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OLIVIA

I don’t miss my friends.

There. I’ve said it.

Ash and I are sitting out on the deck having a late dinner after watching the sunset.

After our romp in the den, we showered, and now I’m in a flowy strapless maxi dress, and he’s in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

I left my hair loose and Sebastian’s is a little askew, and between that and his glasses, it’s been a real challenge not to crawl all over him.

We ordered a variety of dishes from a local seafood restaurant—shrimp tacos, fish and chips, lobster rolls, and some oysters on the half shell—and I swear it’s some of the best food I’ve eaten in ages.

“There is nothing like fresh seafood,” I say after taking another bite of my lobster roll. “I don’t take advantage of going to Pike Place Fish Market nearly as much as I should since I moved to Seattle, but I could never cook anything that tastes like all of this.”

“Personally, I think all food tastes better when someone else makes it. And that includes parents and grandparents. My grandmother makes the best meatballs. It’s crazy. Like…I eat Italian food a lot and I have never had a meatball as good as hers.”

I nod because I totally get it. “My nana used to make homemade pasta all the time. When I was little, I would make it with her. No one in my family makes it like she did. My dad tries, but I have to just humor him because it’s not the same. It’s sweet that he tries, though.”

“What about you? What’s a dish that you cook that you think is the best?”

The laugh is out before I can stop it. “I don’t think I have anything like that. I don’t mind cooking, but I don’t love it. And when I’m deep into a book, I survive on takeout and snacks.”

“But if you were going to make yourself something, what would it be?”

“Hmm…a lot of times when I finish writing a book, I grill myself a steak—filet mignon—and have a baked sweet potato dressed with butter, cinnamon, and brown sugar with it, and a salad with honey mustard dressing and lots of croutons. I don’t know why I love that combination so much, but I do!”

“It actually sounds fantastic! I love a good steak no matter what the occasion, but those sides sound delicious.”

“When everyone comes back, let’s plan on a night where we make that, but we won’t tell anyone why.” I wink at Sebastian and love the way he smiles back at me.

We are completely relaxed, and the conversation hasn’t stopped. It’s like we’re on this extended date and every minute is precious to me. The break from reality is such a great opportunity for us to get to know each other even more.

From that first comment on the plane, I found it easy to talk to him.

Every conversation—no matter what the topic—reminds me of how this kind of connection doesn’t happen every day.

I can’t even remember the last guy I dated who I had such random discussions with that just flowed from one topic to another.

I swear I’ve found my person.

Unfortunately—because yes, I do tend to lean toward being a pessimist—there’s a clock ticking on our time together.

Next week, he’s going to leave with Mike and Zayne, and I’ll be here.

He’s going to return to work and possibly come back for the additional weekends I’ll be here with the girls, and then I’m flying back to Seattle.

Alone.

And to what?

Nothing.

My theory of living in places where I base my books has really worked for me.

I love being able to accurately detail the settings and the overall feel of the places.

But now I’m starting a book that needs to be a bit of a departure from my cozy mysteries, and I don’t know if I want to have it set in Seattle. It obviously can be, but…

“Is something wrong with your food?” Sebastian asks, interrupting my thoughts.

“No, why?”

“Because you got super quiet and you’re frowning.”

“Oh. Sorry. No, I was thinking about…

Us.

Nope. I don’t want to have that conversation tonight.

He’s looking at me expectantly and I blurt out, “I don’t think I want my book to take place in Seattle.”

One dark brow arches—and have I mentioned how sexy it looks when he does that?—and he asks, “What made you think of that?”

Ugh.

“When I mentioned the meal I make after finishing a book, that led me to think about this book I’m about to start,” I explain.

“My cozy mysteries took place in Alaska when I started, and I moved there so my writing would be authentic. After a few years, I couldn’t handle the long hours of daylight and decided to move to Seattle.

Now that’s the setting for my stories. Or…

was. If I’m going to write something completely new to me, I don’t want to carry anything over from my cozy mysteries.

I want readers to have a fresh experience. ”

Taking a sip of his wine, he doesn’t say anything right away.

But when he does, I know he’s put some thought into it.

“I’m not an avid reader,” he begins. “I enjoy a good book, but in my downtime, reading isn’t my go-to activity.

Every book I’ve read—whether I enjoyed it or not—I never considered how the author got to that point, you know?

In my head, an author gets a story idea and then they write it.

But I never considered the process of getting it from here,”—he points to his head—“to the page.”

“Every author’s different. Some will plot a book out for months with meticulous notes and mood boards. Others are pantsers who…”

“Wait. I’m sorry. Pantsers?”

I nod. “Yup. It means they fly by the seat of their pants.”

“Ah. Got it. And which one are you?”

“I fall somewhere not quite in the middle, but leaning heavier toward a plotter. My research just happens with me going out and exploring the city. If I don’t set this new book in Seattle, where am I going?

Am I moving? Am I just going on vacation somewhere and set the book there and then go back to Washington to write it? ”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“When you’re writing, how often do you leave the house for inspiration?”

Leaning back, I take a sip of my wine and grin at him. “Are you always this good with knowing what to ask?” I tease.

“I’m genuinely interested in what you do! It’s fascinating. You explained a lot while we were on the plane, but that was just scratching the surface. I’m not creative like that, so I think it’s very cool learning about how you do it.”

“People ask me all the time and it’s really kind of boring because…

I’ve just always enjoyed writing stories.

Ever since I was little. I used to love creative writing assignments, and being an author is all I’ve ever wanted to be.

There’s no magic to it. Not really. Everyone has a talent or a skill, and this is mine.

You’re an IT, techy kind of guy. That’s your skill set and I am in awe of it because I can’t do anything like it. ”

“Yeah, but your talent is out there for the world to enjoy. No one really enjoys what I do, per se. They just enjoy how it makes their business run smoothly.”

“Talent is talent, and skill is skill. You’re doing something that helps others; I entertain them.”

“You’re not going to brag on yourself? Even a little? You’ve written like…ten books? And two of them were turned into movies! I mean…come on, Liv! That’s seriously impressive! Do you even realize that?”

I nod. “I love what I do, and when a story flows, it’s amazing. The hardest part sometimes is exactly what I’m struggling with right now—getting started. Which leads me back to where is this story going to be set?”

Sebastian takes a bite of his fish and chips, and I finish my lobster roll.

“I guess where your story is going to be set depends on your travel habits and if you’re willing to move.” He wipes his hands, but his eyes never leave mine. “Are you open to moving?”

Am I?

“You know, I tend to tell people that I live a fairly nomadic life. You know, nomads travel light and have a minimalist mindset, and they consume experiences instead of accumulating stuff. Like that’s a loose definition.

I don’t travel often, but I have a minimalistic mindset.

I never considered Alaska or Washington home. ”

“Where do you consider home?”

“It used to be Raleigh. That’s where I grew up and where my family was.”

“Was?”

“My parents are both orthopedic surgeons, and they decided a few years ago that they wanted a change of scenery and decided to move to Arizona and open their own practice.”

“Wow! They’re both surgeons? That’s impressive!”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes because while I think it’s a noble profession, I don’t have the best memories associated with it.

“My brother followed in their footsteps, but he works for a major hospital up in Baltimore.”

“Three surgeons in the family? Did you ever consider going into medicine?”

I pick up my glass and swirl what’s left of my wine.

“As a child of two orthopedic surgeons, it was naturally assumed that I would follow in their footsteps. Unfortunately, I’m squeamish and prone to fainting at the sight of blood, so we compromised, and I originally went to college to study to be an orthopedic technician.

” I pause and finish my wine. “I caved and instantly had regrets.”

“How did they take it when you told them you couldn’t do it?”

“Let’s just say they’re still not over it.

Remember on the plane when I told you about how my parents were being absolute nightmares because they don’t understand why I’m struggling with writer’s block, and if I could, I would move to another country, change my phone number, and leave no forwarding address? ”

“Vividly.” He raises his glass to me before taking a sip.