Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(51)

“I always tell you the truth. That’s our thing, right? For good or bad, it’s nothing but the truth.”

Jack read my book.

I breathe in, resisting the burn of my eyes. This book . . . it was so deeply personal. I wrote my feelings on those pages. I wrote my struggle with grief. With anxiety after childhood trauma. I wrote about how I feel like the walls close in on me when I’m alone. And although Jack doesn’t know that any of that is personal, it is, very deeply personal. And he liked it.

“I . . .” My eyes bounce everywhere, and I decide I need something to do with my hands so I turn and pour Jack a cup of coffee too. I add two splashes of flavored vanilla creamer too because I know he doesn’t like his coffee black. “I don’t know if I want to do anything with it yet. It’s . . . terrifying.”

“Unfortunately, I can promise you that feeling never goes away, no matter how many books you publish.”

I hand him the coffee mug and watch his face closely. “That’s how it’s been for your dad?”

He takes the hot cup from my hand and stares at me a beat longer before answering. “No, actually . . . My dad has never lacked confidence. Even when he should.” He sips his coffee. “But others I’ve known have definitely felt the terror.”

I nod, unable to shake the feeling that there’s more he hasn’t told me.

“So what now?” I manage to ask despite my wobbling legs. “I mean, hypothetically . . . if I wanted to do something with this, what is my next step?”

That light floods his eyes again. “The next step I would suggest is to edit what you have. I went ahead and made some notes for you if you want them. And then after you’ve done another edit or two, you can either decide to get additional reads or take it on submission to find an agent. Unless you want to self-publish it, though I’ll admit I don’t know much about that. But I can find out if you want me to.” He pauses with the most uncertain expression I’ve ever seen from him. “I mean if you want help, I want to . . . be the one to help you. I have resources and I’m happy to use them for you.” I’ve seen a lot of sides to Jack. But this one is brand new. He’s excited. He’s happy. He’s in his element and feeling silly about showing too much joy. Jack, as it turns out, loves talking about writing.

Maybe it’s because of his upbringing and watching his dad walk through all of it, or maybe it’s because he secretly wants to be a writer himself. All I know is it feels good being on the receiving end of his attention like this. His excitement is contagious, and the fact that he’s feeling it toward something I wrote—it’s giving me that same confidence I felt after riding with him on his motorcycle. It’s got me considering my future in a new way.

Over the last two years, I’ve become conscious of how I used to hold my siblings back from their dreams because I was afraid of them leaving me behind or them getting hurt. Afraid of that ever-creeping loneliness taking root in my heart and leaving a permanent ache. But that awareness has led to me championing my siblings toward their dreams even if I secretly—and like a terrible, horrible monster—hoped they’d fall through. Misery and fear will do that to a person, though.

I’m in possession of enough self-awareness at least to know that I was in the wrong. To bury those feelings and pretend they didn’t exist so I could outwardly cheer them on. I’ve made helping them achieve their dreams my whole personality. My main objective. And I never realized until this moment how much I needed someone to do that for me. How good it feels to be on the receiving end of a person believing in you.

“What kind of notes?” I ask with equal parts anticipation and dread.

He smiles. “Well, that depends on what you want from me. If you need a cheerleader who only focuses on the good parts of your story and lavishes you with compliments and praise until you find your footing and confidence to dig into the meatier stuff—then you’ll want this one.” He holds up one stack of papers.

“And the other one?”

His smirk turns into my favorite smile. The one that reminds me of a jungle cat stretching out in a patch of sunlight. “The other one is not for the weak of spirit. It’s brutally honest and doesn’t pull any punches.”

“That one,” I say without hesitation. “I’m no wimp.” My smile is just for him.

And something about it seems to snap Jackson into an awareness he hasn’t had until this very moment. His eyes now drop to my body with a leisurely perusal that has chills blooming across my skin. His jaw flexes and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “God, woman. How many of these outfits do you own?”

About time you noticed. Except, no. I don’t want him to notice. Do I? Ugh, I’m all conflicted and inside out. He’s my nemesis—but also . . . my closest friend? Neither of those titles, however, lends itself to a casual quickie to relieve tension. The struggle, I realize, is that he is wildly attractive. Even when I hated his guts, I knew he would look incredible naked. And now that there’s an emotional vulnerability to this dynamic—which does not come easily for me, I might add—it’s throwing gasoline on the fire.

I resist the urge to cover myself like I’ve done something wrong. “This is my house, I’ll remind you. And you didn’t knock. Seeing more of my skin than you’d like is the consequence of your actions.”