Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love #5) - Ali Parker Page 0,42

of bringing women together in situations like this. They could also rip them apart just as easily but I didn’t see that happening unless Wes walked in here and fell for my much younger, doe-eyed colleague.

Something told me that wasn’t going to happen.

Chapter 18

Wes

The pen pinched between my cramped fingers weighed about thirty pounds. Well, not really but after another wild writing sprint that had lasted several hours, it truly felt that way. I let it fall from my fingers, which remained poised like they were still clutching its squishy grip. The pen fell to the page, smudged a little bit of the freshest ink, and rolled to the edge of the notebook where it bumped up against the binding and stopped.

I pushed away from my desk and leaned back in my seat.

I’m done.

Finishing a book never stopped feeling surreal. There was so much that went into it—and still had to go into it—that once the last sentence was written I never quite believed it. Endless hours of toiling over word choices, avoiding spiraling down tangents that didn’t serve the story, and just writing, which was the biggest struggle of them all, among many other things.

It felt good to be finished with this one.

I massaged my right hand with my left until feeling returned to the aching fingers and wrist. I was fairly certain I had a bad case of carpal tunnel forming. I shook my hands out and checked the time.

Six in the evening on a Saturday. Not late enough to be rude to call Harriet.

I wanted to break the news that I’d be done before the deadline. Hopefully, the surprise would knock her on her obnoxious little ass. She’d been annoying the hell out of me and her tough-love techniques only served to make me more irritated, not inspired to write. She didn’t know how to handle a writer like me. She would probably better serve someone who gave a shit about deadlines and publisher’s schedules. Me? I just wanted to write my little love stories and share them with strangers in the world who loved a good romance book. I wished all the extra stress didn’t exist. Or that it was just a little less prevalent.

I picked up my phone and dialed Harriet.

She answered on the third ring. “Evening, Wes. You’d better not be calling to ask me for an extension. I swear to God I’ll drive down to your house myself and force you to write. We only have six days left and I expect you to honor our agreement.”

“The book is done, Harriet.”

She paused. I heard her put what sounded like a knife down on a cutting board. At this time, she was likely at home in her gourmet kitchen, afforded by the authors she’d represented who’d made her rich, me included. “It’s done? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

She let out a bark of relieved laughter. “Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day, Wes. This is wonderful! When will you send it over? I can’t wait to read it.”

I’d never confirmed whether or not Harriet actually read the books. For the last year, I’d had a suspicion she didn’t, and if she did, it was a mere flipping of the pages so she could pick out the big plot points and answer my questions should I choose to grill her on the story.

I never did.

“I’ll have it to you by Tuesday, I think,” I said. “I just have to type it up by hand. There are some revisions I want to make as I rewrite.”

“Well, don’t go down the rabbit hole too deep. Tuesday sounds good. I’ll tell the publisher that it’s—”

“Don’t,” I said. “They’ll have it on the deadline day. If I need more time, I intend to take it. I don’t need to be boxed into a corner.”

“Oh, darling. I’m not boxing you into a corner. Submitting early will buy you some favor with them. All these extensions you’ve requested don’t paint you in a favorable light, Wes. That’s all.”

“They’ll have it by the original deadline,” I insisted.

Harriet let out a defeated sigh. I could see her now, her bottom lip puffed out, her cheeks full of exasperated air, her short curly hair ruffled on her forehead by her breath. “Fine. Whatever you want, Wes. You’re the talent, after all. What do I know?”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

I wasn’t going to let her turn the tables on me and play her little gaslighting game. It might work with her other