Page 18 of The Write Midlife

"And what do you think, Nathaniel?" his mom asked, her blue gaze piercing. "Do you agree with your father's approach?"

He hesitated, torn between honesty and loyalty. "I... I'm not sure. I understand the need for commercial success, but reading Melody's work... it's different. It's real. Raw. The kind of stories that stick with you long after you've finished the last page."

A proud smile spread across his mom's face. "You sound like your grandfather. He always said that the best books were the ones that made you feel something, whether it was joy, pain, or everything in between."

"But how do you balance that with the need to, you know, actually sell books?" Nate asked, voicing the question that had been plaguing him.

His mom reached across the table, patting his hand. "That, my dear, is the eternal struggle of publishing. But I'll let you in on a secret: the most successful books, the ones that stand the test of time, are often the ones that dare to be different."

Nate thought of Melody's fierce defense of her work, the passion in her eyes as she talked about her characters. "So you think I should support Melody's vision?"

"I think," his mom said carefully, "that you should trust your instincts. If you believe in her work, fight for it. Guide her, certainly—every author needs a good editor. But don't try to change the essence of what makes her writing special."

He leaned back in his chair, processing her words. "Dad won't like that."

"Your father doesn't like a lot of things. That doesn't mean they're not worth doing."

They spent the rest of dinner swapping stories—his mom regaling him with tales of Carlisle's early days, of authors whosewild ideas turned into cultural phenomena, of the risks and rewards of believing in a writer's vision.

As the evening wound down, Nate found himself seeing Carlisle Publishing—and his role in it—in a new light. His mom walked him to the door, pulling him into another hug.

"Remember, Nathaniel," she said softly, "a good book can change a person's life. As an editor, you have the power to bring those books into the world. Use that power wisely."

He nodded. “Thanks, Mom. For everything."

As he drove home, his mind raced with possibilities. He thought of Melody—her passion, her talent, her infuriating stubbornness. For the first time since their disastrous meeting, he felt a spark of excitement about working with her.

Tomorrow, he would approach their relationship differently. Not as Nathaniel Carlisle, heir to a publishing empire, but as Nate, an editor who believed in the power of a good story.

He pulled into his driveway, a plan already forming in his mind. It wouldn't be easy, balancing Melody's creative vision with the company's commercial needs. But if he could pull it off, it could be the making of both of them.

NINE

The next morning,Melody stood outside Nate's office, her manuscript clutched to her chest like a shield. The memory of their last disastrous meeting still burned in her mind, but Hannah's words echoed too: "Give him a chance." With a deep breath, she knocked on the door.

"Come in," Nate's voice called from inside.

She stepped into the office, immediately struck by how different it felt from their last encounter. Gone was the sterile, corporate vibe. Instead, the space was warm, filled with books and... was that the faint scent of coffee?

Nate looked up from his desk, his blue eyes meeting hers. For a moment, she was transported back to that night at the party, the electricity between them palpable. She shook off the memory, reminding herself why she was there.

"Melody," he said, standing. "Thanks for coming. I was hoping we could start fresh."

"Fresh? As in, forget that you're the guy who ghosted me after a one-night stand, or forget that you want to turn my book into 'Romance for Dummies'?"

Nate winced, but she caught a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "How about we forget both and focus on the fact that we're two people who are passionate about good storytelling?"

“Ah, not a bad way to start, Carlisle.”

He grins, gesturing to a comfortable-looking armchair. "I try. Coffee?"

She nodded, settling into the chair. "Black, two sugars. And don't think bribing me with caffeine will make me any less likely to fight for my artistic vision."

Nate chuckled as he poured the coffee. "Wouldn't dream of it. Your fire is part of what makes your writing so compelling."

She blinked, surprised by the compliment. "You... you really think my writing is compelling?"

He handed her the coffee, their fingers brushing briefly. She ignored the little jolt that ran through her at the contact.