Page 81 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

Kitchen sink cookies. Papa Beans. The same table where my life fell apart and somehow began to rebuild itself all at once.

Five months after the mediation, and almost a year since that fateful meeting with Dane Spellman, I find myself back in the cozy coffeehouse, two kitchen sink cookies balanced precariously on a small plate as I weave through the crowded tables.

“I can’t believe our luck,” I announce, setting the plate down in front of Forrest. “Last two cookies in the case. And not a crying kiddo in sight.”

Forrest’s smile—the one that still makes my heart skip a beat despite seeing it every day—spreads across his face. “Does this mean we’re having a lucky day?”

“I think so.” I slide into the chair across from him, the same one where Dane Spellman delivered his brutal rejection. “Last time I snagged the final kitchen sink cookie here, I met you.”

“Best day of my life,” Forrest says with such sincerity, I can’t help but blush.

“Really? Because I think I called you an asshole,” I muse.

“It might’ve been deserved,” he says, laughing, breaking a piece off our dessert and popping it in his mouth. “Mm, yours are better.”

So much feels familiar. The same barista, April, still works behind the counter, still chews gum too loudly, still pretended not to see me at the counter, and I had to remind her twice I was waiting on my cookies.

It’s the same murmur of conversation filling the space, punctuated by the hiss of the espresso machine.

But I am not the same Sora who walked in here late last summer, desperate for validation, clinging to a meeting with an agent who couldn’t be bothered to show up on time. That Sora feels like a distant relative—someone I know well but haven’t seen in years.

“You’re thinking deep thoughts,” Forrest observes, reaching across the table to brush a stray hair from my face. “Care to share?”

“Just reflecting on everything that’s happened since I first walked in here.” I capture his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. “It’s kind of funny to be back here, once again meeting with an agent.”

“An agent?” Forrest asks, mock-offended. “I prefer boyfriend, or love of your life , or I’ll even settle for Sora’s sexy cowboy . ‘Agent’ feels like a demotion.”

I flutter my eyelashes at him, before taking a giant bite of cookie. He’s right. Mine are better. Maybe my days of chasing kitchen sink cookies for luck is over, especially when I have all the luck I need right in front of me. “Okay, my sexy cowboy.”

“Thank you. That’s all I ask.” He pushes our plate aside. “Are you all packed for Wyoming?” he asks, the teasing glint in his eye softening to something more tender.

“Almost. I just have a few more things to go through.” I take a sip of my latte—caramel with extra whipped cream, exactly how I like it. No more trying to impress anyone with sophisticated coffee orders.

Forrest lifts his brows. “Translation? You haven’t even started yet, have you?”

“Nope,” I admit, flashing him a toothy grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll be all set by tomorrow, promise.”

The decision to spend summer in Wyoming was simple.

Even Hannah’s blessing, which we thought we’d have to wrestle out of her like an unruly alligator, came easily.

She’s traveling this summer, with a new boyfriend, even richer than Henry apparently, because some things don’t change.

But at least the new guy loves kids. He and Forrest get along well enough.

“Dad’s excited. He bought Dakota a pink fishing pole. Let’s see how that goes,” Forrest says with a scoff.

“What do you mean?”

“Picture Dakota’s face with a slimy, wet fish flopping around in her hands. She’s been to the ranch once. My baby girl is still a little prissy.”

“Well, we have a summer to fix that, don’t we?”

“Should we get you a pole? Are you going to fish?” Forrest asks.

“Ew, gross. Picture my face with a wet, slimy fish flopping around in my hands. No, thanks .”

Forrest barks out a laugh. “Okay, city girl. One summer to fix you, too.”

“Spare me the trout, but I’ll be your dutiful helper with the barn house. I bought some thick work gloves so I will be splinter-free all summer.”

“That’s sweet. You can help paint when it comes to that, but the country boy in me is not putting his girl to work during the hot summer. And plus, you’ve got a book to finish this summer, yeah? Your agent’s waiting on you. How’s progress going?” He winks.

I duck my head, blushing slightly. “I’m taking my time with this one. Enjoying the ride. Don’t rush me.”

“Not rushing… inspiring you to get your tush to work.”

“Save it, cowboy. These next few months are going to be all about building and bonding. I’ll write when I can, but I’m soaking up every second of the Wyoming summer.

I’ve got a stick shift to learn to drive, a horse to learn to ride, and your dad told me someone dropped a red heeler puppy on his doorstep and it won’t leave. We have a cattle dog to train.”

“Oh, you and Boone making big plans, hm?”

“That’s right.”

“Will I get to see you at all this summer?” Forrest asks teasingly.

“Perhaps if you play your cards right.” I beam at him, picturing the endless movie nights in his truck, stars overhead, Forrest owning my body in the cloak of twilight.

Forrest’s phone chimes with a reminder—Dakota’s school pickup in forty-five minutes. I shove another big bite of cookie in my mouth, and chew rapidly. “We still have time,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “Plenty of time.”

His expression is carefully neutral, but I’ve learned to read the tiny tells—the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tap a soft rhythm against the table.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “You’re acting weird.”

“Am I?” His smile is innocent, but his eyes give him away. “Just enjoying my cookie.”

I narrow my eyes suspiciously but let it drop. Whatever he’s planning, I’ll find out soon enough. Forrest has never been able to keep secrets from me for long.

“So, tell me more about your plans for the barn house,” I prompt, breaking off another piece of my cookie. “Are you still planning on building a deck off the master bedroom?”

He shakes his head. “I’m reconfiguring the floor plan a little. The master is going to the other side, and I’m going to make that room into your office. I’ll still build the deck, but it’ll be outside of your space. West-facing, so you can watch the sunsets while you write.”

The thought of writing in Wyoming, surrounded by vast, open spaces and clear air, stirs something in me. I wonder what I’ll think of there, under the big sky, inspired by the beautiful Wild West.

“That sounds perfect,” I tell him. “I might actually get some writing done with a view like that.”

“Speaking of your writing…” Forrest reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out two thin stacks of paper, each folded neatly in thirds. My heart skips a beat as he places them on the table between us.

“What are those?” I ask, though I have a suspicion.

“Contracts,” he says simply, his eyes watching my reaction carefully. “Offers for the duet. I’m struggling with them, to be honest.”

My jaw gapes at the way he drops this bomb with such nonchalance. I’m over here choking on my cookie. “What offers? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, did I not tell you?” He smirks, and I resist the urge to snatch them off the table.

When Forrest agreed to become my agent—in addition to being my boyfriend and now my live-in partner—I was skeptical.

Not because I doubted his abilities or his connections, but because I worried that mixing our personal and professional lives might strain our relationship.

But he’s proven me wrong. As my agent, Forrest is shrewd, professional, and relentless.

He read every draft of my manuscript, offered thoughtful critique, and then championed it to publishers with the same passion he brings to everything he does.

“I’ve been in negotiations with both publishers for a couple of weeks,” Forrest explains, his agent voice mixing with his boyfriend tone.

“One is offering a bigger advance. It’s a Big Five publisher.

” He points to the contract on his right.

“The other is from a smaller press. They’re offering a much smaller advance—all they can afford, really—but a higher royalty rate. ”

I stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “And you’re struggling with this why? The Big Five is obviously the way to go.”

My mind is racing with possibilities. A Big Five publisher.

The kind of legitimacy I’ve been chasing for years.

The kind of validation that might finally make Mom understand why I’ve chosen this difficult path.

The kind that might silence the voice in my head that sometimes, late at night, whispers that I’m not good enough.

“That’s what I thought at first,” Forrest says. “But after talking to both editorial teams, I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

He leans forward, his expression serious. “The smaller publisher is passionate about your work, Sora. The editor read your manuscript twice in one long weekend because she couldn’t get enough. She has marketing plans, creative ideas for reaching readers. She’s in love with your story.”

“And the Big Five?”

“They’ll put it out there, of course. But from everything I’ve learned, your books will be just two of hundreds they publish this year. They’ll hit the shelves, maybe get a brief promotional push, and then….” He makes a falling gesture with his hand.

I frown, the excitement dimming slightly. “But the advance?—”

“Is bigger, sure. But my job as your agent is to think long term.” His eyes hold mine, intensity radiating from them.

“And my instinct as the man who loves you is to build a team for you that believes in you as much as I do. I think there needs to be more decisions made with heart versus statistics in this industry.”