“I’m sorry. I can be an assuming ass sometimes.”
“It’s not a love story in the traditional sense. It touches on some heavy ideas.”
“Like what?”
“Female gendercide, for one.”
Nick almost choked on his sandwich. “Female gendercide? As in the act of systematically killing female babies?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like a real feel-good kind of book.”
“I know you’re being sarcastic, but ironically it is.”
“What do you know about the subject, Shyla?”
“I’ve read and heard stories.”
“So basically you know nothing.”
She shook her head slowly, her long lashes fluttering over her chocolate brown eyes.
“One of the most important rules in writing is to write what you know.”
Something he said must have resonated with her, but not in a good way. She stiffened before she leveled her head, squared her shoulders, and met his eyes. “What experiences do you have with the Russian mob, Nick?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, if I recall correctly, and I think I do, in the Max Montero book I read, he infiltrated the Russian mob. I suspect you have some real world experiences in that area since you’re all about”—she paused dramatically, fingers in air quotes—“‘write what you know.’”
The girl had gotten him. He bowed slightly, conceding to her argument. “Touché.”
“You asked me my dream, and that’s one of the big ones. I have this crazy urge to write it. Like if I don’t, I’ll combust.”
Nick understood better than anyone what she described. As a writer, when he came up with a story, it wouldn’t leave him alone until he put it to paper. Unfortunately, he had no more stories to tell.
“How did you come up with the idea?”
“I, too, have a character that speaks to me.”
Nick fetched a yellow legal pad and his favorite cross-pen from his writing desk. “What’s the story?”
“I don’t have it all worked out yet.”
“Tell me what you have.”
“Now?” she asked, looking around the room, as if someone else might answer her question.
“No time like the present.”
She yawned again.
“Unless you’re too tired,” Nick added.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Would you like coffee?”
“I brought some.”
“You brought your own coffee?”
“I always carry it with me.”
To his horror, she reached into her knapsack and pulled out a familiar plastic jar. Nick’s gut clenched in revolt. He tilted his head, trying to keep his expression stern, but failing. “You insult me by bringing freeze-dried, instant coffee into my house.”
“I only need water, and I can make it anywhere. It’s convenient.”
He picked up the jar and chucked it behind him. It landed perfectly into the trashcan by his writing desk. “It’s crap. If there’s one thing I can teach you, it’s this. Not all coffee is created equal. I’ll make you a real cup.”
Her mouth gaped, but before she could respond, he took her hand and led her into the kitchen. A part of him regretted the action because he understood her decisions were not based on preference alone. Even though he was no longer part of that class, he would never forget those struggles. Poor recognized poor. He couldn’t solve those problems for her, and he doubted she wanted him to, but he could damn well make her a real cup of coffee.
He brewed hot water and grinded fresh beans like a professional barista, explaining each step to her.
“What’s this?” she asked, gesturing to the glass mug with a silver lid.
“A French press. I usually use my coffeemaker, so I’m giving it to you. I wanted to show you how to make it.”
“Why?”
“Because instant coffee sucks.”
The skeptical look on her face melted as the rich aroma of fresh brewed coffee filled the room. “I don’t have a coffee grinder.”
He opened a top cupboard and took out a silver package. He tossed it to her. “That’s already ground.” He took out the three spice jars in the cabinet. “Do you like chocolate, cinnamon…nutmeg?”
“Isn’t it cream and sugar?”
“Not the way I do it.”
“You choose. I should be angry with you for throwing away my coffee.”
“Try this, and then tell me how angry you are,” he said, handing her a steaming mug. Their fingers touched briefly, making the exchange more awkward.
She blew before taking a sip. Her eyes widened, and she ran her tongue over her full lips. The reaction so subtly demure and downright sexy, it caused Nick’s dick to twitch. She opened her mouth, but paused and took another sip as if trying to verify her appreciation.
“Mmmm,” she whispered.
“Yep.”
“Touché, Nick Dorsey,” she said, clinking her mug against his. The best laughter came from the gut and worked its way up. And that was the exact laugh that came from him. One he hadn’t heard in a long time.
Seated again at the dining table, half-empty mugs later, Nick waited patiently for her to start. “Shyla, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I figured I could give you some advice and make up for being an ass.”
“The coffee made up for it. It’s not that. I haven’t told anyone.”
“Every single book starts the same way.”
“What way is that?”
“With an idea. Sometimes you can have a great idea and a piece of crap book or vice versa. I promise, even if you don’t write it, you will feel better for talking it out.”
“I’m not sure where to start.”
“Chapter one unless there is a prologue.”
“No prologue. Here it goes.” She took a deep breath and pulled her legs up, encircling her arms around them. “Once upon a time, a very long time ago in a land very far away, there lived a village woman.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Nick interrupted.
“Telling you the story.”
“Are you writing a fairy tale?”
“No.”
“Is that how you would start it?”
“Um…yes.”
“Okay, let’s try something else. Tell me the story like you’re talking to a friend, not as if you’re reading it out loud.”
“I am talking to a friend.”
“Yes, you are.”
Nick moved his chair closer to hers. There was still a distance between them, but he caught a whiff of her vanilla scent. It was subtle like her, but even more pleasant than the coffee aroma.
She cleared