Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love #5) - Ali Parker Page 0,43

writers but I was done subscribing to her subtle manipulations.

Harriet covered the mouthpiece of her phone and bellowed at her kids that dinner was ready. She barked demands to wash their hands, come down, and help her put things on the table. I wondered what it would be like to have a mother like Harriet. Was she as demanding with her children as she was with her clients?

It wouldn’t have surprised me.

“Well, I’m glad you finished the book, Wes,” she purred into the line. “You’ve made my weekend. Now I have to track my husband down for dinner. He’s been hiding in the garage all day working on who knows what.”

“Enjoy your evening with your family,” I said, smiling as I thought about her husband desperately trying to avoid his wife by tinkering in his garage. I’d met the fellow a handful of times. He was meek and not at all the kind of man I expected Harriet to choose. He was of slender build and personality. He laughed quieter than he spoke and did as his wife asked like a loyal lapdog.

Harriet hung up the phone.

The silence of my office didn’t taunt me as it usually did. On an ordinary day, accusatory whispers would ripple around my space and tell me I wasn’t doing enough. I wasn’t writing enough. I wasn’t good enough. The imposter syndrome, as Briar had so succinctly referred to it, was real, and I’d been foolish enough at the beginning of my writing career to think it would go away as I wrote more.

Now I had accepted the fact that I would always feel like I hadn’t earned this and that I wasn’t worthy of the title of “author.”

I didn’t let that get me down today, though.

Today was a day of success. It had been far too long since I finished a project before a deadline and I wanted to share that with someone. On a regular day, I might have called Walker, and we might have gone back to the cigar lounge for bourbon and cigars.

But Briar was the only one on my mind.

I called her cell but she didn’t pick up. I knew she was probably at work and it seemed disrespectful to show up at her job, especially since she was so new there. So I left her a voicemail instead.

“Hey, Briar, it’s me, Wes.” I doubted I needed to tell her who it was, seeing as how everyone and their mother had caller ID these days, but I said it anyway. “I know you’re probably at work right now. I hope the day is being kind to you. I was wondering if you wanted to get together. I have some free time on my hands because I just finished writing my book. Shocking, I know. I thought I’d be plugging away at it for a few more weeks. Anyway, I’ll stop rambling into your voicemail. Let me know if tomorrow works. I could show you some more sights after we eat. You still have only seen the tip of the New York City iceberg.”

I hung up the phone and stood up from my desk. It felt good to stretch my legs. I’d lost track of how long I’d been sitting down writing. Over the last couple of days, I’d collectively probably written for at least thirty hours. The tension in my shoulders, forearms, neck, and lower back could attest to that.

I needed a massage and a chiropractor appointment. I’d have to see to both of those things this week.

Maybe Briar would want to get a massage with you.

I shook my head at myself as I made my way down the hall to my bedroom. My feet felt like they’d been encased in lead and weighed thirty pounds each. I just wanted to put my head down for a minute and close my eyes. Rest would help me set my head on straight and probably ease a lot of my aches and pains.

Whoever said being a professional writer wasn’t hard on the body didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about.

I clipped my shoulder on my doorframe and stumbled into my room.

Briar won’t want to get a massage with you, you dolt. She said she wants to move slowly. Laying in a room together for a romantic massage with nothing between us but thin towels hardly seems like “taking it slow.”

I collapsed on my bed, rolled onto my back, and clasped my hands behind my head. I considered my ceiling as