Page 79

Loomis smiles as I knew he would. “Poor lad.”

“Oh, please. Those eyes have launched a thousand movie tickets.”

“More than that.” His smile turns teasing. “The studio did market research.”

I laugh, and something shifts between us, something that’s been building all day, perhaps all week, eases into something warmer and more genuine. The pretense we’ve been trying to cling to feels thinner and more defenseless. Like tissue paper dampened by rain, they’re ready to tear and be ripped apart.

“Keegan,” he says, my name sounding sweet on his lips. “There’s something so different and perfect about you. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Different how?” I quip. “Good different, oryou’re insanely quirky and weird and a bit offdifferent?”

“Both, and both of those are good different. Real different.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Everyone in my world is performing all the time, including me. But you... even when you’re supposedly playing a part, there’s something authentic shining through.”

I stare into my wine glass, the pale liquid catching the light from the hotel room behind us. The compliment sits on me all wrong. Loomis has trusted me with every piece of himself, and I haven’t done that with him. I haven’t been real with him. But more than that, I’m tired of hiding this piece of myself. This incredible piece that fills me with immeasurable joy.

I’m a doctor, and I love being one. But it doesn’t fill me up the way writing does.

“I think,” I say slowly, “maybe it’s time I told you something.”

Loomis waits, patient, giving me space to find my words, though there’s no hiding his curiosity. Here goes…

“I’m a writer,” I spill, the words coming out faster than I intended. “An author. I write books. Novels. Under a pen name, Victoria Nightshade.”

He stares at me for a very long moment, and I force myself to meet his gaze. “That’s what you’ve been doing on your laptop. You’ve been writing.”

It’s not a question, but I nod all the same.

“What sort of books?”

And here’s the moment where it usually falls apart. I take a deep breath. “Steamy paranormal romance.”

I gulp a hasty sip of my wine and wait for the smile to fade and for the edge of condescension to creep in. Instead, his expression brightens in amazement.

“Really? That’s brilliant. Wow.” He runs a shocked hand through his hair. “You’re an author. Incredible. Why didn’t you tell me? Why are you keeping it such a secret?”

“Because I’m a Fritz and writing spicy vampire romance doesn’t exactly jive with the public image of that. That and I’ve learned respect is a hard-won thing with romance books.”

“Your family hasn’t supported this?” He’s incredulous.

“The family I’ve told more or less has. Eventually. It was others who haven’t.”

Like Trevor, my ex from when I first started publishing, whose laugh had cut through me like a scalpel when I finally shared my secret with him after six months together.

“Vampire porn?” He’d snickered, scrolling through the document I’d hesitantly shown him. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is what you spend your evenings doing? Writing smut for bored housewives? You’ll never make any real money with this stuff,” he’d said, closing out of the document without reading any of it as if it were nothing. “It’s a hobby, Keegan, not a career. Don’t quit your day job for that trash.”

I hadn’t. But I did quit him the next day after staying up all night crying to Kenna and Katy about it, only to realize the one thing worse than his reaction would be staying with someone who couldn’t respect and support me. But with that, I think I’ve lost a piece of myself. Part of my trust, especially in men.

I don’t share my writing with my loved ones other than my parents and my girls, who I know read it. I don’t tell men I’m dating about it, and that includes Alden. I keep my secret and become someone they expect instead, and in doing so, less of someone for me.

“What does that mean?”

“My parents know, and though they were shocked and skeptical of it all at first, they quickly got over it and supportedme doing it. I haven’t talked much about it with the rest of my family.”

“Jesus, Keegan, why the bloody hell not? Fuck them if they can’t handle it. You’re amazing. I couldn’t write a book to save my arse, and I bet all those twats who judge or question you couldn’t either. It’s simple jealousy that you’re living out your passions while they’re simply sitting on theirs, too afraid to act.”

“Maybe,” I murmur, though his words fill me with pride and warmth like I’ve never experienced.

“Trust me. When you tell people you want to be an actor, they scoff and tell you you’ll never make it or be successful and to do something practical instead. I like to imagine I’ve gotten the last laugh with them.”