Page 67 of The Write Midlife

“Oh come on,” she teased, her fingernail circling the surface of his hard chest, "I'd say that was a successful editing session."

Nate chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and into her. "Very thorough. I especially enjoyed your hands-on approach to character development."

She propped herself up, grinning down at him. "Oh? And which character were you developing, exactly?"

"I was thinking we could workshop the male lead. He seems a bit... stiff."

"Stiff? Really? That's the best you can do?"

He shrugged, pulling her back down for a kiss. "Cut me some slack. You've thoroughly scrambled my brain."

As they lay there, trading lazy kisses and terrible puns, Melody felt a sense of contentment she had never experienced before. It wasn't just physical satisfaction—though that was certainly part of it. It was a deeper connection, a meeting of minds and hearts.

But as the afterglow faded, reality started to creep back in. What did this mean for them? For their working relationship? For the book?

Seemingly hearing her thoughts, Nate tightened his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "We'll figure it out," he murmured. "Together."

She nodded, and she pushed her worries aside for now. They had overcome so much already—surely they could handle this new development.

As they reluctantly disentangled themselves and started to dress, the stirrings of panic began to swell inside his chest.

But looking at Nate, seeing the warmth and affection in his eyes, the fear she thought she’d feel didn’t come.

Now they just had to figure out how to explain the, uh, creative process behind their latest revisions to the board. Something told her "We keep getting kinda naked in Nate’s office for research purposes" might not go over too well.

Oh well. They were writers. They would come up with a good story.

THIRTY-SIX

The soft humof Nate's computer fan was the only sound in the room as he sat in his office, the glow of the monitor illuminating the cluttered desk in front of him. It was well past midnight, but his mind was tiring itself in circles, sleep far from his thoughts.

Melody and he had been working tirelessly for weeks, not just on her manuscript, but on building something new and exciting within Carlisle Publishing. Their collaboration had been intense, both professionally and personally. They had been spending nights together, their passion for each other mirroring the passion they poured into her work.

But tonight, Melody was at some sort of pasta class with Hannah, and Nate found himself alone, staring at a series of emails that he had been neglecting for…more interesting things. Or, rather, one interesting thing.

His eyes scanned the emails on his screen for the hundredth time, each word landing like a stick of dynamite inside his body. He had stumbled upon this thread by accident—a misdirected email that landed in his inbox instead of his father's. What he found made his blood run cold.

"This can't be right," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. But the words didn't change.

There, in black and white, was evidence of his father's systematic attempts to undermine their new publishing approach. Emails to board members, spinning their progress negatively. Correspondence with rival publishing houses, hinting at the possibility of poaching their authors.

And worst of all, communications with movie studios, suggesting changes to Melody's book that flew in the face of everything they had been working towards.

Nate leaned back, his chair creaking in protest. The weight of betrayal settled on his chest like a lead blanket. How could his father do this? After everything they had accomplished, after seeing the potential in their new approach?

His eyes fell on that photo of the two of them, and his hands balled into fists. The contrast between that image and the reality revealed in these emails made his stomach churn.

He stood up abruptly, his chair rolling back and hitting the wall with a thud. He couldn't sit here and stew in this anymore. He needed answers.

The halls of Carlisle Publishing were deserted at this hour, his footsteps echoing ominously as he made his way to his father's office. He knew his father would be there—he always worked late, a habit Nate used to admire.

He didn't bother knocking. He pushed the door open, the hinges groaning in protest.

His father looked up from his desk, surprise flickering across his face before he schooled his features into his usual impassive mask.

"Nathaniel," he said, leaning back in his chair. "To what do I owe this late-night visit?"

Nate strode forward, slapping a printout of the emails onto his desk. "Care to explain this?"