“You didn’t tell me the truth.”
“You knew I was a writer.” He glared across the room, his eyes unfocused. “You knew I had pen names.”
I sat on the stool at the counter, my mind spinning. “I can’t believe you’re Miranda Lockhart.”
Beckett shoved his glasses back in place, got up, and stalked toward me. Beckett was better-looking than any book boyfriend I could conjure. I imagined him bent over his keyboard, crafting his story. This man created art out of thin air. How much sexier could he get?
“You don’t believe me?” he asked. “You don’t think a man can write romance?”
I hopped off the stool. “Of course I think men can write romance. Just like I think women can write horror. What I don’t get is why you can’t own your work. Why do you have to hide?”
Beckett laughed. “You think they would welcome me at RomantiCon?”
“Why not?” RomantiCon was the most popular book convention for romance readers. Every year in Las Vegas, readers flocked to the convention from around the world.
“Have you been to RomantiCon?” he asked.
I shook my head. I never had enough money after I finished paying bills.
“The only men there are cover models,” Beckett said.
“What about those three brothers? The Luckys?”
Andrew, Charles, and Matthew Lucky had conquered the sub-genres of military, western, and rock star romance. They were famous examples of men who were breaking the romance industry’s stereotypes.
Beckett laughed. “Is that the best you can do?”
“I’m sure there are more examples, but my brain is a little fried right now.
“The Luckys aren’t men,” Beckett said. “Nor are they siblings. They are three women hoping to capitalize on a novelty.” Beckett pushed his glasses up on his nose. “No thanks. I’d rather be anonymous.”
I was stunned to find out that the Luckys weren’t male or even related. I felt betrayed.
“Why can’t everyone just be themselves?” I wondered.
“It’s not so easy for everyone,” Beckett said. “I’ve been groomed for a role in my family’s company since I was eleven years old. I’m expected to work for the family, not write novels. Romance or otherwise.”
“What about what you want?” I asked.
Beckett shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. My grandfather would turn over in his grave if he knew I wrote books. Especially those.” He pointed at the stack on my counter. “My mother would never look at me the same way again. Even Peppy doesn’t know, and she’s my favorite sister.”
Beckett’s voice rang out in my small apartment, full of anguish. The last of his words died away, resonating deeply within me. I knew what it was like to have a family who didn’t approve of you.
“Beckett,” I said, reaching for his hand. “I’m sorry.”
He looked startled for a moment, eyes flashing down at me as if he’d just surfaced from his rant. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“You shouldn’t have to lie or pretend. You should be proud of everything you’ve accomplished. You should claim your work.”
Beckett frowned, and he shook his head vehemently. “Never.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t tell anyone,” he said. His eyes avoided mine, staring down at our joined fingers. “I can’t believe I told you,” he said. “But I couldn’t take our relationship to the next level without telling you the truth.”
