Page 29 of Foreplay on Words

“Ah, so that’s how you got into mystery novels.”

He winked at me and pressed his finger to his nose.

“Why didn’t you continue with forensics?” It’d be way over my head, but that sounded like a cool profession for someone with an analytical mind like Evan seemed to have.

“My roommate told me I should enter my book into a writing contest and it got noticed,” he shrugged.

“That’s lucky.” I’d had a pile of discarded rejected manuscripts in my closet before I’d signed my first contract deal. I’d spend years querying before anyone asked for a full manuscript sample. There had been a length of time early in my career when I wondered if I’d made a huge mistake pursuing fiction. But I could never see myself writing copy in some arbitrary company just to get a paycheck. I thrived on being creative and would’ve been miserable doing something like that.

“I didn’t win, but one of the judges was an agent. He liked my first draft and submitted it to a publisher.”

“And it got published?” Talk about luck.

“I was offered a three-book contract with another one optioned based on sales,” he told me, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Holy shit. That’s like the unicorn of writing contracts for a baby author.” I couldn’t hide my jealousy. “I was book to book for my first two.” And even that took a lot of hustling on my part.

“I was shocked. But my parents encouraged it,” he sighed. “With the advance from my second book, I could fast-track my degree and graduate a little early.”

“You completed your studies?”

“My parents told me that I needed to follow it through. Even if my degree is now used to understand character research instead of finding real criminals.”

“You’ve got smart parents.” Mine hadn’t been thrilled with my major or the rocky start to my career.

“So, my first book was published while I was still in school, and the second right after graduation.”

“I didn’t get published until after I’d been out for two years.” I was a little envious of how his career had essentially dropped into his lap.

“But you seem to be popular. I read some of the reviews of your first book, and the critics seemed to love you,” he argued, frowning.

I shrugged, hiding my face from him momentarily. “That wasn’t my first book.”

“You mean there’s more?” He looked a little eager at this information. I wouldn’t have thought a chemist who wrote mystery novels would be into romance.

“Trust me. You don’t want to read them.” He laughed as I shook my head.

“Oh, come on, they can’t be that bad,” he scoffed.

“They were before I got picked up by a bigger publisher. There’s a reason I changed my pen name.”

“I’ll find out eventually,” he told me, insinuating he was not going to let this drop.

“No, you won’t. I buried them where no one can find the bodies.” He’d better not enlist Adrian to dig. I’d sworn Isobel to secrecy when she’d asked to read them. The storylines might see the light of day eventually, but they needed major rewrites.

“That sounds like something I’d write,” he joked. I smacked him on the arm and narrowed my eyes as he laughed at me.

A few moments later, we crossed into the clearing near the walkway to his house. I was disappointed that our walk had ended, but not what had transpired while we were on it. But as we approached the house, he started doing the shifty eyes and neck scratching again.

“Evan, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I just wish we had more time to talk. I like listening to your voice.” He looked a little shy and a lot vulnerable at his admission.

“Are you kicking me out?”

He shook his head slowly.

“Then we’ve got plenty of time. Relax. You aren’t getting rid of me anytime soon.”

---