Page 89 of A Billion Dollar Romance
Not even a romance novel could distract me from my spiraling thoughts as I walked in circles around and around the cabin wondering if Sam was right. If it was worth it, to correct the record, even if it didn’t bring James back.
Wondering if, despite my desperate attempts to smother all hope, she was right about James, as well.
After my third cup of coffee, I couldn’t pace any more. I needed to get out of the house. I’d seen some hiking boots in the hall closet that were about my size. When I got back, I could get to work with a clear head and the pleasant soreness that came with moving your body.
Or a satisfying night.
I shook my head as I pulled on a sweater, a pair of jeans. Wool socks, and borrowed hiking boots.No.
This wasn’t about James. It was about me.
My book. My dream. My career. My life.
And James would go back to being my fake fiancé. My boss. A one-night stand that lasted a little too long.
My heart ached at the thought of it.
Use that feeling for your next book, Edie,I reminded myself.Don’t let it swallow you again.
I put one foot in front of the other, heading up the well-worn trail that led from the back door of the palatial cabin. The air was crisp and cold and smelled like pine trees and damp earth, and I breathed deeply. My college campus had smelled like this, too. What would that younger Edie think of this one, now?
I paused, looking out through a break in the trees to the valley below. Although I hadn’t hiked far, the cabin itself was set high on the slope of the mountain, and the view from here was breathtaking.
She would be proud.
I’d written a book. Finished it. It had been good enough that Samantha Scott wanted it.
I was living my dream. This was what I’d always wanted, when I sat in my classes doodling dreamily on my notebook, testing out first lines, scratching down half-thought-through short stories. Reading romance novels under the table in the back of my lectures and sharing winks with Flora as she did the same.
Staring at Professor Martin as he shuffled the assignments on his desk, waiting for him to pause at mine, his gaze lingering on the words I’d written for him.
A gust of wind whipped my hair across my face. With it came the faint scent of his cologne, the scent that lingered in the linens of the cabin.
“Edie.”
I turned toward his voice, low and rich as it always was.
“You’re here,” I said. Somehow, it wasn’t surprising to see him here. The wind picked at his hair, lifting the tousled strands and settling them again, and he raised one hand to smooth it back from his lined brow.
And Iknew.
“I brought you your manuscript.”
“You read it.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“And, what?” he said, his eyebrows twitching upwards.
“Is it the billion-dollar romance you’ve been waiting for?” I asked.
“Edie,” he said, and his mouth curved softly, not quite a smile.
He’d read it. Every word I’d written.
Of our story.
