Read, Write, Love (Love in Bloom: The Remingtons, Book 5) Contemporary Romance by Melissa Foster Page A

and a sister. We’re all pretty close. I meet them for drinks about once a month, and we all have dinner with our parents every few weeks. You?” he asked.
    “Mm-hm. Three brothers and a sister.” She stole a glance at him, and he draped his arm around her shoulder.
    “I’m not going to judge you, you know. Not that you have to tell me anything, but I can see you’re worrying about something.” He kissed the side of her head. “I like who you are.”
    “You might not after you get to know me better.” She held her breath, and when he squeezed her shoulder, she relaxed a little. They made their way back to the blanket, and Kurt tied Pepper’s leash around his ankle.
    “Sit,” he told Pepper. Pepper lay down with his head on his front paws.
    “I still can’t believe you can get him to do that.” She held the plastic wineglasses as he filled them.
    “I think it’s all in the voice. My father used that trick with us. You know, the one tone that had you shaking in your shoes.”
    “I guess, but my dad never used that with us.” She watched him closely, looking for signs of his wishing he were elsewhere.
    He leaned his elbows on his knees, and for a few minutes there was only the sound of the waves.
    “I’m not thinking about writing, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
    “What makes you think I’m wondering anything at all?”
    He turned to look at her and smiled. “You’ve got an assessing look in your eyes. When you look at me, you’re kind of sizing me up, or weighing what you should or shouldn’t say. I can feel it.” He took a sip of wine. “Am I wrong?”
    She traced the line of a muscle up his arm. “No. You’re right. Here’s the thing. I’m twenty-eight, well educated, well traveled, and besides being with Pepper, I’ve never found a single thing that I knew without a doubt was right for me. I’ve gone through eight jobs in the last two years. I’ve moved to three states in four years, and my Sweet Treat business is my latest effort in finding a fulfilling career. And I know that’s totally not the type of person you are, so I was a little afraid to tell you.”
    He nodded and took a sip of wine. Then he wrapped his arm around her. She snuggled in against his warm, muscular body, one arm draped across his stomach, her head against his chest and arm, and she waited for him to say something. Anything. For the longest time, he was quiet. He was careful, she realized. Words were his life, and he seemed to choose the most meaningful words, or the ones that most accurately reflected his thoughts. Another thing to add to her Like List.
    When he finally spoke, his tone was thoughtful and tender.
     “Sometimes it’s the interest we take or don’t take in things that makes them fulfilling—or not.”
    “I’m not sure I follow.”
    “Well, like with writing. If I wrote about characters or topics I didn’t enjoy, writing wouldn’t hold my interest. But writing is such a personal endeavor that I make a conscious effort to write about the things that do hold my interest. I break the rules. My work isn’t formulaic, and if people don’t like what I write…” He shrugged. “They don’t have to read it, but at least I’m happy while I’m writing.”
    “But not every job is like that.”
    He set down his wine and turned to look at her. “Tell me about your business. Why did you choose it? Do you enjoy what you’re doing?”
    “I love what I’m doing. It’s creative and fun, and I get to meet a lot of interesting people. I have flexible hours. I mean, I really love it, and I know that’s weird, because I’m just making jam.”
    “Just? I couldn’t make jam. And you’re not just making jam; your jam is incredibly sweet.” He leaned over and kissed her. “I’m dying to know how you chose that path.”
    “It’s kind of weird, I think. There was this really sweet old man, Al Black, and he used to sell jam at the flea market. We were friends for years. I was just a kid