Page 20 of The Write Midlife

As she gathered her things to leave, excitement and trepidation beat a quick tempo in her chest. This partnership with Nate could be the making of her career, or it could be a disaster waiting to happen. But one thing was for sure – it wouldn't be boring.

At the door, she turned back to Nate. "Same time next week?"

He nodded, still smiling. "It's a date. Uh, I mean, an appointment. A professional appointment."

She smirked, enjoying his flustered expression. "Smooth, Carlisle. Real smooth."

As she walked out of Carlisle Publishing, she knew that she was stepping into uncharted territory. Nate Carlisle was nothing like she expected, and working with him promised to be an adventure.

She pulled out her phone to text Hannah: "Meeting went well. Turns out Mr. Corporate might actually have a soul. And great taste in coffee."

Her reply came instantly: "Ooh la la. Should I start planning the wedding?"

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn't quite squash the little tip-tap in her chest. This was purely professional, she reminded herself. Just two people working together to create something beautiful.

But as she hailed a taxi, she couldn't help but wonder what other surprises Nate Carlisle might have in store.

TEN

The next morning,Nate leaned back in his office chair, flipping through his notes from the Melody meeting. Her passion practically leaped off the page, each scribbled idea a testament to her creative fire. A smile tugged at his lips as he remembered her animated gestures, the way her eyelids fluttered when they discussed character development.

"Well, well, Nathaniel," he mused aloud. "You're in deep, aren't you?"

Janet's call came as he was reviewing the latest numbers on Melody's previous books. "Your father wants to discuss the Archer project. He's waiting at the Madison Club courts."

Of course he is, Nate thought. The tennis club had been his father's preferred battleground since Nate was old enough to hold a racquet. Every major confrontation in his life had played out on those courts—college choices, career moves, failed relationships. His father believed you could tell everything about a man by how he played the game.

"Did he say when?" Nate asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Now." Janet's voice carried a note of warning. "And Mr. Carlisle, Sandra Kim is already there."

Perfect. Their Marketing Director never missed a chance to watch the Carlisle men go to war. Nate had lost count of how many times she had been the audience to their "friendly matches" over the years.

"Thanks, Janet. Clear my morning."

Thirty minutes later, Nate was crossing the club's pristine grounds, his six-foot-three frame casting long shadows across the perfectly maintained resin of the indoor court. Sandra Kim sat in her usual spot, designer tennis whites impeccable despite the early hour. Her presence wasn't an accident—she had been his father's most reliable ally since before Nate took over editorial.

"Nathaniel," she called out, her smile sharp as a paper cut. "Here to discuss quarterly projections?"

"Just a friendly game between father and son," Nate replied, though they both knew better.

His father was already on Court One, practicing his serve with the same precision he used to dismantle underperforming executives. Even at nearly 70, he moved with the economical grace of a man who had spent his life controlling every situation.

"You're late," his father said without turning around.

"Traffic was terrible." Nate set down his bag, pulling out his racquet. It was the same one he had used the last time they had a "friendly match"—right before he took over the financial department. He had won that day too. "Or maybe I was just reviewing Melody Archer's sales figures."

That got his father's attention. He caught the ball mid-bounce, finally turning to face Nate. "Interesting reading?"

"Very. Did you know her last book outperformed our supposedly 'safe' romance titles in the crucial 25-45 demographic?"

"Statistics can be manipulated, son." His father bounced the ball with metronomic precision. "Just like readers."

"Warm up first?" Nate asked, though he had been stretching since he arrived.

"Why bother? We both know what this is about." His father eyed Nate's racquet. "Best of three sets?"

“Of course. And I absolutely know what this is about. Every time you don’t like an author’s direction, you use the same ghostwriter band-aid. Someone to come in and rewrite every word.” Nate gripped the handle tighter, muscle memory from a thousand matches kicking in. “But why not make the game interesting this go-round? If I win, Melody gets complete creative control."