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Cadence was right. We had wasted far too much time already.

She went back to her work and I went back to mine, but I was having an impossible time focusing.

* * *

“Have any of your books changed dramatically from when you started writing them to when you turned the last draft in?” she asked while we had lunch. I’d gotten some gorgeous heirloom tomatoes at the farmers’ market when I’d stopped by with Camille yesterday and had made them into a lovely salad, along with turkey sandwiches.

“They did when I was still learning how to write books. I’d have a million drafts and I’d change names and all kinds of things. My editors also had to rein me in a lot more than they do now. I was young and all over the place. I’d try to do too many things at once, convinced each one was going to be my last, so I’d better put in everything I wanted to say in case it was.” I shook my head at myself.

Cadence fired more and more questions at me, and I answered them all, giving her more detail than I normally would. I hadn’t talked this much about my career outside of an interview, and when I did do interviews, those were very controlled, and I had practiced my answers ahead of time. With Cadence, I didn’t worry about any of that. I said the first thing that came to mind, something I only did with a select few people.

I hadn’t even known Cadence for two months, and here I was confiding in her how hard those first few years had been. How the low advances had made paying my bills nearly impossible. The hours and the endless peanut butter and jam sandwiches I’d eaten because I couldn’t afford that many groceries and the awful apartments I’d shared with strange or awful roommates.

“It was all part of getting to where I am now.” I gestured at the house.

“Yeah, I’d say it all paid off,” she said with a snort. “Did you ever wish—” she stopped herself and shook her head. “Never mind.”

“No, what were you going to say?” I had a feeling I knew.

“I was going to ask if you feel like you missed out on anything, but you don’t have to answer that. I shouldn’t have asked.”

We’d finished eating a while ago and now we were just lounging in the sun. The light set her hair aflame.

All of my tasks were calling my name, but she was sitting there, and we were talking, and it was so easy, and she looked…

She was beautiful. She really was. I’d noticed it right away. She was impossible not to notice. The hair and the freckles and those eyes. It was more than that, though. She was stunning when she was talking about her favorite books or telling me about some article she’d read or when she was listening to me tell her about those early days. The way she could focus on me was almost jarring. Like she was taking in every single word I was saying, but watching every movement of my face while I said it. Looking at my expressions. As if how I said something mattered just as much as what I was saying.

I wrenched my gaze away from her face and looked down at our empty plates. “We should go back in. I need to work on edits, and I need you to work on next week’s social media.”

Cadence stood up and saluted me. “I’ll get right on top of that, Eloise,” she said before she gathered up our plates and took them to the kitchen. I took another moment to myself before joining her back in the house again.

* * *

“Fun plans tonight?” I asked as she shut down everything for the day.

“Mmmm, probably not. I mean, nothing exciting. Probably just making dinner and reading.” She shoved her headphones in her bag, and I watched as she checked her desk for anything else that she needed to bring home with her. “You? Not getting on your private jet to go out to dinner with someone famous?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Is that what you think I do after I’m done writing?”

She grinned. “Maybe.”

I let out a snort. “No, I do not have a private jet. You know this. You’ve booked plane tickets for us.”

“You could always charter one. That’s a thing. I looked it up.” She was relentless.

“I’ve flown in a private jet once, and it was only because I was invited.” Her eyes got big and she sat back down in her chair.

“You have to tell me.”

Didn’t she want to get home?

She was so eager that I had to laugh as I told her about my one private jet trip with a very rich woman who was apparently a fan of mine and had invited me to her home in LA for the weekend, along with a bunch of other artists and writers and cultural icons.

“I’m shocked you don’t get invited to that stuff all the time.”

“I mean, not all the time, but I’ve been invited to things before, but it’s not my scene. Hobnobbing with wealthy people who expect you to be impressed by them isn’t my favorite. I’d much rather spend my time with other writers talking about craft and trends in the industry and so forth.”

She nodded. “Yeah, me too. I mean, not that I know all that much, but the more I learn the more I want to know.”