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Dedicated to the One I Love

By Beth K. Vogt

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Good morning, Joe. It’s a beautiful May morning here in Monument. By “beautiful,” I mean it’s snowing. Springtime in the Rockies, right?
There’s just a dusting on my back porch, so I won’t attach the all-too-familiar photo of lawn furniture covered in snow. Here’s a question for you: What’s the largest snowflake ever recorded?
I still can’t believe I got stumped by your last trivia question. I had no idea the speed of a computer mouse is measured in “Mickeys.” The only Mickey I’m familiar with is Mickey Mouse. Hope all is well in your corner of Colorado. Kylie


Despite what some people thought—specifically her mother, her best friends, and her agent—Kylie was fine. Just because her cat Remington kept her on schedule didn’t mean he ran her life—what was left of it.
Remington leaned his furry body up against her legs as Kylie sat at the kitchen counter, his purr a soft vibration of comfort.
“Come on, Rem.” Kylie abandoned her tepid cup of Irish Breakfast tea, tucked her phone in the side pocket of her leggings, scooped the cat into her arms, and headed for her office.
She paused in the hallway before entering through the open door. Her favorite books were color-coordinated on the built-in white shelves—writing books and fiction of every genre. Copies of her novels, in order of publication. Awards and favorite photographs with her agent, editor, and other author friends hung on the walls that were painted a lush periwinkle—her favorite color—thanks to her husband.
Her laptop sat in the center of her desk. Nothing else. No open books, pages of notes, no bowl of salted popcorn with a glass of cold ginger ale, no ice—nothing that hinted at the creative mess caused when she was in pursuit of “The End” for a story.
Kylie released Remington, who strolled away without a backward glance, and sat behind her desk. Opened her laptop. Closed her eyes as it powered up. Offered a silent prayer for inspiration. Waited . . . waited . . .
No spark. Nothing.
Kylie buried her face in her hands with a groan. She was a writer. Writers produced words—spark, or no spark. Today wasn’t a writing day. Yesterday hadn’t been a writing day. She’d ignored her unfinished manuscript for one thousand ninety-five days. Three years. She resisted the urge to pick up her phone and open the Words with Friends app. Escape to something fun. Easy. Or she could always check her email.
Her phone buzzed, causing Kylie to jerk upright, her chair skidding away from the desk. Shannon, with her midweek check-in. She could let the call go to voicemail, but that would just worry her agent, and then she’d start her traditional “Are you okay?” texts until Kylie called her back.
Kylie put her phone on speaker. “Hey.”
“Hello. And how are you today?”
Ah. Shannon’s extra-cheerful voice.
“Fine.”
“Did you see the article I sent you?”
A not-so-subtle way of asking if Kylie was at her computer. Writing.
“No.”
“Because you’re too busy writing?” Shannon maintained the same upbeat tone.
“No. But you’ll be happy to know I’m at my desk”—she eased her chair closer—“and my computer’s on.”
Every word she spoke was true.
“Ky-lie.”
“Shannon.” Kylie braced herself. Would Shannon transition to the compassionate approach or the assertive approach?
“You need to be thinking about your career. Readers have been waiting for another Veronica Hollins book for three years. Thirty-six months. One hundred fifty-six weeks.”
“I know how long it’s been, Shannon.”
“As soon as you finish the manuscript, the publisher can rush it through the editing and printing process. They. Want. This. Book.”
“Creativity can’t be rushed.”
Especially when creativity had gone AWOL.
“Read that article. You’ve got competition.”
“This from the woman who always told me other authors aren’t competition and that another writer’s success didn’t mean I was failing.”
“That was when you were writing!” Shannon’s words flew across the phone. “If you’d read that article, you’d know there’s a romance author in the house who people are calling the ‘new Veronica Hollins.’”
Okay, that information stung.
“Her debut sat on the New York Times bestseller list for weeks. She’s gained one hundred thousand followers on social media. Each one of them should be following you. And she’s doing a national tour for her next release, book two in her series, which comes out in six months. Talking to the readers, the television hosts, that you should be talking to.”
“She’s one of our authors?” Kylie opened her inbox and found Shannon’s email. Clicked on the link. “Madison Thomas? Why did the publisher bring her on?”
“There’s no denying her voice is reminiscent of yours. More importantly, she’s cranking out books. You’re not. Your followers are reading her books because the last book in your series is sitting in your computer, unfinished.”
“That’s their choice to read her novels.”
“You’re not giving them a choice if you don’t have Worth the Risk out there—a novel you promised your oh-so-loyal readers. Where’s your pride, girl?”
Dead and buried with Andrew.
Kylie bit back the melodramatic words, twisting her wedding rings around her finger. It wasn’t Shannon’s fault her unfinished book was forever connected to Andrew’s death.
“It’s rumored her next advance is six figures.”
“I’m happy for her.”
“You could be signing your own contract—”
“If I finished this book and had another series idea.” Kylie finished Shannon’s sentence in a monotone.
“Exactly.”
“I’m sorry, Shannon.”
“I don’t want an apology.” Shannon’s growl reached across the phone and crawled up Kylie’s spine one vertebrae at a time. “I want you to do whatever it takes to finish writing that book.”
Her agent was most definitely going with assertive today. “I will.”
“Do you mean it this time?”
“Yes. I’ll do whatever it takes to finish.” Kylie’s words sounded mechanical. As if she was reciting Shannon’s words back to her. Which she was.
The thought of writing used to get her out of bed every morning. That, and the aroma of coffee because Andrew set the timer each night for a pot of their favorite dark roast to start brewing at five forty-five each morning. Now Remington woke her up by sitting on Kylie’s stomach and tapping her face with his paw. She should be glad he didn’t use his claws.
She drank tea all day and talked to her cat. Empty teacups littered different rooms of the house—except her office. Every evening, she’d gather them up, load the dishwasher, and start again the next day with clean cups.
“Kylie, I’m your agent, but I’m your friend too.”
“I know you are.”
“Andrew wouldn’t want you living like this.”
Now Shannon wasn’t playing fair.
“You know I’m right.”
“I know you like being right.” Their laughter blended across the phone.
“He was so proud of your books.” Shannon’s tone softened. “Remember how he introduced you to everyone as ‘my wife, the famous author’?”
Kylie had to laugh again at Shannon’s attempt to sound like Andrew. “He’d pull that routine with every single waiter or waitress at every restaurant. ‘Have you read any of my wife’s books? She’s a famous author, you know.’”
“He’d come to your book signings and walk around the store, gathering people up to come and meet you.”
“He’d tell them how happy I would be to meet them—and then he’d get them to buy a book.”
“Or two. Andrew would want you to keep writing.”
Kylie couldn’t argue with her. But she also couldn’t write.
She’d lost her happily ever after, and the ability to write them for imaginary characters too. In the early days after Andrew died, she thought if she didn’t get to have a happily ever after, why should anyone in her books have one? Why should anyone in the world have one? But that would be selfish. Her tragedy didn’t negate happiness for everyone else.
Three years later, she was almost thirty-five and living this new Andrew-less life. Mostly. But creativity required more of her than she had left.
“When was the last time you read the manuscript?”
“It’s been . . . a while. I’ll start reading it again today.”
“That’s great!” Shannon sounded as happy as if Kylie had promised to turn in the completed manuscript tomorrow. “Just relax and get the feel of the story.”
“Right.”
“Before you know it, you’ll fall in love with the characters again and then you’ll have to finish the book.”
Fall in love. Wrong choice of words. That was the whole problem.
“I’ll start reading it.”
“Now.”
“Yes.”
“Right now.”
“We’re still talking.”
“I’m hanging up. You go read.”
Shannon disconnected the call. Remington stared at Kylie from the doorway of her office. “I know. I know. She means well.”
Remington meowed.
“Yes, I said I’d read the manuscript.”
Kylie promised herself she could take a nap after she read the first ten . . . five chapters. Who was she kidding? Opening the Word document would be considered a success. It wasn’t that she didn’t ever go in her office. Or open her laptop. She did, every single day. Looked at emails. Deleted emails.
And read the emails from Joe.
Just-her-friend Joe.
They’d connected five months ago through Words with Friends after discovering they were both Colorado natives, with a love for trivia and funny one-star book reviews. He’d asked, “What musical keys do most cars honk in?” and she’d replied, “F or F-sharp.” Silly questions like that. Then one night he asked if he could email her, and she figured why not? Since then, they emailed back and forth daily, talking about harmless things like the weather, movies, and the Broncos. Kylie said her background was literature, which was true since she majored in journalism and minored in English. Joe probably thought she was a librarian. He’d said he’d been in the military. Their correspondence was casual. Fun. Platonic.
Kylie forced herself to stay seated behind her desk, pressing her palms against the clean glass top. When she was in deep writing mode, her desk was a mess, and she warned the cleaning team not to touch anything. Now they came and went twice a month, dealt with her teacups, cleaned her bathrooms, their vacuuming and dusting causing Remington to hide under her bed.
She tossed her phone in the top desk drawer. No time to play Words with Friends. Instead, she found her manuscript. Opened it.
Dianna wasn’t looking for love. Not now. Maybe never. All she had to do was convince Jeremy of that fact—and forget how he’d kissed her senseless last night—and there wouldn’t be any trouble.
Thirty-five words. Only seventy-thousand-plus words to read, rewrite, and then thirty-thousand words more while she figured out the rest of the book to satisfy her agent. Her editor. Her readers.
Writing had been reduced to a math problem. How many words did she have to produce? This wasn’t about falling back in love with characters, like Shannon had said. Of course, she had to write a happily ever after to ensure her readers were satisfied. That was one unchangeable rule of the romance genre.
The words in front of her were just that—words. Black consonants and vowels on a white page. No color.
She wasn’t looking for love either—in her life or in the pages of a story, even if she’d written it.


#



Joe tugged on his gray Broncos T-shirt. Grabbed the towel he’d dropped on his bed and dried his hair, so it stuck up all over his head. The alarm clock on the bedside table glowed 1:20 p.m. in bright red numerals, which meant he had ten minutes before Liza called. Just enough time to grab something to drink, maybe something to eat, before they discussed the manuscript he’d submitted to his publisher six weeks ago.
He’d turned in a good story. One of his best. He’d likely secured his “favorite client” status for another year.
He stuck one earbud in and then took the stairs to the main floor two at a time, sliding sideways into the kitchen. Opened the fridge and retrieved a cold bottle of water. Scanned the shelves that boasted a store-bought rotisserie chicken, eggs, packaged lettuce, low-fat milk, and a six-pack of Pepsi.
There. The remaining half of a cold cut sub he’d brought home yesterday. He could finish it before Liza called, unless she—
His phone vibrated in the side pocket of his sweatpants.
—called early.
He palmed the sandwich, the paper wrapper crinkling against his fingers, and dropped it on the kitchen counter. Pulled his phone from his pocket, answering so it went through his earbud. “You’re early.”
“Interrupting a brilliant writing streak, no doubt.”
“I’m eating.”
“Go right ahead.” Liza sounded bored. “It won’t be the first time you chewed in my ear.”
“Very funny.”
“You have the manners of a thirteen-year-old.”
“I know you love me.”
“Yeah, you’re my favorite client. You tell me that all the time.”
“Can’t let you forget.”
This was one of the reasons Joe liked having Liza as his literary agent. Talking to her was like talking to his sister—and that was one of the best compliments he could ever give Liza. His favorite person in his family was his younger sister, Abbie, not that he would ever admit that to his mom.
He bit into the sub, savoring the smoky, mildly spicy bite of ham, mortadella, capicola, and provolone cheese topped with shredded lettuce, tomatoes, and just the right amount of mayo and olive oil.
“Tell me the good news already.” Joe took a swig of water as he carried his phone and the remainder of the sub to his favorite chair in the living room, stretching out to continue the conversation. For Liza’s sake, when he turned on the flat-screen TV, he kept it on mute, only paying partial attention to whatever sports show was on ESPN. “They loved the manuscript, right?”
“Not exactly, Joe.”
“Wha—?” He choked on the wad of bread, cold cuts, and cheese. Sat up. Coughed. Wheezed.
“You okay?”
Joe grabbed the water bottle and took small sips. “What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”
“You know sales for your last three books have slipped.”
“Every author I know has struggled with sales numbers this past year.” Joe gulped more water. “Well, except for that romance writer who hasn’t even had a book out in the last few years . . .what’s her name?”
“Veronica Hollins?”
“That’s the one. But she can probably live off the royalties of her last two books alone for the rest of her life.”
“It’s interesting you mentioned Veronica Hollins.”
“Because?”
“After reading your manuscript, the editors suggested you should add more romance to the story.”
“There’s romance in the story, Liza.”
“Barely. No one holds hands. No kisses. It’s elementary school romance. You could cut the sexual tension with dental floss.”
“I write about espionage and double agents and—”
“I know what you write,” Liza interrupted him. “Your editor wants you to up the romance angle to pull in more female readers.”
“I have female readers.”
“Joe, I need you to listen to me. Really listen.” Liza’s voice lost any sense of humor. “Romance is the top-selling fiction genre. Women read romance. Recognize these two facts and add a strong romantic thread to your book and you will automatically reach more readers.”
“Wow.” Joe closed his eyes as he pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
This was not what he’d expected when Liza scheduled this phone call. He’d lost Liza’s favorite-client ranking. He’d do anything to improve his manuscript.
Almost anything.
Joe pointed the remote at the TV screen and turned off the muted sports show. Tossed the remote aside. “This isn’t a discussion, is it?”
“You and I are talking.”
“Liza.”
“This is me bringing you in on the discussion.”
“I turned in a good manuscript.”
“You did. The story is classic Tate Merrick. But this is about making your manuscript better. About reaching more readers.”
“I’ve been doing everything I can to connect with readers.”
“I know.” Liza’s voice was calm. Supportive. “We’ve endlessly brainstormed different ways to do that. You spent your own marketing dollars. But people are tired of war and political infighting. Readers want happier stories. They want romance.”
Joe huffed out a breath, paced the length of the room, searching for something—anything—he could say to change Liza’s mind.
“If you think about this for a minute, you’ll realize the idea has great potential.”
“There is a romantic interest in the book.” Now he was repeating himself.
“Again—we need you to make it stronger.”
“I’ve never read a romance in my life—not even something as basic as Cinderella.”
“Maybe that’s where you start.”
“As if I’m going to walk into the children’s section of the library—”
“Joe! If you keep being such a grouch, you’ll fall out of favorite-client status.”
He hadn’t already?
His award-winning author status was slipping through his fingers. He was as unsettled as if he were waiting to see if his first manuscript would be accepted by a publisher. Any publisher. Right now, it sounded as if Lethal Strike wouldn’t be published at all, not if he didn’t do what they wanted, which meant changing how he wrote his stories.
A few moments later, Liza signed off with a quiet goodbye.
This wasn’t the first time his life hadn’t turned out the way he planned.
Joe retreated to his office and collapsed in the chair behind his grandfather’s rolltop desk. He didn’t mind the disorganized bookshelves with books stacked however they came out of the packing boxes when he’d moved into the house near the Denver metro area five years ago. Fiction. Nonfiction. Even some textbooks from his favorite college classes. A large glass jar sat in the corner beneath the window, filled with all the pennies, dimes, nickels, and quarters he emptied out of his pockets at the end of the day.
No photos of Cassidy—of course.
No family photos.
He just didn’t do photos.
Awards, yes. Tangible reminders that he was a good writer. A successful writer. Not that he looked at them every day. Liza always let him know when he received some sort of accolade. He’d celebrate with a glass of good cabernet. Call Abbie so she could shout, “Bravo, brother!” Call his mom because he was a good son. Let her tell Dad because, well, he wasn’t impressed.
Never had been.
Never would be.
He couldn’t explain why he’d given up a “perfectly good career in the military” to write stories. To this day, despite the fact that he was thirty-four years old, his dad’s words echoed in his mind, no matter how many awards he racked up.
“You’re being irresponsible, but of course, I’m not surprised.”
Joe shoved away from the desk, walked out of his office, shutting the door with a decisive click.

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