of carpal tunnel forming. I shook my hands out and checked the time.
Six in the evening on a Saturday. Not late enough to be rude to call Harriet.
I wanted to break the news that I’d be done before the deadline. Hopefully, the surprise would knock her on her obnoxious little ass. She’d been annoying the hell out of me and her tough-love techniques only served to make me more irritated, not inspired to write. She didn’t know how to handle a writer like me. She would probably better serve someone who gave a shit about deadlines and publisher’s schedules. Me? I just wanted to write my little love stories and share them with strangers in the world who loved a good romance book. I wished all the extra stress didn’t exist. Or that it was just a little less prevalent.
I picked up my phone and dialed Harriet.
She answered on the third ring. “Evening, Wes. You’d better not be calling to ask me for an extension. I swear to God I’ll drive down to your house myself and force you to write. We only have six days left and I expect you to honor our agreement.”
“The book is done, Harriet.”
She paused. I heard her put what sounded like a knife down on a cutting board. At this time, she was likely at home in her gourmet kitchen, afforded by the authors she’d represented who’d made her rich, me included. “It’s done? Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
She let out a bark of relieved laughter. “Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day, Wes. This is wonderful! When will you send it over? I can’t wait to read it.”
I’d never confirmed whether or not Harriet actually read the books. For the last year, I’d had a suspicion she didn’t, and if she did, it was a mere flipping of the pages so she could pick out the big plot points and answer my questions should I choose to grill her on the story.
I never did.
“I’ll have it to you by Tuesday, I think,” I said. “I just have to type it up by hand. There are some revisions I want to make as I rewrite.”
“Well, don’t go down the rabbit hole too deep. Tuesday sounds good. I’ll tell the publisher that it’s—”
“Don’t,” I said. “They’ll have it on the deadline day. If I need more time, I intend to take it. I don’t need to be boxed into a corner.”
“Oh, darling. I’m not boxing you into a corner. Submitting early will buy you some favor with them. All these extensions you’ve requested don’t paint you in a favorable light, Wes. That’s all.”
“They’ll have it by the original deadline,” I insisted.
Harriet let out a defeated sigh. I could see her now, her bottom lip puffed out, her cheeks full of exasperated air, her short curly hair ruffled on her forehead by her breath. “Fine. Whatever you want, Wes. You’re the talent, after all. What do I know?”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
I wasn’t going to let her turn the tables on me and play her little gaslighting game. It might work with her other writers but I was done subscribing to her subtle manipulations.
Harriet covered the mouthpiece of her phone and bellowed at her kids that dinner was ready. She barked demands to wash their hands, come down, and help her put things on the table. I wondered what it would be like to have a mother like Harriet. Was she as demanding with her children as she was with her clients?
It wouldn’t have surprised me.
“Well, I’m glad you finished the book, Wes,” she purred into the line. “You’ve made my weekend. Now I have to track my husband down for dinner. He’s been hiding in the garage all day working on who knows what.”
“Enjoy your evening with your family,” I said, smiling as I thought about her husband desperately trying to avoid his wife by tinkering in his garage. I’d met the fellow a handful of times. He was meek and not at all the kind of man I expected Harriet to choose. He was of slender build and personality. He laughed quieter than
he spoke and did as his wife asked like a loyal lapdog.
Harriet hung up the phone.
The silence of my office didn’t taunt me as it usually did. On an ordinary day, accusatory whispers would ripple around my space and tell me I wasn’t doing enough. I wasn’t writing enough. I wasn’t good enough. The imposter syndrome, as Briar had so succinctly referred to it, was real, and I’d been foolish enough at the beginning of my writing career to think it would go away as I wrote more.
Now I had accepted the fact that I would always feel like I hadn’t earned this and that I wasn’t worthy of the title of “author.”
I didn’t let that get me down today, though.
Today was a day of success. It had been far too long since I finished a project before a deadline and I wanted to share that with someone. On a regular day, I might have called Walker, and we might have gone back to the cigar lounge for bourbon and cigars.
But Briar was the only one on my mind.
I called her cell but she didn’t pick up. I knew she was probably at work and it seemed disrespectful to show up at her job, especially since she was so new there. So I left her a voicemail instead.
“Hey, Briar, it’s me, Wes.” I doubted I needed to tell her who it was, seeing as how everyone and their mother had caller ID these days, but I said it anyway. “I know you’re probably at work right now. I hope the day is being kind to you. I was wondering if you wanted to get together. I have some free time on my hands because I just finished writing my book. Shocking, I know. I thought I’d be plugging away at it for a few more weeks. Anyway, I’ll stop rambling into your voicemail. Let me know if tomorrow works. I could show you some more sights after we eat. You still have only seen the tip of the New York City iceberg.”
I hung up the phone and stood up from my desk. It felt good to stretch my legs. I’d lost track of how long I’d been sitting down writing. Over the last couple of days, I’d collectively probably written for at least thirty hours. The tension in my shoulders, forearms, neck, and lower back could attest to that.
I needed a massage and a chiropractor appointment. I’d have to see to both of those things this week.
Maybe Briar would want to get a massage with you.
I shook my head at myself as I made my way down the hall to my bedroom. My feet felt like they’d been encased in lead and weighed thirty pounds each. I just wanted to put my head down for a minute and close my eyes. Rest would help me set my head on straight and probably ease a lot of my aches and pains.
Whoever said being a professional writer wasn’t hard on the body didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about.
I clipped my shoulder on my doorframe and stumbled into my room.
Briar won’t want to get a massage with you, you dolt. She said she wants to move slowly. Laying in a room together for a romantic massage with nothing between us but thin towels hardly seems like “taking it slow.”
I collapsed on my bed, rolled onto my back, and clasped my hands behind my head. I considered my ceiling as thoughts about Briar rolled around in my mind.
I hadn’t stopped thinking about the night where something almost happened between us.
If I closed my eyes and thought long enough, I could still feel her lips pressed to mine. And if I thought a little longer, which I most certainly did, I could feel the warmth of her under her panties. God, I’d been so close. I still had a wicked case of blue balls from just how close we’d come to taking things a step further.
I respected her and didn’t want to push her. I wasn’t that guy.
But I was a man. I had needs. And I needed her.
One of these days when she was ready, she’d let me in and I’d worship her the way she deserved. I’d take up residence between her thighs and I’d make her scream unholy things at the very ceiling I was looking at now.
I smiled. Would she scream my name? Would her thighs quiver around my ears? Would she grip the bed sheets and come apart for me like she had in my dreams?
I cleared my throat as my pants grew tight and I tried to shake her from my mind. My phone chimed on the night stand and I rolled over and peered at the screen.
The message was from Briar.
All it said in capital letters was: YES.
Breakfast tomorrow morning was a date.
Chapter 19
Briar
I arrived at the restaurant I was meeting Wes at ten minutes early. I’d underestimated how much time it would take me to get there but I didn’t mind being early.
The hostess, a bubbly young woman with glasses that were way too big for her face, brought me to a table outside on the half-enclosed patio. Heat lamps filled the metal canopy roof above and radiated heat onto my head, back, and shoulders. Cool air still filtered in but the contrasts were nice, especially once I ordered a latte with nutmeg dusted on top. I sat sipping the foam off the top of the coffee while I waited for Wes and did some people-watching.
New York City was definitely ideal for watching strangers do the most peculiar things. Couples were always one extreme or the other. Either they were blissfully in love or they were at each other’s throats arguing. There was no in-between unless they were eating and therefore hardly speaking to one another.
Two tables down from me was an older couple sitting with newspapers open on their table while they drank tea out of cups resting on saucers. She had frizzy white hair while he only had a tuft of gray hair at the front of his head. They wore glasses I was convinced they’d bought in the eighties and both wore several layers of clothing, old-people arch-support running shoes with soles that were three inches thick, and turtlenecks. A cane rested against the side of the man’s chair while a small dog on a pink leash lay at the woman’s feet.
The outdoor patio was pet friendly. I liked that. We didn’t have any restaurants or cafes like that in Waynesville.
I saw Wes’s car coming down the street and watched him pull into an angled spot between two SUVs. He got out of his car and shielded his eyes from the morning sun as he hopped up onto the curb. He hadn’t spotted me yet, so I took a moment to admire him as I always did when he wasn’t looking.
He looked handsome as ever.
Today, he wore dark blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a dark gray sports jacket with black trim. His shoes were crisp white, and a pair of sunglasses hung from the neck of his shirt. I assumed he’d been wearing them while he drove. His hair was nicely styled and it looked like his facial hair had been freshly trimmed.
He spotted me sitting on the patio and waved as he came through the front doors.
I smiled, wiggled my fingers at him, and stood up to give him a hug when he reached the table.
“I hope you weren’t waiting long,” Wes said when we broke apart.
“Not at all. Just ten minutes or so. I enjoyed people-watching while I waited.”
“Ah, a writer’s favorite pastime.”
I hadn’t thought about it that way. “So, you must be an expert at spying on strangers then?”
Wes and I took our seats. He chuckled and nodded. “One might say that. It sounds a little creepy when you put it that way, though.”
I dismissed his concerns for creepiness with a wave of my mind. “Nonsense. It makes sense to me. How else would you create a fictional person that feels real unless you’re borrowing quirks and habits from actual people?”
Wes picked up his menu but didn’t look down at it. “You understand completely.”
I giggled and blushed under his intense gaze. There was something about him that made me feel like an ill-prepared schoolgirl meeting her crush at a high-school party and drinking spiked punch out of a red cup.
Our waiter arrived, listed off the brunch specials, and took our orders. Wes opted for a traditional breakfast where I decided on a veggie omelette with shredded hash browns. The waiter took our menus, returned with fresh coffees, and left us to ourselves while we waited on our food.
“So, you finished your book?” I asked. “That’s impressi
ve. And it must feel good to be done.”
“It feels exceptional,” Wes said. “Nothing can quite compare really. You spend so much time poring over something and you don’t realize while you’re in it how all-consuming it is. Then you stand back when you’re finished and it feels like you’re coming back into yourself again. Like you’re in the present once more rather than half living within the pages. Does that make any sense?”
I nodded. “Just reading a good book will do that to me, so yes, I get it.”
Wes smiled and waited a beat before he spoke. “You’re a breath of fresh air, Briar.”
I giggled. Again.
Damn it, girl. Be cool!
“Why do boys always say that to me?” I asked.
Wes’s smile faltered.
I snickered. “I’m kidding, Wes. Just pulling your leg. You’d think all that people-watching you do would help you detect sarcasm. Jeez.”
He laughed. It was a loud, joyous sound. The old man reading the paper at the table behind him looked up from behind his glasses and scowled.
“I mean it,” Wes insisted. “I think you’re part of the reason finishing this book went so smoothly. I haven’t had such an easy time with words in quite some time. But you showed up, and the words started flowing, and I don’t feel like a prisoner in my own office anymore.”
I didn’t know what to think about that, but it made my heart swell in my chest like a makeup sponge taking on water.
Could this man be falling for me? Like, truly, genuinely falling for me?
The more important question danced around in my skull and waited for my consciousness to realize it. Am I falling for him?
I didn’t really know what real love looked like. Or felt like, for that matter. The only relationships I’d ever had were back in Waynesville, where I dated small-town boys with small-town dreams because they happened to be accessible, not because they made me weak in the knees.
It sounded shitty but it was true. Every relationship was a matter of convenience, nothing more.