Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(76)

For a man who’s supposedly good with words, I dropped those like I was holding a hot cast-iron skillet. Emily is nearly frozen if not for her blinking eyes. I don’t dare move closer to her. The hazy silence is choking me, but I’ve got to push through. Because I refuse to lose Emily.

“It started as a secret because of my dad. I didn’t want him to know I was a writer and turn it into something about him. Writing—it brings me so much comfort and happiness. I didn’t want him to take that from me. And then when I submitted my first manuscript and got an agent, I made sure it all happened under a pen name. Zoe knew, but I asked her to sign an NDA first. I didn’t want any traces to come back to me, because then I’d be connected to my dad professionally. People wouldn’t be discussing my book as a debut author; it would all be about how Fredrick Bennett’s son wrote a novel and how it compared to his.” I shut my eyes tight and breathe out the words “I didn’t want that.”

When I open them again, Emily’s face is still unreadable. She looks braced, though. Looks like a woman who has taken a lot of unexpected punches from life and is waiting to see if this one is going to be as painful as the others.

“I didn’t tell you originally, because . . . well, our friendship was so new after years of fighting. I didn’t know if I could trust you yet. But then when we got closer, I didn’t tell you because I was scared that this would seem like one more arena we could compete in.” I venture a half step closer. She doesn’t move an inch.

“My writing has always been everything to me, Emily. The most precious thing in my life. But lately . . .” My voice shakes. “That title is shifting to another area of my life. I want something—whatever you’ll give me—with you. But I didn’t want to ask for it on false pretenses. I want you to know me, all of me. And I want a shot at us. But if this changes things for you, I understand. And you have to know . . . I would never let this become a competition between us. I will continue to support your writing. To pull for you. To root for you and do everything I can to help make your dreams come true.” My chest expands on a full breath, and I let it out in a rush. “That’s it. That’s everything.”

After several moments of dead silence, Emily—the woman turned marble statue—says softly, “You’re AJ Ranger.”

I nod.

“You’ve been a published writer for . . .”

“Since I was twenty-five.” I wish I were in her head. I hate that this is the first time I can’t read her.

“Seven years,” she says like she’s running back in time to see exactly where she was when I published my first novel.

Again I nod.

“So all the times you gave me advice based off your dad’s experience . . . it was really yours?”

“Yes.” I swallow. “It killed me not to tell you. So many times I almost did.”

She’s quiet for a few more beats, and then she lightly gasps with some kind of understanding. “This is how you’re rich. The Land Rover. The motorcycle. The clothes. Paying cash for the house!” No one in this town can keep a secret. “You’re not constantly going into debt?”

I let out a short laugh—of course she would have been worrying about that. “No—I’m not going into debt. I . . . have made quite a bit of money off my book deals and sales.”

She bites her lip, nodding before her head angles away and her eyes study the floor. Her brows twitch together the slightest bit. “I think I need . . .” She lets that statement dangle a torturous amount of time. “I think I need some time.” Her eyes lift to me. “To process all of this.”

Those words are a horse kick to my stomach. “Of course. Take all the time you need. You know where to find me.”

She stares back at me and nods.

It’s understandable that she’d want time to digest this. I’ve essentially been lying to her for years. Emily is someone who values absolute honesty—which is what I like about her most. But I’m sick to my stomach thinking that revealing this secret is what could end any chance of me and Emily before we really started.

I turn away, take my keys from the counter, and walk toward the door.

“Jack.” Her voice stops me. When I turn around, her smiling poison-ivy-green eyes rip my heart out and steal it away. “Turns out I didn’t need long to process.” She drops down from the counter and faces me. “I want you.”

I drop my keys and we both launch ourselves across the room. We collide in the middle and it’s beautiful chaos. She kisses me recklessly. I kiss her like the dehydrated man in the desert chasing a mirage for years that turns out to be real.

She puts her hands on my jaw and pulls away enough to look at me. “I have so many more questions, but for now, I want you to know I’m done meeting you in the arena. I’m proud of you, Jack. You’re an incredible writer. I’m lucky to know your secret. Thank you.” She punctuates it with a kiss as I’m struggling to hold the mist inside my eyes. “And I’m happy to sign an NDA if you want. I’ll keep your secret.”

This time I dip down and kiss her slowly. Lips pressing and pulling so sweetly. “I trust you more than anyone in this world. I don’t want an NDA. Just you. I want to take you home. To your bed.”

“I never take guys back to my house or my bed.”