“Yes. He was a jet fighter pilot in the Air Force, but I think he always had a love of people and what made them tick the way they did. A curiosity. You’d see it in the characters he wrote so richly about in his books.”
“What did he write?” Roan put on an oven mitt and drew out the tray of biscuits. He set it on a trivet next to the stove and pulled down a straw basket. Without a word, Shiloh came over and quickly took a spatula and transferred the golden-brown biscuits to the basket. Roan smiled a little to himself. She was a team person. That was another box ticked off in his world of people. He’d always been a team player in the A-team. Everyone relied on everyone else. They all had specialties and, as a group, they were powerful. Shiloh took the biscuits over to the table and then went to the fridge and found the butter.
“My dad wrote military thrillers. His first book went number one on the New York Times Best Seller list.”
“And how many did he write before he passed?” Roan pointed toward the plates on the table. Shiloh must have read his mind and understood what he wanted without even saying it. Which shook him. She brought the plates over so he could put a sizzling steak on each one of them. It wasn’t lost on Roan that she’d accurately pieced together what he wanted. That was pretty amazing to him.
Taking the two plates, Shiloh set them on the table. “He wrote four books. Every one a best-seller.”
He could hear the pride and the sadness in her voice. And when he looked into her eyes, Roan saw how much Shiloh still missed her father.
Turning off the stove, he removed the skillet from the burner. “When did you start writing?”
Shiloh was shocked when Roan came over and pulled out the chair for her to sit on. That was right: He was old-fashioned. But her heart skittered with pleasure over his thoughtfulness. Now, he looked like a gallant knight to her, scarred, hardened by many battles, seeing too much and yet surviving.
“I started writing when I was six, believe it or not. My Dad used to have me read what I wrote to him. He always praised me and that’s probably why I kept at it.” She unfolded the white linen napkin and spread it across her lap. Everything looked so good on the table and she was salivating, hungry for the first time in a long time.
“Did you get published because of your father’s work?” Roan wondered, spooning heaps of corn onto his plate.
“No. That doesn’t happen in publishing,” she said, taking the bowl from him. Their fingers met, warmth skating up into her hand. Shiloh watched as he lobbed tablespoons of butter onto the steaming corn. Did the man worry about cholesterol? Apparently not. Roan was in fit, athletic condition. It was usually those who were overweight, not getting exercise, and had a genetic predisposition, who had to worry, instead. “I published at eighteen, which is very young, really.”
“Your father’s publisher?”
“No, they weren’t interested in women’s romance. I went to another publisher who was.”
“And did you mimic your father’s success?” He saw pink come to her cheeks.
“Yes, I did. My first book was a runaway best-seller. Sure surprised me. Surprised the publisher, but believe me, we were both happy about it.”
“And how many books have you got in print?” Roan watched the way her mouth moved as she chewed a small piece of the steak. It sent a pang of need through his lower body.
“I’m twenty-nine now, and I’ve been writing two books a year.” Until the last six months. Shiloh’s stomach tightened. She’d hit a dry spell. A writer’s block. And she was too ashamed to confide it to Roan, even though he seemed sincerely interested in her career. Just having him sitting next to her, the breadth of his shoulders, that craggy profile, those glittering, intelligent gray eyes, excited her as no man ever had. A couple of recently dried strands of Roan’s dark brown hair dipped over his furrowed brow. He ate heartily, the expression on his face one of a man enjoying everything he put into his mouth. Shiloh tried not to stare at his mouth.
Everything about him shouted to her that he was a man in charge. A leader. Not a follower.
“That’s impressive. I couldn’t write one book, much less two a year.” Roan wasn’t going to denigrate her writing romances. He could see she loved what she did. Following in her father’s footsteps, but still being original and an individual. He finished off his steak in no time. The basket of biscuits went pretty quickly too. The type of hard, physical work he did daily, he tucked away a good five to ten thousand calories a day to make it happen.
“I think,” Shiloh said, “it’s in your genes. I hear the argument that writers are made or they’re born with the skill. And I really feel at this point, it’s an inner thing, a genetic ability. I know my father passed it on to me.”