Page 69 of The Write Midlife

"Goodbye, Dad," Nate said, not turning around.

As he walked out of his father's office, out of the building that had been his second home for so long, a mix of emotions swirled inside him. Fear, anger, disappointment—but also a strange sense of liberation.

He had just burned bridges he never thought he'd cross. His future at Carlisle Publishing hung by a thread. And Melody...

God, how the hell was he going to explain this to her?

THIRTY-SEVEN

Melody thoughtit would be easier to write with sex on the brain. Turns out she was wrong on that account. The last forty-eight hours, Nate had been super busy. Some family stuff, apparently. And she had been tasked with doing what she could on the manuscript.

Except she couldn't do anything. Anything other than imagine Nate naked in his office.

Desperate to get back to work on the book, Melody decided to retreat to her own kitchen, in the hopes of not accepting coffee from a barista while in the middle of a particularly saucy flashback. This morning, the lack of caffeine in her system was the only thing keeping those damn daydreams at bay.

In fact, she was in the middle of a particularly intense battle with her cappuccino maker when her phone erupted into an obnoxious rendition of "Eye of the Tiger." Nate's ringtone.

Because nothing says 'publishing mogul' like an '80s workout anthem. And nothing says ‘stop writing the sexy novel you’ve been working on’ quite like your sexy novel-inspiration letting you know he’s thinking of you.

Melody bit her lip as she tightened her hold on her cell phone.

"Hey, stranger,” she practically purred as she answered, wedging the damn square between her ear and shoulder as she coaxed caffeine from the stubborn machine. She waited, but there was no answer. “Oh my God. Nate, if you're calling after all this time to critique my use of semicolons again, I swear I'll?—"

"Melody," Nate's voice cut her off, sounding strained and... was that a tremor she heard? "We need to talk."

The serious tone in his voice made her abandon her caffeine quest. "Nate? What's wrong?"

What followed was a torrent of words that made her head spin.

Nate recounted his confrontation with his father, each revelation feeling like an emotional implosion. By the time he finished, Melody was sitting on her kitchen floor, surrounded by the scattered remains of her coffee-making attempts.

"So let me get this straight," she said, trying to process everything. "Your father's been secretly sabotaging our work, you confronted him, and now you've basically been kicked out of the family business?"

"That about sums it up," Nate replied, his voice hollow.

Melody felt a wave of guilt wash over her. "Nate, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. If I hadn't been so stubborn about my book?—"

"Stop right there. This isn't your fault, Melody. My father's resistance to change has been building for years. Your book was just the catalyst."

"Great. So I'm not the cause, I'm just the straw that broke the camel's back. That makes me feel so much better."

Nate sighed. "Melody, please. I don't regret standing up for our vision. For your book."

His words warmed her, but the guilt lingered. "What are you going to do now?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I don't know. I meant what I said about starting my own publishing company, but... it's not going to be easy."

Melody closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his words. "Nate, maybe... maybe we should reconsider. I could make the changes your father wants. It's not ideal, but if it would fix things with your family?—"

"Absolutely not," Nate's voice was firm. "We're not compromising your vision. Not after everything we've fought for."

Melody wanted to argue, but the determination in his voice stopped her. "Okay. So what's our next move?"

"I need some time to figure things out," Nate said. "Can we meet tomorrow? There's a lot we need to discuss."

They agreed on a time and place, and as Melody hung up, her mind was whirling with possibilities and fears. She glanced at her laptop, where her manuscript sat open. The words that once filled her with excitement now seemed tainted by the drama they'd caused.

Before she could spiral further into guilt, she did what any sensible author would do in a crisis: she called her agent.