thin. One napkin turned into two, then two into four, until he’d come up with a rough sketch of the entire business district, stitched together on coffee shop paper goods.
It could work. Maybe. But he was going to need to pack up and head back to Rick’s house so he could have access to his laptop and electronic drawing tablet.
He drained his cup and stood, because he also needed something else—a heaping dose of caffeine. He had a long night ahead of him.
At closing time, Jamie tucked Eliot into his purple kitty carrier, locked up and headed home without a backward glance. She didn’t run her fingertips over the rows of books on the shelves like she sometimes did, silently wishing them goodnight, nor did she polish the big jade leaves of the waterfall orchids like Anita had taught her to do. She didn’t even pack up the pretty chiffon dress and kitten heels she’d planned on wearing out to dinner with Sawyer.
For once, she just wanted to get away—to leave True Love Books and go someplace else. Or maybe she needed practice walking away from the place she loved more than anywhere else on earth. Because like it or not, that’s what she was going to have to do. She’d tried her best to save her shop, but she no longer had a choice. Come tomorrow, she was going to be forced to sign the contract with Ridley. If she didn’t, she’d be left with nothing—not even enough money to rebuild.
It was nauseating. Thinking about it made her physically ill, so once she got home, she decided to skip dinner. Instead, she burrowed beneath a pile of blankets on the sofa with Eliot and her computer.
Fighting for True Love had left her little to no time for writing, but a day or two ago, she’d been struck with sudden inspiration and had started something new, something unlike anything she’d written before. She couldn’t get Mary and Harrison out of her head. Their love letters were so tender, so special. How amazing would it be if she could write a romance novel based on their love story?
Eliot stretched out beside her to meticulously groom his front legs as she opened her laptop to read the notes she’d typed up when the idea for the new manuscript first struck her.
The Story of Us
Novel idea
Mary and Harris
Point of view? Maybe switch between?
Life story? Love story?
Jamie’s hands hovered over the keyboard, but she couldn’t bring herself to actually type anything, even though deep in her heart she knew that this was it—this was the story she wanted to tell.
But right now, it just hurt too much. She couldn’t do it, because somewhere along the way, she’d started thinking of Mary and Harrison as reflections of her and Sawyer. Reading their letters had been like looking in a mirror.
And now, she’d probably see Sawyer tomorrow for the last time—right at the moment when she lost everything that mattered most to her. This time, it was her choice to end things between them, even if it was one she’d never wanted to make. At least she hadn’t simply waited around for him to leave her again. She’d made the difficult choice, the right choice to protect herself. To protect her heart.
And you ended up heartbroken anyway.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying. No more. The romantic hiatus was officially back on. Technically, she’d never called it off, and it wasn’t as if she and Sawyer had actually gotten back together…
She blinked hard, but a lone tear managed to break free and slide down her cheek. The title at the top of her word document seemed to mock her.
The Story of Us
Could a person on a romantic hiatus even write a love story?
Doubtful—and the romantic hiatus was definitely still a thing. In fact, it might always be a thing. She was starting to think she was better off alone.
She reached for the delete key, ready to put the story of Harrison and Mary—and Sawyer and Jamie—behind her once and for all. That story was over. For good.
But she couldn’t seem to press that button, no matter how hard she tried.
Sawyer hadn’t pulled an all-nighter since college, and he’d forgotten what a toll it took on his body. His head ached, his eyes felt as if someone had poured sand directly into them, and he kept bumping into things as he changed into his best suit and packed his messenger bag. In