Page 31 of Love in Mission City
He cocked his head.
“My dogs…on your furniture.”
“Oh, our dog, Bowser, does all the time. And he sheds like crazy, usually manages to scratch something despite his trimmed nails, and takes up way more room. A golden,” he pointed out.
I eyed my two. Sheffield shed a little, but Rosebud, with her questionable parentage, appeared to have some poodle, because she didn’t shed. I would’ve rescued her anyway, but I appreciated not having to clean up after them all day. Finally, with reluctance, I perched on the recliner.
“No.” Carter did some weird wave thing. “You’ve got to sit back, then hit the button to recline. That’s the only way to enjoy the true experience. It also has massage and heat. I find the massage option a little too loud, but the heat is great. Especially on your lower back after you’ve been working all day. I mean, I could sit on the recliner all day to do my work, but I try to be professional. Writing at the desk, relaxing and marketing in the evening in the recliner with my laptop in my lap.”
“Marketing?” My interest piqued. I sat back in the recliner and located the button to raise my feet. Disconcertingly, it also eased me back.
“Just relax. Hit the red button for heat. You’ll feel a ton better. I’m glad you removed your jacket, although you could’ve thrown on a sweatshirt.” He checked his phone. “Six o’clock. You have any more meetings?”
“Not tonight.” I held in the sigh as the heat began to warm my back. Todayhadbeen an extra-long day and my back ached. One of the wonderful things about growing old. Or just working so damn hard. Difficult to tell.
“Tomorrow? Because tomorrow is Saturday.”
“I’m working on an important client’s portfolio. Stuff like that doesn’t take a break.” I eyed him. “Did you say something about studio executives?”
He continued petting Rosebud. “Uh, I didn’t mean to say that. I was just…pretty stoked.”
For the first time, I gazed around his studio condo. “Where do you sleep, and what’s that artwork on the wall? Are those…book covers?”
He chuckled—a low, rumbly sound. “I have a pullout couch that is amazingly comfortable. A little firm, but I don’t mind. Those posters are of my three book covers. I wrote a trilogy that…kind of took off. I’ve done really well, and now my film-rights agent is in the process of negotiating a deal. Initially they thought big screen, but the books are, well, complex. Better to span them over a twelve-to-fourteen-episode series. My agent’s, uh, got several studios bidding. I had a meeting with one today. I’ll probably go with them.” He shrugged sheepishly. “They’re not offering the most money, but they’re a group of local filmmakers who will keep the work in Vancouver. I’m really big on supporting local artists, and it’ll be easier to drop in from time to time.”
I blinked. That was a ton of information in one brief narrative burst. “You wrote those books?”
“Uh…yeah.”
I wanted to get up to look more closely at the cover, but I was truly enjoying the heat. I wasn’t old, but some days—after fourteen hours at the computer—I felt that way. “And they’re going to make them into a series?”
“Well, at least the first book. If people don’t watch, then I won’t be picked up for season two and three. They have committed to doing the full fourteen episodes for season one.”
“Did you…” I floundered.
He cocked his head.
“Uh…write the…script?”
“No, for sure not. I’m not a screenwriter. I’m an author of high-fantasy novels. Two very different skill sets. I’ve been asked to do some consulting—to make certain the most important material is captured—but I won’t have anything to do with the writing. Plus, my agent is already pushing me to write the next book.”
“Continuing in the series or something else?”
He grinned. “That’s the dilemma. I wrapped up the trilogy. Feels like sacrilege to add book four. But if it’s selling well with the possibility of more revenue from streaming, why not throw artistic integrity out the window and take the cash?”
I glanced around. “Not that it’s any of my business…but how much money are we talking about? Couldn’t you afford something more than a studio? My two-bedroom isn’tthatmuch more.”
“Yeah.” He scratched Rosebud’s ear. She’d basically fallen asleep on him. “See…” He rubbed his face with his other hand. “My parents are really good people. Always supporting me. Even when I wanted to study creative writing instead of some trade or a business degree.”
“Okay.” Inwardly, I chuckled at the slightly derisive tone he used for either of those options.
“I paid my own way—loans, grants, scholarships, and working part-time every moment I wasn’t studying.”
“Sounds tough.”
“Totally worth it. Not everyone who does a diploma in the program I was in actually goes on to be a full-time writer. But I knew—just knew—that I was going to be. I took a job as a call-center person selling life insurance. But I wrote between calls. And every morning before work. And weekends. When I wasn’t helping my parents, and saving for a down payment, I was writing.”
“That’s admirable.”
