Page 42 of A Not So Merry Rescue
“You? If you didn’t fix cars?”
“A chef.”
She holds up a forkful of steak. “Suits you. You ever work as a chef?”
“No. Culinary school and I weren’t a match.”
“What? Not enough order? Too much structure and routine?” She’d make an excellent detective. She’s good at reading people and picking up on things even if they’re not intentional clues.
“Couldn’t handle the pressure. Everything had to be perfect?—”
“You don’t say,” she mocks. Her tone is playful, but her expression is more serious.
“If I’m going to mess things up, I’d rather not be graded or judged. Mistakes in my kitchen are less stressful.”
She listens attentively, absorbing my comments, contemplating her answer. “Are you sure you’re the youngest kid? Seems to me you’d fit better as an eldest.”
I point to my chest. “Conundrum at its finest.”
“Right.” She giggles. “Not all chefs go to culinary school. I’d say your method is working. If that was ever in the cards for you.”
“Maybe once I figure out a way to grow a thicker skin. Any tips?”
“You can’t take it personally. And don’t read reviews.”
“Simple as that, huh?”
Willa quiets, but the silence is refreshing. It’s not awkward. All our conversations are constructive without being critical or a need to fill the silence.
“I’m not one to give advice. I gave up. After my first book was a wild success, hitting all the bestseller lists and bringing in more money than I could have imagined, I froze.” She folds her hands together and leans her chin on them, staring at something behind me. “I didn’t write for six months. Icouldn’twrite. I was paralyzed with fear. No matter what I tried, nothing worked. I shut down, shut off from life, let the negative voices, the people telling me I wasn’t good enough, win.”
“What changed?” I ask when she gives me an opening.
“Met a guy. He wouldn’t let me quit. Told me I had more stories to share with the world, that I was better than the haters. Even if the second book wasn’t as amazing as the first, people were clamoring to read it.”
“And it worked?”
“Drafted book two in ten days. When I handed it to my editor, she didn’t even make many changes.” Lost in the story, a wistful smile adorns her lips. “The second book did better than the first. And then subsequent books topped those numbers.”
“How many books have you published?”
“Seven.”
“Wow. That’s amazing, Willa. Truly. How many more books are planned for the series?”
The color drains from her face. My heart squeezes. For her, for being the one to ask the question.
“Wait. What happened to the guy? The one who told you not to give up?”
“He, uh, he’s gone.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Was it a bad breakup? Is he the one who hurt you?”
Her complexion ashen, she stares straight ahead. “I ca-can’t talk about it.” Her fingers grip the table, her knuckles white.Calmly, I slide my hand over one of hers, giving her a sense of comfort if she’ll take it.
“You don’t have to. I’m sorry you’re upset.”
“Thanks. Didn’t mean to ruin dinner.”
