by Ellie Hall
I shrug, my throat feeling like it’s full of cotton. “Sort of. I got a huge advance to write these books. I can’t be dating men when I’m the face of single women everywhere.”
“You can still be an anti-romance author,” he says, peering at me through hopeful eyes.
“No,” I say with a sarcastic chuckle. “No, I can’t. That’s the very definition of hypocrisy.”
A tiny part of me hopes he’ll keep arguing with me, keep trying to convince me to change my mind. Because if I’m being honest, this time with Max has been happier and more fun than any relationship I’ve ever been in. But he doesn’t argue with me. He just nods softly, giving me the smallest little smile.
“Okay,” he says. “I understand. Good luck with your books.”
And then he’s gone.
For real.
12
Two months later
I read over my editor’s email for the third time. It doesn’t get any better. Turns out reading it yet again doesn’t somehow change the meaning of the words she used. She doesn’t like my new Love Sucks manuscript. She thinks Rosa Ramirez is too bitter, the plot is too slow, and the characters are cliché. To put it simply, the next Love Sucks book, well, sucks.
I can’t blame her, either. I sped through this book without putting the care into it that I usually do. Partly because I was running late on meeting my deadline, but there’s another reason, too. A bigger, elephant-sized reason.
That reason has dirty blond hair and honey-brown eyes.
With a sigh, I close my email.
My best friend Annie was supposed to come spend the weekend with me but then she got called to cover a shift for her coworker so now I’m stuck hanging out all by myself with just my loneliness and misery to keep me company. This is not how things were supposed to work.
I was supposed to be happy here in Sterling. I was supposed to be free to write all the novels and gain all the fame and notoriety that comes with being anti-romance. I should have been happy. It should have been easy.
Now I feel even more alone than when I lived just across the hallway from my ex and his new girlfriend. The lake in my back yard isn’t as beautiful when I’m grumpy all day.
This problem with my editor won’t go away no matter how much I ignore it, but a girl’s gotta eat, after all, so I leave the email unanswered and head to Roger’s Diner.
The Saturday lunch crowd packs the place but I arrive just in time to slide into a small two-person table that overlooks the water. The spunky blonde waitress is named Claire, and she’s become one of my very few friends here in Sterling. Probably because I visit almost every day. I can’t help it. The food is too good and too cheap to stay away.
“Is it fun eating your soda and junk food without healthy boy Max here?” she says with a snort when I order a milkshake to go with my cheese fries.
“Oh yes,” I say grinning as I grab a cheesy fry and pop it in my mouth. “I like not having to look at salads.”
She chuckles. “Is he off renovating another house? When will he be back?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
She hovers, like she wants to keep talking. “Wait a minute…” she pulls a pen from the bun on top of her head, scratching something on her order pad. “Are you telling me you let that man leave your house without plans to meet up again?”
“We weren’t really friends,” I say, eating another fry. “We only met because my landlady has no idea how to schedule her tenants correctly.”
“Oh, honey,” Claire says, shaking her head and smacking her lips. “You act like meeting him was some random coincidence.”
“It was?” I lift an eyebrow. What else could it be?
She shakes her head. “No way, lady. The Universe doesn’t just throw things together for the fun of it. You met him on purpose. You’re perfect for him.”
I snort out a laugh. “No, I’m not. I don’t even date. I’m done with men.”
“I know he misses you,” she says with a hint of smirk in her smile.
“All I did was annoy him,” I say, shrugging off her words. “I bet he’s glad to be rid of me.”
“Aww, sweetie.” She picks up my menu, tucking it under her arm. “You don’t believe a word of that.”
I want to argue with her, to tell her that yes of course I believe it because it’s true because Max and I were just temporary roommates and that’s all, and that’s all it’ll ever be because I’m Julie Baskins, the anti-romance author of the best-selling Love Sucks series.
She tears off the paper on her order pad before I can say any of that and places it on the table in front of me. In her loopy handwriting, she’s written the name Max, and then a phone number.
“That’s his business number,” she says, tapping it with a pink fingernail. “That’s how I have it memorized… we call him all the time for fixing stuff around the diner. But he’s the only one who answers that phone so give him a call if you want.” She winks at me before walking away.
I eat my fries and sip my milkshake and look out at the water as if I don’t care one bit about the piece of paper in front of me.
But when a breeze blows across the patio, I reach out quickly and stop it from floating away.
Annie gives me a puzzled look while she takes a bite of her sandwich. She’s been working a double at the hospital but now that it’s her lunch break we’re video chatting. I just broke the news to her that my editor hates my new manuscript and my life is probably over
“You’re being a little dramatic,” Annie says over a mouthful of food. “I doubt your career is over.”
“She hates it.” I lean back on my couch, letting my hair fan out on the pillow behind me and then blow a raspberry sigh. “She hates it. She didn’t even have any suggestions for how to make it better. She just hates it.”
Annie rolls her eyes. “So what happens now?”
“I’m not sure.” I gaze up at the crisp white ceiling. The ceiling that Max and I painted together. “I have to send her something because the publishing house has already paid me for the next book in my series and I’ve already spent all of that money. I need something.”
“You could write a brand new book,” Annie suggests. “If that one you sent her is so bad maybe just write a new one?”
“The thing is…” I chew on my lip and think about the folded piece of paper in my back pocket. “I’m not sure I can write another Love Sucks story.”
Annie frowns. “Why not?”
“Maybe…” I take a deep breath. I think Annie might have a slight idea that maybe what I’m about to say is true, but we haven’t officially talked about it. “Maybe I don’t have as much enthusiasm for the anti-romance thing as I used to.”
“Hmm,” she says. She opens a string cheese and then bites the top right off it like some kind of cheese-eating monster.
“Did you just decapitate your string cheese?”
She glances down at it and shrugs, taking another bite.
“You’re supposed to peel them into strings,” I say, with a sarcastically horrified expression.
“I live on the wild side,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows as she takes another bite.”
I shake my head. “So ruthless.”
“Stop trying to chance the subject, Jules. I think we both know the solution to your problem.”
She looks at me as if she expects me to finish her train of thought for her, but I’m blank. Clearly, we both don’t know the solution to the problem.
“If you have a solution, I’d be happy to hear it.”
Annie rolls her eyes. “Write with your heart.”
I stick my tongue out and make a gagging sound. “Bad advice. Worst advice ever. Hearts have nothing to do with business.”
“Yeah, maybe if your business is being a banker or something. But your heart has everything to do with your writing, Julie. I’ve known you forever. I know how you operate. You write how you feel, even if it’s subtle. And when you were pissed and angry at Jason, y
ou wrote Love Sucks. Now you’re over that cheating loser and you’ve got feelings for someone else and you can’t hold the same enthusiasm as before.”
I sit up straight. “You are imagining things, babe. I don’t have feelings for anyone except maybe my coffee maker because it’s glorious. That thing can brew my coffee any day.”
She snorts. “Fine, deny it. Pretend you don’t totally have the hots for the hottie renovation guy you talked about constantly while he was there. I’m your best friend, so I’ll just pretend right along with you if that’s what you want. But if you ever want to come back to reality and accept the truth, then I’ll give you this advice: Write what you feel. It’s never let you down before.”
Her words are so profound they leave me speechless for a moment. Then her phone alarm goes off and she curses under her breath. “Crap! Gotta get back to work. Love ya!”
And then she’s gone, and I’m staring at my phone’s home screen. And I get an idea. It’s crazy and wild and might be a total disaster, but it’s an idea, and it’s more than I had a few minutes ago.
But before I can implement that idea, I need to get everything out in the open.
Max’s voicemail picks up after several rings. “You’ve reached Spenser Construction. Sorry I’m not available to take your call but please leave me a detailed message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
“Hey Max, it’s Julie. Call me back? Thanks.”
13
Since I can’t focus on my terrible manuscript, I walk down to the lake. Just a few blocks away is a public park with picnic tables, a playground, and a sandy shore where the locals go swimming. I’m a little terrified of water and would rather admire the lake’s beauty from the solid ground, but since I’m in desperate need of something to take my mind off my career and Max, I slip off my sandals and sink my toes into the water’s edge.
My phone rings from the back pocket of my denim shorts. I suck in a short breath. I’m not sure I’m mentally capable of handling things if it’s my agent calling to ream me out for turning in such a terrible manuscript. Everything I’ve worked so hard for might fall apart with one phone call if my publisher decides to dump me and demand their book advance money back.
The phone keeps ringing, and I know I’ll have to look at it eventually. I brace myself for the worst.
It’s Max.
Now my heartbeat is even more erratic.
“Hey,” I answer. My teeth dig into my bottom lip as I gaze out at the sparkling lake in front of me.
“What’s wrong? Did something break?”
“Huh?”
“I got your message… that you need to talk to me. Please tell me I didn’t royally screw up something in the renovations. I knew working quickly might cause a problem, but I’m pretty sure I was thorough in all my repairs…”
“No, no it’s not the house.” My throat tightens. Max thought I was calling about the house, not about him. About us. About the spark of something between us that I really hope we can explore further. Maybe I should just let it go. Tell him never mind and end the call and go back to my life as a single woman, happy or not.
“Ah, so you missed me.” I can hear his smile through the phone.
I roll my eyes. “You wish.”
“Well if it’s not the house and you didn’t miss me, then what is it?”
Dang. I exhale loudly. “I guess maybe it’s one of the two.”
“Where are you?”
“Sterling Park, by the shore and the blue picnic tables.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” he says. Then he hangs up.
Twenty minutes pass with me standing here, milling about, checking my phone and wondering if I’ve been weirdly set up. Then I spot Max walking up the shore toward me.
All the anxious butterflies in my stomach metaphorically wake up and fly around, making me even more nervous. I’m prepared for awkward silences and discomfort—we didn’t exactly leave things happy and fun the last time we spoke. As he nears, he smiles. His stubble has grown out longer than I’ve seen before and he looks rugged, sexy, and absolutely delicious. He’s tanner, too, I think, which has made his hair a little more blond.
I smile back, giving him a little wave. I’m not sure what to say? Oh gosh, what do I say?
Nothing, as it turns out.
Max’s lips are on mine before I can utter a word. I breathe him in, feel his strong, calloused hands slip around my waist and pull me to him with an almost painful ferocity. I tangle my hands in his hair. My toes lift out of the sand.
I’m breathless, caught up in this moment, in this kiss, which is somehow even better than the first one we shared on my back porch. Maybe because this time it’s not just a one-time spontaneous thing. This time it’s real.
This time it’s permanent.
When our lips break apart, Max’s forehead presses to mine. His grin lights up my vision, his breath fresh and minty. “Hi,” he breathes.
“Hi,” I say back.
“I’m glad you called.”
“I’m glad you kissed me.”
He laughs, lowering me back to the sand but keeping his arms around me.
“You’re all I’ve thought about, Julie. Every single day. No matter what I’m doing, or how busy I am with work, it’s just you. My brain thinks of only you.”
“But why?” I ask, reality sinking back in now that there’s a few inches of space between us and I can think better. “Is this infatuation or...something real?”
“I don’t do infatuation,” he says, reaching up and taking my hands in his. “I’ve been in this small town my entire life. I’ve never connected with anyone like I connected with you. I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you. What I feel for you is as real as anything.”
I may not be a private investigator myself, but everything in his voice, his expression, and his eyes tells me he’s being truthful. That he’s not just filling his time with me until someone better comes along. Can I do that, too? Can I allow myself to trust him, to trust in us, and find happiness again?
Or will I always be worried that something bad is lurking around the corner?
“Please tell me you feel the same.” Max squeezes my hands. “We can keep the whole thing a secret if that’s what’s best for your career. I just want to be with you, in any way that you’ll have me.”
“I don’t want you to be a secret,” I say.
He grins. “Does that mean you want me?”
“What do you think?” I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in for another kiss.
It’s eight in the morning and I’m not even tired. Max brings me another cup of coffee before settling next to me on the couch again. “Do you have a title yet?”
I yawn, stretching my hands into the air before putting them back on my laptop. Okay, maybe I am a little tired. My body wants sleep but my brain just wants to keep on truckin’. I’ve just pulled an all-nighter. Max slept next to me on my couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table. He’d listened to me tell him about my newest manuscript and how much my editor hated it. He’d gotten extremely cocky when I told him that my writing has suffered ever since I met him because it’s hard to write about hating romance when I was feeling very romantic toward him.
Then he’d encouraged me to write what I wanted to write, and when the idea hit me, he’d stayed right next to me as I typed away all night long, writing the first five chapters of my new novel. Twenty thousand words in one night. It’s a record. It’s a miracle.
With any luck, it’ll save my career.
“I don’t have an official title yet,” I say, scrolling back to the top of my document. “Right now I’m calling it: Love Sucks Book 2 – the one where P.I. Rosa Ramirez finds love again.”
“I’m no book expert, but it sounds great.” He leans over, kissing me on the cheek.
“This is amazing coffee,” I say, taking a big sip.
“Have you been awake all night?” he asks.
“Yep. You sleep like an a
ngel, by the way.”
He blushes. “I’m pretty sure I sleep like a sexy man.”
I roll my eyes. “Nope. Pretty angelic.”
He cups my face in his hands, gently bringing ours lips together. My whole body lights up at his kiss. A girl could really get used to this.
“You should really get some sleep.”
I nod, yawning again. “Right after I send this to my editor….” I type up the email, attach my new draft, and send it.
“Let’s get you to bed and I’ll come see you later today.” Max starts to stand but I hold him back.
“You don’t have anything going on today, do you?”
“Nope.”
“Great,” I say, handing him the TV remote. “Let me just take a little nap.” I snuggle against his chest and close my eyes. He’s a little too muscular to make a good pillow, but I’m too tired to care. “Then in a few hours we can head to the diner for lunch.”
“And we can get a nice healthy salad to give you back all the energy you just used pulling an all-nighter?”
“Nope,” I say, grinning as I pull a throw blanket over me. “I’m thinking nachos.”
He chuckles, running his hand through my hair. “And a milkshake?”
“Obviously.”
He kisses me softly on the forehead. The imaginary Rosa Ramirez in my mind winks at me. I don’t hate romance. Not anymore.
In fact, I think love it.
Connect with Amy Sparling
Amy Sparling is the bestselling author of books for teens and the teens at heart. She lives on the coast of Texas with her family, her spoiled rotten pets, and a huge pile of books.
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I Think Maybe I Lied
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