Labor Day weekend had them out in full force, fanny packs and all. It was humid today, the air sticky and thick, but at least it was full of sea-level oxygen.
My mile time had sucked the entire week I’d been in Colorado. I’d mostly stayed around seven thousand feet while researching in Peru, minus the times I’d gone climbing, but Poplar Grove’s elevation had been twenty-five hundred feet higher. Had to admit, though, despite the brutal lack of oxygen, the Rocky Mountain air had felt lighter, easier to move in, too. Not that Colorado beat New York in any other department. Sure, the mountains were beautiful, but so was the Manhattan skyline, and besides, nothing could compare to living in the very heartbeat of the world. This was home.
Only problem was, my head wasn’t here, and hadn’t been since I’d flown back more than two weeks ago. It was split down the middle between World War II Britain and modern-day Poplar Grove, Colorado, even sans oxygen. The manuscript ended at a crucial turning point in the plot, where the story could either descend into cataclysmic heartbreak or rally back from the depths of doubt to reach a love-conquers-all climax that would turn even the surliest bastard into a romantic.
And while I was normally content to play the surly part, Georgia had stepped in and stolen my role, leaving me the uncharacteristic romantic. And damn, did this story demand it. The letters between Scarlett and Jameson did, too. In the middle of a war, they’d found the real thing. They couldn’t even bear to be separated for longer than a few weeks. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been with a woman for more than a few weeks at a time. I liked my space.
I hit mile six and was no closer to understanding Georgia’s asinine demand than I was when I’d left her house two weeks ago or understanding the woman herself. Usually, I ran until my thoughts worked themselves out or a plot point came to me, but just like every other day for the past two weeks, I slowed to a walk and ripped out my earbuds in pure frustration.
“Oh, thank God. I thought you—” Adam gasped. “Were going. For a seventh, and I. Was going to. Have to drop out,” he managed to say between heaving breaths as he caught up beside me.
“She doesn’t want it to have a happy ending,” I growled, killing the music pumping through my phone.
“So you’ve said,” Adam noted, lifting his hands to the top of his head. “As a matter of fact, I think you’ve mentioned that almost every day since you got back.”
“I’m going to keep saying it until I can wrap my head around it.” We reached a bench near a fork in the path and stopped to briefly stretch, as was our routine.
“Great. I look forward to reading it once you do.” He braced his hands on his knees and leaned over, drawing in gulps of air.
“I told you we should run more often.” He only joined me once a week.
“And I told you that you’re not my only writer. Now when are you sending the Stanton portion of the manuscript? This thing is a tight turnaround.”
“As soon as I finish it.” A corner of my mouth lifted. “Don’t worry, you’ll have it by the deadline.”
“Really? You’re going to make me wait three months? Cruel. I’m wounded.” He slapped a hand over his heart.
“I know I sound like a kid, but I want to see if you’re able to tell where Scarlett’s writing leaves off and mine begins.” I hadn’t felt this excited about a book in the last three years, and I’d written six during that time. But this one…I had that feeling, and Georgia was tying one hand behind my back. “She’s wrong, you know.”
“Georgia?”
“She doesn’t understand what her great-grandmother’s branding was. Scarlett Stanton is a guaranteed happy ending. Her readers expect it. Georgia isn’t a writer. She doesn’t get it, and she’s wrong.” One thing I’d learned over the last twelve years was not to screw with readers’ expectations.
“And you’re so certain you’re right because what? You’re infallible?” There was more than a hint of sarcasm there.
“When it comes to plotting? Yes. I’m comfortable saying I’m pretty fucking infallible, and don’t start on me about my ego. I can back it up, so it’s more like confidence.” I leaned into a stretch and smiled.
“Hate to check your confidence, but if that was the case, you wouldn’t