When the Heart Falls(5)

Seeing the driver, my dad plasters a fake smile onto his face, and holds out his hand for a firm—too firm—handshake. “Come back after the summer, son.” He leans in and lowers his voice. “Otherwise, good luck in your new life.”





WINTER DEVEAUX

CHAPTER 2





THE FATE OF my career—of my entire future—is in the hands of this balding man sitting in front of me. My advisor, Mr. Posthumus, fidgets with his glasses and taps his red pen against my marked up manuscript, complete with his coffee cup stains. "Winter, why did you choose to write a romance novel?" He spits out the last words like they leave a bad taste in his mouth.

I want to grab my novel from him and clutch it to my chest. Sweat and blood and tears have gone into that pile of papers he's treating like a coaster. Instead, I paste on a smile. "I love romance novels. My kindle's full of romance novels. They say write what you read, right?" I take a sip of water and set the bottle on the table. I should pour it on his favorite book.

"They also say write what you know."

People love that saying. My dad said the same thing to me years ago. So I asked him for bookshelves and books on all sorts of things: geography, history, mystery. He built me bookshelves until my room had no more bare walls, and he bought me a book about a princess who sleeps for years and wakes with a kiss. "You scare me, child" he'd said. "Read a kid book once in a while." So I did, and it was the most romantic story. And I knew what I would write.

Lacing my fingers together, I return my attention to Mr. Posthumus. "Right. That's why I read so much."

He sighs, and his large paunch pushes against the buttons of his tweed jacket in protest of its confinement. "When they say write what you know, they mean write what you know from personal experience."

I frown. "They should really clarify that."

He shrugs. "It's pretty obvious."

"Not really."

"What do you know about romance, Winter?"

I sit up straight, flicking imaginary dust off my faded jeans. "Everything."

Mr. Posthumus raises an eyebrow. "Cocky, aren't we?"

"Realistic."

He waves his hand, as if beckoning me to continue. "So you have a lot of experience?"

"Well, I know things."

He adjusts his glasses again, leaving a thumbprint on the right lens. "What sort of things?"

I lean in and quiet my voice. "Remember chapter five? When they're in the Jacuzzi and she does that thing?"

"Oh yeah."

"And that other thing?"

"Oh yeah."

I lean back and beam. "That's what I know." Sorry Dad. I didn't read kid books for long.

"You mean you actually—"

"No." My eyes widen. "That'd be crazy." I was good girl, though, wasn't I?

He puts his hand down on the table. "See, that's my point. You're not writing from personal experience."

"You could tell by just reading my book?"

Now it's his turn to beam. "I'm trained for that sort of thing. The romance…"

"What?"

"It's a bit dry."

Ick. "So I want it wet?"

"You want your readers—"

"Don't even say it. Say… moist if you want, but don't say wet."

"You want your readers moist."

I scrunch up my eyebrows. "That sounds so wrong."

"Yet it's right."

I smile at him. It's a trust me kind of smile. A you can tell me anything kind of smile. If I were in a cop show, I'd be the Good Cop criminals tell everything because of my smile. "But that scene, in the bathroom, didn't it, you know…."

"What?"

"Well, you know..."

"Didn't it what?"

"Didn't it turn you on?"

He blushes. "Well, that was a good scene."

I wiggle my eyebrows. "You like that one?"

"That thing she did. That was quite a thing. I didn't know you could even—no. That's not the point."

That thing she did. A book on acrobatics gave me the idea. I fold my arms. "What is the point?"

He cleans his glasses, smearing his greasy thumb spot over the glass. "You haven't dated in while."

"How do you know?"

"The romance—"

"It's a bit dry."

He nods. "Not even realistic, really."

"Thanks. I really needed that clarification."

"You really did. You need to get out there and get—"

I throw my hand up like a stop sign. "Please. Don't say laid. Say happy time, if you must. But don't say laid."

"I was going to say dating."

My hands fall to my lap. "Continue."

"You need to get dating. And then you need happy time."

I smack my head. "Kill me, please."

"They fire us for that sort of thing."

"Darn."

He clenches his jaw. "I know. Sometimes I just want to… never mind. Let's continue."