Page 12 of Guys Can't Write Romance
As they sat down, Daisy noticed the beautiful place settings, gleaming silverware arranged precisely alongside delicate china. It was almost perfect, but not quite. The dessert spoon was angled slightly off. She fought the urge to fix it.
“This is lovely, Ethan,” Daisy said, smoothing her blue cocktail dress. She’d spent forty-five minutes picking it out, hoping it said ‘sophisticated’ without saying ‘desperate.’ As it turned out, she had no idea whether it said either of these, since Ethan didn’t even seem to notice.
“Would you believe I had to make the reservation three weeks ago,” Ethan said, taking pride in the restaurant’s exclusivity.
Of course he had. Daisy smiled, and when Ethan wasn’t looking, quickly adjusted her dessert spoon to align with the others.
The sommelier appeared at their table a moment later. “Good evening, Mr. Sterling. Would you like to see the wine list?”
“No need,” Ethan said. “We’ll have the 2015 Château Margaux.”
The sommelier’s eyebrows rose in appreciation. “An excellent choice, sir.”
As the sommelier headed off, Daisy leaned forward, no longer able to hold back her excitement about the contest. “I have some really exciting news I’ve been dying to tell you about.”
He looked up from his menu. “Oh?”
She gave a big nod. “Mags — she’s the moderator of my writers’ group — told us about a contest Heartstrings Publishing is holding for romance comedy manuscripts. The winner gets a real publishing contract.” Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “This could be it, Ethan, the break I’ve been waiting for.”
“This is about your writing?” he said, his dulled reaction nowhere near matching her excitement.
Daisy looked dumbfounded. “Yes. If I win, I could get my new book published by a real publisher. It could be my first step towards becoming a full-time author.”
“And if you don’t win?” Ethan said, his tone measured.
The light dimmed in her eyes. “Then I guess I’ll self-publish again and keep trying. But at least it’s a chance.”
Ethan sipped his water. “I just don’t want to see you get your hopes up and then dashed. I assume there will be a lot of other, more established writers you’ll be competing against.”
Why did he always do this? Daisy regretted ever bringing it up. “There will be. But I think this book has a solid shot at winning.”
He nodded. “How many books have you written?”
“This will be my fourth.”
“And how many copies of your last book did you sell?”
“About three hundred,” she said. “But that was without marketing support.”
“And how much did you make after expenses?”
Daisy’s shoulders tensed. “That’s not the point. Building a readership takes time.”
“I’m just trying to be practical,” Ethan said gently. “I checked the sales figures for your self-published books. The rankings suggest they’re not exactly flying off the shelves.”
A cold knot formed in Daisy’s stomach. “You researched my book sales?”
“I was curious about the financial viability of this hobby you seem to be spending so much time on,” Ethan said, as if this were perfectly normal behavior.
“It’s not always about the money,” Daisy said, rearranging her fork so it lined up exactly with the knife.
“Of course not,” Ethan said. “But hobbies are meant to complement your career, not replace it.”
Hobbies. He’d said it twice now in the span of less than thirty seconds, and it stung both times. She had stayed up until 2 a.m. just last night refining her character arcs. She’d skipped lunches to work on dialogue. She’d attended workshops and conferences, spending her teacher’s salary on craft books and editorial feedback.
At that moment, the wine arrived, and Ethan performed the tasting ritual with practiced expertise. Daisy watched his hands, steady, confident. So different from the inky fingers of the writers in her group, especially Chad’s perpetually smudged ones.
Where had that thought come from?
