Page 77 of Business or Pleasure

“This is real snow.” There’s some amount of awe in my voice as we traipse through it. The inn is surrounded by a forest, the snow still mostly untouched by footsteps. It’s too beautiful to mind the cold.

“As opposed to?”

“We don’t get this in the Northwest,” I explain. “One year, I went up to Whistler with an ex, and I spent all this time planning the perfect winter outfits. Then we got there and... nothing. It was, like, a low of fifty-two. I was devastated.”

“An ex.” Finn sounds intrigued. “Tell me more about Chandler Cohen’s dating history.”

“As you know, it’s been mostly defined by all the pining.” I hug my coat tighter. “I had my first boyfriend in high school—we broke up after graduation because we were going to different schools. Then in college, there was David, who I mentioned last night. A guy I dated my senior year and after graduation, but the immediate unemployment was too much of a shock for us to last,” I say. “A couple others, but there hasn’t really been anyone serious for a few years.” Because I put my career first. Because I assumed everything would fall into place with Wyatt. “I know you dated Hallie for a while, but I don’t know much about your other relationships, aside from... what didn’t happen in the bedroom and that they’ve all been with Hollywood people. All actors?” Of course I’m not asking about it because I’m wondering if he’ll suddenly say, You know what? It’s time for a change—I’m done with Hollywood dating. Thanks so much for bringing it up again, Chandler!

And of course, he doesn’t. “Mostly. I dated a costume designer on Just My Type, but we were only together for a few months. Hallie was the most serious one. And we broke up... six years ago? Jesus, I feel old.”

“What happened?” I ask. “Why did it end?”

He rubs his chin. “I think we just grew apart, although maybe the sex was part of it. Both of us had periods where we were struggling to find work, and I was still pretty new to therapy, so it was just a lot at once.”

“She’s on that medical show now, though.”

“Boise Med. She’s amazing in it,” he says. “I was serious; we really are still good friends. And we work much better that way. It’s hard to find people who understand exactly what we went through on the show, and even if I see the others from time to time, we’ve never been as close.”

I nod, because even if I can’t relate, I understand.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, because I mean it sincerely. It’s a tragedy that you’re still single. Wyatt’s going to realize his mistake one of these days and won’t be able to forgive himself.”

I can’t help it—I let out a snort. “I think I’m doing okay. Lately, I’ve been very busy in a casual physical relationship with one of the golden boys of comic con.”

He stops walking, mouth quirking upward. “Ah. Have you now?”

Blame the siren song of the gray sweatpants, but I move closer, reaching for the fringe of his scarf.

I’m certain he’s going to kiss me, but instead he says, “I read your books.”

I back up, this revelation a shock to my system.

“I wanted to tell you earlier,” he continues, “but I thought it might be too nerve-racking if you knew I was reading them on the flight.”

“You mean, you read Maddy and Amber’s books.”

“Sure,” he says. “Their names are on the covers, I guess. Maybe it’s because I was looking for you, but I could hear you, even in their voices.”

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. The fact that I was that visible in those books, enough for this person who’s known me for only seven weeks to see me there...

“Then I screwed up,” I say simply.

He inches closer, not seeming to care that his sneakers are wet. “I don’t see it that way at all. Maybe you were trying to hide yourself in their stories, but you were still there. That’s how talented you are. That’s how vibrant your writing is—you can’t remove yourself from it completely, even if you try.” I swallow hard, unsure how to process all of this. “I know it would be a risk, and I know it wouldn’t be easy. But you could write for yourself if you wanted to. What you said that night I barely survived a debilitating illness”—this earns him a jab in the ribs—“about not being able to enjoy writing for a while... it just made me so sad. Because even in those books you were just doing for a paycheck, I could feel how much you loved it.”

“You remember that?” I ask, wondering just how much he remembers. Just the heart-to-heart about my writing, or the crush confession, too.

When he blushes, it ignites something deep inside me that I’ve spent ages trying to ignore. “All of it.”

Everything he’s saying, the compliments and the subtext, it’s too overwhelming. My coat is too tight and the wind is too brutal and my socks are drenched. This whole moment is a symphony of Too Much. If I allow myself to think that I could make it as a writer, by myself, then that means opening myself up to the possibility of failure. It means leaving behind the security blanket of names that mean far more than my own.

So I bend down, scoop up some snow, and hit him with a snowball, because that’s easier than thinking.

He holds a hand to where his chest is flecked with white. “Oh, you’re in trouble now,” he says, scrambling to make one of his own while I race off into the snowy woods.

Eventually, when we can’t feel our fingers or toes, we shiver our way back to the inn. Our clothes are soaked from the snowball fight, so we peel them off and lay them to dry by the fireplace while we drag pillows and blankets onto the floor next to the flames.

“Any more Cameos to shoot?” I ask, toying with the edge of a blanket.

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