Page 38 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

I shake my head. Even drunk and cornered by life, she’s a firecracker. “Okay. It’s a deal.”

The cat jumps on the counter once more as Emily cracks open a box of pasta and dumps it into the water. The cat gets passed off to me for the second time, but before she fully turns away, Emily kisses Ducky on the head. It’s a swift peek into a side of Emily that most people don’t get to see.

“Listen, little fur ball, you’re not supposed to be on the counter. It’s not hygienic.” I carry Ducky into the living room and deposit her on the couch. “Stay,” I say with a firm finger in front of her little pink nose. Most cats would swat my hand away; Ducky rubs her face against it.

With Emily distracted in the kitchen, I squat down to Ducky’s level. My new spy. “Tell me a secret, what’s it like to be adored by Emily Walker?” She nuzzles under my chin this time and curls her tail around my face. “Thought so.”

I turn to avoid the slash of her tail in my eyes, and that’s when I notice Emily’s bookshelf again.

I went on my first roller coaster when I was eleven, and it had a massive drop followed by a corkscrew that took me upside down. Until the moment I saw her bookshelf the other day, I had never felt my stomach bottom out as sharply as it did during that drop. But when my eyes connected with the two sets of books side by side on her shelf, that roller coaster had nothing in comparison. Emily not only has my dad’s bestselling series, but she hasmine…and they’re sharing the same shelf space.

I don’t even realize I’ve moved to stand in front of it until Emily says, “You’re very interested in that shelf.” She’s right behind me.

I tuck my hands in my pants pockets and attempt a casual tone of voice. “I’m just curious how you ended up with these two mystery series when your other shelves are all full of romance.” Which honestly delights me. I love knowing Emily is not only a romance reader but a romance writer.

Her shoulder brushes mine as she comes to stand directly beside me. I wonder if she’s leaning on me because she’s struggling to stand perfectly straight. “My brother gave them to me. He usually reads nonfiction but after he met his wife, she pulled him into the wonderful world of fiction. My sisters and I all started sharing our romance books last year and Noah felt left out. He lent me these and I really liked them, so I kept them. Don’t tell him I still have them.” She looks sidelong at me. “Have you read them? You can borrow them if you want.”

I nod, smiling privately. “I’ve read them. Which series is your favorite out of these two?”

Emily grins and I brace for the impact of an answer I might not want to hear. “I enjoy Fredrick’s twists, but I like Ranger’s storytelling the best. I think he’s the better writer.”

There is nothing that could have prepared me to hear those words come from her mouth. Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to ask her since she doesn’t know I’m one of these writers, but also, knowingthat Emily always tells me the one hundred percent honest blatant truth no matter what, it makes this compliment somehow sweeter. I know she means it.Emily Walker thinks I’m a good writer.

Does she even know I’m Fredrick Bennett’s son? I don’t try to hide the fact; I just don’t advertise it either. But eventually a fellow bookworm puts our last names together and figures it out. A few teachers at the elementary school have.

“Which one do you think is the better writer?” she asks.

“Fredrick,” I say without a hint of hesitation, also giving her the unfiltered truth. My dadisthe better writer. He has twice as many accolades as me to prove it. And yet again, I am so glad I’ll never have to publicly sit in his shadow as “Fredrick’s son.” At least in this moment I’m having a debate with Emily over two writers who are sharing the same shelf. Not a father and son. “His pacing is unmatched. Ranger rushes his endings.” Something I’ve been trying to fix.

Emily steps up beside me now, fire lighting her eyes. “There is nothing wrong with Ranger’s endings. If anything, he knows when to cut off a book on the best cliffhanger, whereas Fredrick lets it go on and on. Like we get it—the unexpected widow was the murderer, and here’s a full recap of all the ways you misdirected me into suspecting someone else. It’s the same tired old story again and again. But Ranger is different.”

“How so?”

She looks right in my eyes and smiles. “He writes with heart. You know…that organ you don’t have?”

That organ in question is pounding mercilessly against my ribs. It’s taking everything in me not to tell her that I’m the man she’s defending right now. I’m the writer she thinks is good.Me.But I don’t because at the end of the day, whatever this new truce is between us, it might be tentative. We’ve never been able to staycivil for too long. As much as I want it to stick, it’s too new to risk with something this important to me.

But I can share at least part of the truth. “Emily…Fredrick is my dad.”

She doesn’t so much as flinch. “Oh, I know.” A soft smile. “I’ve known since college. I overheard you being asked about it by that English professor with the bad breath who always carried the Mary Poppins carpetbag and liked you better than me.”

“Yeah—I hated him. Why have you never brought it up?”

She shrugs, and I like the way her silk robe feels against my arm. “Because you haven’t. I saw you shut down that day after he asked, so I just got the impression that you didn’t like talking about it. It didn’t seem like something that should be included in our warfare.” She grins. “I don’t like taking cheap shots.”

Emily is the only person to ever perceive that I don’t like discussing my dad. I’ve always gone through great lengths to make sure no one ever does. But of course she sees it.

“So just now…when I was asking you about him?”

“I knew. And I told you the truth. I always tell you the truth.”

I absorb this news like water in dry sand.I like it.This entire night has been a revelation—a sudden, sharp turn in what’s always been a straight road.

“Emily…are we…friends now?”

“Maybe. We’ll see.” She pauses and a huge smile overtakes her face. “But don’t worry, I still hate you.”

Turns out, I’ve found another situation to rival that roller coaster drop. “I still hate you too.”

---