The Road to Rose Bend, Naima Simone [jenna bush book club .TXT] 📗

to see her laptop in Cole’s hands. No. Horrified to see her laptop in his hands as he read the document she’d stupidly left open.

“Nothing.” She quickly set the tea on the coffee table and snatched the computer from him. Heart pounding, she minimized the novel and closed the top. The whole mantra she’d repeated to herself moments earlier about not being embarrassed or ashamed jumbled in her head.

“Nothing, huh?” He arched an eyebrow. “Scavengers on souped-up ATVs and undead carnivores. What? Are you writing a grant proposal for The Walking Dead, now?”

She flinched.

“Whoa, whoa. Wait.” He shifted on the couch, leaning forward, a frown marring his brow and concern darkening his amber eyes. “What was that about? I was only kidding.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, briefly closing her eyes. “I’m sorry.” She dropped her hand, meeting his gaze. “I guess I’m a little...oversensitive about...” Not able to say the words to him—because a part of her still didn’t trust opening herself up to ridicule—she waved in the direction of the laptop.

But she should’ve known Cole wouldn’t just leave it at that.

“What is that, exactly?” he pressed.

“You read enough to guess what it is,” she hedged, reaching for her tea again. Anything to deflect attention.

But he clasped her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers.

“Sydney.”

She scoffed, yanking her hand free and retrieving her tea before he could stop her again. “It’s nothing. Stop making such a big deal out of it,” she said, grasping for flippancy and landing on irritability.

“Then why are you making it one?” he asked quietly. “And why does the fact that you’re working on a sci-fi book embarrass you?”

“Urban fantasy,” she mumbled the correction. Then set the tea down again. Damn. At this rate, she would never get to drink it. Well, not before it lost all its heat. “I’m not embarrassed because I’m writing an urban fantasy novel. It’s you knowing that I’m working on it that I’m...uncomfortable with.”

Cole studied her for several silent moments. “Daniel.”

She grimaced and glanced away, unable to hold his unwavering stare. “Yes. No.” She blew out a breath, her hand fluttering in a nervous gesture. “I mean, it’s my fault, too. It was my responsibility to make my needs known. But it was just easier not to.”

“Remember when I asked you if it was a habit to accept the blame for others’ bad behavior? I also said it was one you needed to break. Baby girl—” he covered the hand that bunched the front of her skirt, halting the restless action “—if Daniel made you feel so embarrassed about sharing this with him, then that’s on him, not you. He must’ve done something to instill that in you. The blame is squarely on him if his wife couldn’t trust him with something important to her. You hid it from him, Sydney. And I know that because you’re still hiding it. That’s his shame, not yours. But I’m quickly coming to learn that your ex isn’t big on owning his shit. So, tell me about this.” He waved toward the laptop. “Trust me, baby girl.”

How did he dig right to the heart of the matter? How did he...see her so clearly, but couldn’t do the same for himself? Daniel had harmed her. And the emotional bruise had been so deep, she’d hidden part of herself away, afraid of being injured again. It was lonely living like that. And she didn’t want to be that person—afraid to trust, fearful of rejection—any longer. At least, not with this.

She parted her lips, but nothing came out. Apparently being brave didn’t just happen because you wanted it to. Licking her lips, she swallowed. Tried again. Forced herself to stop being such a chicken.

“In college, I started a book,” she said, finally. “It began as fan fiction for Resident Evil, but I kept expanding it until it was my own world, characters and story line. I was excited about it. I was proud of it.” A faint echo of that exhilaration and pleasure rippled through her. “I enjoyed grant writing, but the novel... It was my creative outlet, and as the world and the plot solidified, I started to dream about one day submitting it to publishers. I’ve always read books—it’s one of my joys—but I never allowed myself to envision seeing my book next to the authors I admired.”

She lifted her gaze to Cole’s face and glimpsed...what? Pity? Patronization? Humor? What would’ve been worst out of that trio? Didn’t matter, because she didn’t have to choose. His amber eyes held none of those. Just patience and understanding. No judgment. It bolstered her confidence to continue.

“One day not too long after we were married, I told Daniel about the book and shared a couple of chapters with him.” The memory of that impulsive decision still retained the power to burn her cheeks with humiliation and hurt. “He read them, then complimented me on my effort and initiative, but said that I was wasting my time on foolish projects. He told me to focus on the grant writing because I was good at it, and it would earn me money.”

“Insensitive fucker.”

“It’s just his—” She cut off the reflexive excuse she’d been about to make for Daniel. But then she frowned, remembering how his dismissive, thoughtless response had been a shitty thing to do, and snapped, “Yes, he was. He never asked about my dreams, about my hopes, my inspiration. Even if what I wrote was crap, he never encouraged me to improve. Hell, he’s a teacher, that’s what he’s supposed to do. He could support and inspire his students, but not his own wife. For years, I didn’t write after that. I did what he suggested. Put it aside. Was afraid to try again. All because I trusted the wrong person with my dreams.”

“Are you willing to trust again?” Cole asked, tangling his fingers with hers and gripping tight. As if he were attempting to infuse courage into her through physical contact.

The “no” leaped on her