Page 48 of Tell Me Lies

“The whole thing,” she singsongs, giving my stomach a pat. “Kind of a douche five years ago, weren’t you?” She looks up at me, raising a brow.

“Um, no,” I lie, knowing damn well I used to be one cocky fucker. “Anyway, it’s notyourbirthday, Miss McKenzie; it’s this guy’s.” I point to myself, proving there’s still a little douche inside of me, even though my daughter ridded me of most of it. “Question one, when did you start writing?”

“When I was nineteen,” she says proudly. “I had no clue what I was doing, and I was terrified my family—especially my mom because she’s a pretty reserved woman—was going to see the dirty book I had written. But I self-published it anyway.” She chuckles. “It’s funny now because the spice in that book was nothing compared to the ones that came after it. The older I got …”

“The dirtier you got?” I tease her, giving her body a teeny jiggle in my arm. “Mama McKenzie had better not read the one you’ve been writing lately. She’ll think her baby girl needs to find Jesus.”

“It’s not my fault you were supposed to help me with my spicy scenes and you decided to take it ten steps too far.” She shrugs. “Mama might not appreciate it, but my readers sure will.”

“Damn right, they will.” I grin proudly because …you’re welcome, readers.“And you love it—writing?”

Her chin rests on my chest now, and she looks up at me. “I did. And then … I didn’t for a while. At least, it felt that way.”

“And now?”

“I’m getting there again.” She doesn’t stop the smile that spreads from ear to ear. “And I have to say, it feels nice. It feels nice to have to force myself to go to sleep at night when all I want to do is type.”

“How close is the book from being finished?”

Her eyes roll upward, and she cringes. “Oh, I still have a long, long way to go. I’m only about halfway done writing it, and I know it needs a lot of cleaning up.”

“But you’re happy with it?” I ask, not knowing if I’m even talking about the damn book anymore or reality. “With how it’s going so far?”

“Just so you know, all these questions count toward your total, so now, you’re well past the agreed-upon three.”

“What? No.” I poke her playfully. “You cut it out. Those all are connected to my first question, and you know it.”

She eyes me over for a second before she bobs her head up and down once. “Yeah, I am. And I think my readers will be too.” She barks out a laugh. “And hopefully, my publicist, Holly, is too. She’s the toughest critic for sure.”

I’ve heard her mention Holly a few times. It seems like they check in with each other often via text and email. “How long have you worked with her?”

“Since my very first book,” she says with a warm smile. “I had saved every penny from my summer job to hire an editor for my first book. I had no idea how to promote the thing, but my incredible editor hooked me up with Holly. I figured there was no way I could afford a publicist, but Holly took me under her wing. She made it work for me until my book started earning money.” Her eyes grow glossy. “She believed in me, even when I didn’t have a freaking clue what I was doing.”

“She sounds like a helluva woman,” I say tenderly. “And awfully smart because she believed in you.”

“Thanks,” she says before lifting her head from my chest. “You know, when I first told her I was going to be nannying, she was so pissed. I hadn’t written anything in forever, and then I dropped the bomb that I was trying a new career path.” She pauses, a thoughtful look filling her face. “And then I told her who I was nannying for. And that changed everything.”

“Sharks fan?” I utter, continuing to play with her hair.

“Logan Sterns fan,” she says, correcting me. “And let’s just say, her marketing brain went with the wholenanny and hockey playerthing and ran with it.” Amusement is written all over her face. “I haven’t sent her what I’ve written just yet because when I do, she’s going to freak out.” She stops. “With joy, I mean. She’s all about the spice. And according to her … hockey is hot right now in the book world.”

“Fucking right, it is.” I nod proudly. “All right, question two.” I swallow, somehow nervous about this one. “You were engaged before, right?”

Her body hardens in my arms, and she drops her head back to my chest, looking away from me. “Yes.”

“You still love him?” I utter, forcing the words out because, for some reason, I fucking need to know.

“No,” she says curtly. “Looking back, I don’t really know if I ever did. And to be honest, I don’t think he ever actually loved me either.”

There’s a hint of sadness in her voice that can’t be missed, and her body slumps just enough for me to notice.

“Why would you think that?”

She drags in a breath before slowly letting it out. The silence says everything I need to know—this dude hurt her. I don’t even know him, yet I already want to bash his head into a glass window.

“Because he could never actually stand me,” she whispers sadly. “I was always too much. Too type A. Too organized. Too focused on my career. Too driven. Too … successful.” I feel her swallow as she pauses. “I wasn’t fun enough. I didn’t dress sexy enough or make him feel wanted enough.” Her body shivers in my arms. “I was never enough, even though I was too much in so many ways.”

Reaching down, I force her to look at me. “You listen to me,” I say sharply. “He sounds like a tool who was jealous of his queen’s success instead of embracing it.” I brush my thumb along her cheek. “He sounds like a loser, Boston. You are enough—I promise you that.” The next words hurt to come out, burning my chest even though they shouldn’t. But they’re words I need her to hear. “One day, I swear to you that a real man will come along and show you that. But to be honest, you don’t need a man. Because you can take care of yourself.”

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