Page 23 of To Steal a Heart
Oh, boy. She had to give him something. Would it hurt to tell him a few of the facts? “Are you familiar with Xavier Kipling?”
His eyes rounded. “The artist who murdered his wife?”
“Yep. His sordid story was the inspiration behind my book.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m sure that makes me sound twisted, but I’m not. I’m perfectly normal.” If only she could explain how Olivia had inspired her story, then he would see the full picture. Her little lie was gonna cost her dearly. She could feel it in her bones.
His crystal eyes held a hint of teasing. “You’ll clobber a guy trying to steal your car, but otherwise, you’re perfectly normal.”
“That idiot deserved everything he got and more,” she retorted.
“Easy, Slugger,” he joked.
“I want my story to be about hope. The heroine overcomes insurmountable odds and comes away with a newfound confidence. Oh, and she finds the love of her life in the process.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Yes, it does. Anyway, I came to Carmel so that I can immerse myself in the setting.”
“Are you going to the Kipling Estate and the art gallery?”
“Yes, I hope to visit both places,” she answered evasively. If she told him that she knew Zachary Kipling, then she’d have to explain how she knew him.
He looked thoughtful. “That was a crazy situation. I read a little about it.”
“My story will be different from what actually happened. I’ll be taking literary license.”
“I look forward to reading it one day.”
“Me too.” She wrinkled her nose. “I guess that means I have to actually get the words out.”
“You will,” he encouraged. “You’re determined.”
“That, I am,” she admitted. “For better or worse.”
He gave her a speculative look. “At the risk of being intrusive, can I ask you something?”
“Well, since I asked you probing questions about your breakup, I suppose it’s fair play. Ask away.” She braced herself for whatever might be coming.
“You haven’t gotten published yet.”
“That’s correct.” The strip between her shoulder blades tightened. Where was this going? Every time the topic of publishing or writing came up, she felt like a louse. She didn’t like lying to Crew. And yet, it would be good to know that he was with her because of who she was, not who her family was.
“Carmel isn’t cheap, nor is renting a sailboat for the day. How can you afford to come here and do research? Since you haven’t gotten published, I assume that you aren’t earning any income from that. Do you have a remote job?” A wicked glint flicked in his eyes. “Or maybe you’re a trust fund baby.”
Her tongue tied a hard knot around her tonsils as she coughed. He couldn’t have guessed how close his trust fund baby comment was to the truth. She earned a great living from her writing, but even without that, she was set for life thanks to her inheritance, investments … and the fact that her dad ran a hedge fund company. Money had never been an object for Arden or any member of her family. It was a given. “I have a remote job.”Thanks, Crew, for that lifeline. She never would’ve thought of a remote job on her own. He watched her expectantly. She needed to come up with a career. Her brain tumbled over itself as panic fluttered in her breast. What would be a logical occupation for an aspiring writer? “I’m an editor,” she blurted.
“An editor. Impressive. What kind of editing do you do?”
“Fiction mostly. I work freelance for several publishing houses.” At least she could speak intelligently about publishing. She was relieved that she’d managed to come up with something plausible.
“Is it hard when you write to turn off the editor?”
She trilled out a low chuckle. “Oh, you have no idea. That little voice in my head is relentless. She never shuts up.” The more books Arden wrote, the harder writing became. If critics applauded her book as genius, then she felt inadequate to start the next one. If critics ripped her book apart, then she doubted herself. It was a vicious cycle. She wondered if she’d ever make peace with the part of herself that desired to create. For her, writing was not just a career but a compulsion. Arden couldn’t imagine not writing. And yet, it was torture when she couldn’t get the words to come.
He grinned in amusement. “If she’s anything like the slugger I saw earlier, I’m sure she’s a piece of work.” He made a point of sizing her up. “I think you can handle her, though.”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “I just put a muzzle on her when I write.”
Warm, undiluted laughter rolled from his throat as the faint creases around his eyes deepened. “You are something else.”