Page 6 of Her Pretty Words

Oops.“No.”

“You can’t take it back.” He places his palm over his chest. “I’ll store your compliment right here.”

I search the restaurant for our waiter, hoping we get the check.

“I work in finance,” he says. “You’re turn.”

For some reason that I can’t explain, I answer before I can bite my tongue. “I’m an author.”

His eyes seem to light up before he steals his expression. “What do you write?”

“Romance.”

“No,” he says, disagreeing with me.

I reel back, squinting my eyes. “Yes.”

“Nope. I don’t buy it.”

“Buy it or don’t buy it.” I shrug, indifferent to his opinion.

“I’ve never heard of an author named Macy Brookes.”

“Of course, you haven’t. I write as Minerva Day.” My eyes widen at my slip-up. “If you tellanyonemy real name, I’ll offer you up for a blood sacrifice.”

He laughs, yet the sound seems foreign coming from him, like an old book that’s been tucked away, coated in a layer of dust. “Did my little Tato just make her first joke?” He touches his chest. Before I can chastise him for using the word “my” as though I’m his possession, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and types something.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. He turns his phone around, showing me the three Minerva Day books he put in his Amazon cart. Something strange happens to my chest. Not because I’m embarrassed for him to read my writing, but because no one in my life has ever shown interest in my work.

I wrote my first book when I was seventeen. When I closed my laptop after writingThe End,I ran downstairs to tell my parents. They’re reaction was underwhelming, despite the pride I felt and the stammering of my heart that told me this was just the beginning.

When I was twenty, and finally learned how to self-publish my book, I felt like I could conquer the world. Walter was the first person I called, and all he said was, “That’s cool.”

When he got home that night, he didn’t bring it up. No one did, for that matter. The parade of joy happening within never touched my external world. No one cared. Strangers read my books and wrote reviews, but no one in my life read a single page.

I celebrated my achievements alone.

And now, Grayson, who I met not even two hours ago, put three of my books in his cart the second he found out I wrote them. “Wow,” he whispers more to himself. “This one has eleven thousand reviews!”

I look away from him before he can see the confusing emotions I try to bury.

“Here’s the check, whenever you’re ready.” The waiter sets the bill down. I quickly unzip the small pocket to my suitcase, reach my hand inside, and try to feel for my credit card. Grayson stills my wrists beneath the table.

“I’m sure you could buy like five hundred chicken tender platters, but I have the sudden urge to be a gentleman, so put your wallet away.”

“I’m not putting out because you paid for a greasy meal, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He flinches and his eyebrows drop, forming a crease between them. “That’s not even close to what I was thinking.”

With reasons unbeknownst to me, I believe him.

He’s quiet when he signs the bill and slides out of the booth, and like the gentleman he claims he has the urge to be, he grabs my suitcase and rolls it behind him so I don’t have to.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I say, to which he ignores me. I clear my throat. “Thanks.” He simply nods.

Stepping outside, I wrap my arms around myself as the nighttime chill goes through my clothes. The city is even more alive this late into the night, with girls dressed in sequined miniskirts, gathering in a bar right across from the diner. Waitresses and waiters stumble along the sidewalk, like they are finally done with their shifts, walking back to their apartments. A woman smoking a cigarette walks past with her little white dog. There’s life on every corner, chaos, and even a little shouting here and there.

I start walking toward the ginormous hotel. Grayson lengthens his strides to catch up to me. “You don’t have to follow me,” I say, looking forward. “You can give me my luggage and I’ll be on my way.”

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