Page 49 of First Love, Second Draft

“I mean black sock fuzz.” She opened the lid to the pizza and pulled out a slice, the cheese stretching all the way from the box to her plate. “Now can we be done with the interrogation and just enjoy a fun evening eating pizza and getting at least one streak of paint on the walls?”

Matt joined her at the table. Someday he really would like to have more with this woman. But for now, for tonight, he lifted his root beer. “To a fun evening eating pizza and getting at least one streak of paint on the walls.”

She clinked her can against his, then lifted her pizza to her mouth. And Matt didn’t know what he was going to do with this girl. Especially now that she had just as much tomato sauce on her chin as she did paint.

24

Gracie still hadn’t talked to Luke since the bathtub incident.

And now two days had passed since the kitchen conversation incident—which probably shouldn’t be labeled a conversation or an incident since she and Noah never made eye contact and he disappeared after saying a sum total of three sentences.

But neither of those incidents mattered at the moment.

No, the only incident concerning Gracie right now was the incident in her final chapter where her heroine finally figured out how to time travel from the past back to present day and move forward with the rest of her life.

An incident that appeared to be completely baffling Rachel, based on her furrowed brow.

Gracie leaned forward in the rocking chair Rachel had helped settle her into when they decided it was the perfect fall afternoon to enjoy out on the porch. “You’ve been staring at the last page for over five minutes, Rach. I’m dying here. What do you think?”

Seated on the porch swing with the three-ring binder containing Gracie’s manuscript in her lap, Rachel finally lifted her gaze to Gracie. “I think I’m a little confused.”

So was the weather. Their warm sunny afternoon had suddenly pivoted to cloudy and brisk. Gracie tugged the sleeves of her longcardigan sweater down over her hands. “Is it the time-travel-on-a-horse aspect? I know that’s kind of out-there.”

“That’s certainly part of the confusion.”

“What’s the other part?”

Rachel wagged her head to the side. She looked down at the manuscript. Back to Gracie. “I guess I just thought romances were all supposed to end with a happily-ever-after.”

Now Gracie was confused. Had she given Rachel the wrong draft? “Don’t the heroine and the farmer ride off into the sunset on that silly horse at the end?”

When Rachel nodded, Gracie leaned back in her chair. “Well, what’s more happily-ever-after than that?”

“Maybe riding off into the sunset with the man she actually loves? You left the hero of the story stuck in the past. Can you do that? I don’t think you can do that.”

“I didn’t do that. The hero did that when he decided staying behind to try and rescue a lost boy from the forest was more important than chasing after her. And why can’t the farmer be her new hero?”

“Because she doesn’t love him like she loves the real hero. She thinks the farmer is fat and boring.”

“She thinks he’s portly and cautious.”

“Well, who wants portly and cautious when you can have rugged and passionate?”

“My heroine, apparently. What? Stop looking at me like that. I don’t make the rules.”

Rachel slammed the binder shut. “What do you mean you don’t make the rules? This is your story.”

“Exactly! This is my story. So maybe trust that I actually know what’s best for these characters, okay?”

Rachel lifted her hands in surrender. “Fine. The portly, cautious farmer it is. I’m sure romance readers everywhere will be swooning over his heart-throbbing jowls in no time.”

“I’m sure they will. Speaking of jowls, why are yours speckled in paint?”

“What? Oh.” Rachel scratched at her cheek, then examined her nail. “After I finished painting the living room the other day, I thought it’d be fun to remove all the popcorn-style ceilings in the house. And you know what? It’s not. At all. In fact I’d say undoing popcorn ceilings is pretty much the portly farmer of fun.”

Gracie couldn’t help laughing. Then groaning. She scrubbed her face with her sweater-covered palms. “My story’s a complete disaster, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” The porch swing squeaked, then Gracie felt Rachel squeeze her shoulder as the weight of the manuscript settled onto her lap. “But I would say the ending could use another rewrite.”

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