Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
And while I was normally content to play the surly part, Georgia had stepped in and stolen my role, leaving me the uncharacteristic romantic. And damn, did this story demand it. The letters between Scarlett and Jameson did, too. In the middle of a war, they’d found the real thing. They couldn’t even bear to be separated for longer than a few weeks. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been with a woman for more than a few weeks at a time. I liked my space.
I hit mile six and was no closer to understanding Georgia’s asinine demand than I was when I’d left her house two weeks ago or understanding the woman herself. Usually, I ran until my thoughts worked themselves out or a plot point came to me, but just like every other day for the past two weeks, I slowed to a walk and ripped out my earbuds in pure frustration.
“Oh, thank God. I thought you—” Adam gasped. “Were going. For a seventh, and I. Was going to. Have to drop out,” he managed to say between heaving breaths as he caught up beside me.
“She doesn’t want it to have a happy ending,” I growled, killing the music pumping through my phone.
“So you’ve said,” Adam noted, lifting his hands to the top of his head. “As a matter of fact, I think you’ve mentioned that almost every day since you got back.”
“I’m going to keep saying it until I can wrap my head around it.” We reached a bench near a fork in the path and stopped to briefly stretch, as was our routine.
“Great. I look forward to reading it once you do.” He braced his hands on his knees and leaned over, drawing in gulps of air.
“I told you we should run more often.” He only joined me once a week.
“And I told you that you’re not my only writer. Now when are you sending the Stanton portion of the manuscript? This thing is a tight turnaround.”
“As soon as I finish it.” A corner of my mouth lifted. “Don’t worry, you’ll have it by the deadline.”
“Really? You’re going to make me wait three months? Cruel. I’m wounded.” He slapped a hand over his heart.
“I know I sound like a kid, but I want to see if you’re able to tell where Scarlett’s writing leaves off and mine begins.” I hadn’t felt this excited about a book in the last three years, and I’d written six during that time. But this one…I had that feeling, and Georgia was tying one hand behind my back. “She’s wrong, you know.”
“Georgia?”
“She doesn’t understand what her great-grandmother’s branding was. Scarlett Stanton is a guaranteed happy ending. Her readers expect it. Georgia isn’t a writer. She doesn’t get it, and she’s wrong.” One thing I’d learned over the last twelve years was not to screw with readers’ expectations.
“And you’re so certain you’re right because what? You’re infallible?” There was more than a hint of sarcasm there.
“When it comes to plotting? Yes. I’m comfortable saying I’m pretty fucking infallible, and don’t start on me about my ego. I can back it up, so it’s more like confidence.” I leaned into a stretch and smiled.
“Hate to check your confidence, but if that was the case, you wouldn’t need your editor, would you? But you do need me, so you’re not.”
I ignored the obvious truth in his argument. “At least you read my book before suggesting changes. She won’t even let me tell her my idea.”
“Well, does she have one?”
I blinked.
“Did you ask her?” He lifted his brows. “I mean, I’d be happy to offer some suggestions but, since you haven’t even shown me the existing portion yet…”
“Why would I ask her? I never ask for input before something is finished.” It ruined the process, and my gut instincts hadn’t failed me yet, anyway. “I cannot believe I actually signed a contract giving someone who’s not even in the industry final approval.” And yet I’d do it again just for the challenge.
“For having dated as much as you have, you really don’t understand women, do you?” He shook his head.
“I understand women just fine, trust me. And besides, you’ve had what? One relationship in the past decade?”
“Because I married her, jackass.” He flashed his wedding ring. “Screwing your way through New York isn’t what I’m talking about. The milk in my fridge is older than the length of your average relationship, and it’s not even close to the expiration date. It is harder to truly know and understand one woman than it is to charm your way through a thousand nights of a thousand different women. More rewarding, too.” He checked his watch. “I need to get back to the office.”
The thought made me shift uncomfortably.
“That’s not true. The relationship part.” Fine, the longest relationship I’d had was six months, involved a lot of personal space, and had dissolved the way it had begun—with mutual affection and an understanding that we weren’t going the distance. I saw no reason to emotionally entangle myself with someone I couldn’t see a future with.