Page 8 of Just My Type (The Boston Hearts #3)

I consider that. “Okay, fair point. Have you ever told anyone else about writing your books late at night? How it made you feel?”

She thinks for a minute, and when surprise crosses her face, I feel like I’ve won some kind of prize. “Strangely, I don’t think I have.”

I grin triumphantly. “See? I’m telling you, Han, it’s the middle of the night rooftop magic. Want to tell me another secret?”

“Keep dreaming, pal.”

I just adore the sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Come on. Just one tiny little secret.”

Hannah taps a finger to her lips like she’s thinking.

The move immediately has my gaze dropping to her mouth, and for one overwhelming second, I wonder what it would feel like to have her lips on mine.

What she would taste like. What sounds she would make.

Where else on her body I could put my lips.

Don’t get hard. Don’t get hard. Don’t get hard.

“I don’t think you’ve told me a secret yet.”

“Huh?” I ask distractedly, my brain focused entirely on trying to keep my dick from tenting my shorts and completely ruining this moment.

“A secret, Noah. You haven’t told me a secret. You want one of mine? Give me one of yours first.”

“Graduating from residency in a few weeks kind of scares the shit out of me.” The words are out of my mouth before my brain even engages, and I let out a whoosh of breath as my biggest secret comes tumbling out.

Hannah just studies me, her eyes serious. “What scares you about it?”

“The whole idea of being an attending. Taking the lead on complex surgeries instead of assisting. Being responsible for teaching residents instead of being one. It all feels a little intimidating. Like, what if I suck at being in charge? Also, I’m really tired, and what if maybe I’m too burned out to be an attending? ”

It’s a weird sort of relief to give voice to the thoughts that, until now, have only lived in my head. To let them out up here in the middle of the night. To give Hannah this part of me.

Hannah nods, those pretty green eyes steady on my face. “Do you want to talk about it, or is it enough to just say the words?”

Her question takes me by surprise, and it does something to me that she would ask, rather than just assume that I wanted to talk. “Honestly, just saying the words makes me feel better.”

Hannah smiles, like she knew what my answer would be before I said it out loud.

Our eyes lock, and for one heady moment, the air between us feels heavy and charged.

Like we are more than just two people sharing secrets on a roof late at night.

Like this is something . Something real. Something true and right and honest.

“I can’t write.” Hannah’s rushed words break the moment.

As soon as she says them, her eyes widen and her hand twitches, like she’s just barely restraining herself from slapping a hand over her mouth.

She definitely didn’t mean to say what she said, but I’m both a nosy bitch and in love with the fact that she’s giving me another piece of herself.

“What do you mean you can’t write?”

Hannah takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I mean, I literally can’t write. I sit down at my laptop every single day and try to write a book, and nothing comes out. My brain doesn’t want to make stories. My characters won’t talk to me. I literally can’t write.”

The misery in her tone has my brain racing with ways to fix this for her, but then I remember how it felt when she asked me what I needed after I gave her my secret, and I hold myself back.

“How long has this been going on?”

Hannah draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. “Like six or seven months,” she says glumly.

My brain does some quick math, and it takes me about ten seconds to put it together. Five months ago, Hannah showed up in Boston with haunted eyes and bruised wrists. This has something to do with her ex-boyfriend. My hands clench into fists because fuck that guy.

“That must be really hard,” I say quietly.

Hannah laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I can’t do the thing that brings me more joy than almost anything in the world. The thing I love with my whole heart and the thing that so many people are counting on me to do and do well. Yeah, Noah, it’s really hard.”

“Do you want to talk more about it?”

She rolls her eyes. “What else is there possibly to say? I can’t write. The end.”

It’s not a no, so I decide to push just a little bit. “Why do you think you can’t write? What’s stopping you?”

She sighs. “It’s not that complicated. Asshole ex.

A terrible relationship that took me three years to unwind myself from.

I used to understand romance. Or at least I thought I did.

I mean, I’ve been a romance reader since I was thirteen, and I was in a long-term relationship.

But it turns out, I don’t know the first thing about it.

I thought I had experienced it myself, but looking back I know now that I never really did, and it’s fucking with my head.

Can’t write what you don’t know, and right now, I don’t think I know anything. ”

I study her, a little stunned at how much she said, the burning need to fix this for her roaring back. I’ve always been a problem solver. It’s the doctor in me. The healer. The ideas start to rush through my head unchecked, arranging and rearranging themselves until the solution is clear to me.

Hannah doesn’t need platitudes or a pep talk or ideas for her next book.

She needs the right inspiration, and I am exactly the man for the job.

Without warning, her face from earlier tonight, when she was looking around Elliot’s living room like she was trying to find her place, flashes through my brain, and I realize I can help her with that too.

I can help her find her writing mojo, and I can help her find her place. I can show her that, despite what she may think, that place is right here in Boston with her sister. Her friend. My family.

And maybe, one day, with me.

Plucking another Oreo out of the package, I grin. Hannah Evans has no idea what’s coming for her, and I am going to love every damn minute of it.