I'm digging into the first of my Korean BBQ wings when there's a ping in my inbox. When I open up the message, I read the name of the attached doc before anything else: Roz_TAKE_TWO_ROMCOM_draft1.docx.

I click on it before reading the rest of the message, just to see how long it is. There's a title page there, one that reads "IT MAY TAKE TWO" in bold, all-caps font, with "Rosalind Lindbergh, 75,687 words" beneath it. I fight the urge to caress my laptop screen with BBQ-smudged fingers and instead close out of the doc to read the short body of Roz's email.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: My Goddamn Book >:))))))

Hi, Marcella, thank you again for agreeing to be the first pair of non-Catalina eyes on this draft. A quick summary to kick things off for you, I suppose, just so you aren't going in blind:

Noelle Hopkins, a successful executive producer, would rather die than be forced to work with her ex-girlfriend, Hollywood starlet and notorious diva Faye Windsor. But when Noelle's career goes off-track, her only option is to accept a position working alongside Faye—whom she'd promised she'd never speak to again. It sticks them in a small lakeside town because I like those vibes? The two grow closer, then ... sparks. Or something. (That's all I have for a summary, I'm so sorry.)

Like I said, be brutal!!!!! I NEED it. This draft needs it. (I kind of hate it.) (Cat says she loves it but she's too nice sometimes y'know???) Feel free to type up your notes, however. We can reconvene on Monday and discuss your feelings, no matter how far you got. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts!

Best,

Roz

I try to calm my breathing, dipping a second chicken wing into a tiny bowl of ranch. It leaves behind streaks of reddish-brown sauce amongst the white. I take a distracted bite. This is Rosalind Lindbergh's twelfth book. Here. In my inbox. Granted, it's a first draft, and, based on what Roz said to Catalina at Café Crotchety last week, it's not as clean as her usual draft. But I'm still hopeful. This is like an inside look at a process I never thought I'd be able to be a part of.

I'm basically holding Roz's brain baby in my hands.

I can't believe I'm supposed to rip this apart.

Maybe there'll be a lot for me to point out? I'm actually scared to scroll past the title page. To procrastinate, I download the document, then watch as it automatically opens in my laptop's ancient version of Microsoft Word. The load screen takes a minute to catch up, and then the title page loads. I fight back a frown. I'm more of a Google Docs girlie myself, but I don't feel like fighting with uploading anything to my drive today. (It may or may not be chock-full of half-written documents I've been accumulating since high school. She's struggling.)

Cautiously, like it might bite, I scroll down past the title page to the first page of Roz's brand new novel. Her romance.

Noelle Hopkins wasn't known for her patience. To be fair, she wasn't known for a lot of things. To list a few: her looks, her sense of humor, her fashionability. She was a plain thing amongst beautiful people, a piece of straw in a magpie nest. Really, there were only two things Noelle was known for: her uncanny ability to get shit done, and her notoriously bitchy ex.

I'm sucked into the first few chapters, to such an extent, that I forget I'm even supposed to be making comments and taking notes on anything. Nothing jumps out to me as being particularly bad. It's strange, having this raw look inside Roz's head. Her characters feel spikier than usual, like they have all these sharp, interesting edges that haven't been completely rounded out to work with the story yet.

Noelle is a fun main character, even when you're only experiencing her in third person limited. And her ex, Faye, is indeed exceptionally bitchy, but she's also strangely kind, like to the little old lady who sells tulips next to the pier where they're filming, or to the young children of the pretzel cart man. It's like Roz has this ability to dream up fully-formed people, then peel their layers back for her readers, exposing them like the stigma of a flower, one petal at a time.

I want to write like this. I need to write like this.

After I reach the end of chapter four, I move my set-up to the kitchen island stools and start back at the beginning, vowing to make comments and take actual notes this time. The document goes into suggesting mode, and I feel the background sounds in my mind turn to a comfortable static buzz as I hone in.

I'm just finishing up my notes on chapter nine (I've practically written a two-page essay for each chapter thus far, out of the seventeen Roz shared with me) when there's a startled gasp behind me.

I turn. I think I'm getting used to Roz sneaking up behind me, at least. "Hey, how's it going?" I ask her, before my eyes go wide.

This dress. Oh my god.

Roz wears a slinky red sheath dress with spaghetti straps and a slit that goes three-quarters of the way up her thigh. Her shiny heels are strapped around her ankles, and they give her a few inches that make her feel more intimidating than usual. Her hair is curled more deliberately than usual and blown out about her face, showcasing bronzed cheekbones and smoky eyes.

"What are you still doing here?" she asks, her hand pressed against her chest. When I continue to stare at her, confused, and maybe still a little dumbfounded by her dress, she adds, "It's well past five o'clock, Marcella."

Hearing her say my name, looking like that, feels like I'm experiencing some kind of fantasy I didn't know I had. "I, um—book? I was reading. Book."

"You've been reading It May Take Two? This whole time?"

I nod, numbly. I glance back at my laptop screen, flicking the trackpad up to reveal the clock. Which, holy shit. How is it already ten?

I've been doing this for, like, seven hours.

What the fuck.

Roz hesitates, then pulls out the stool next to me and sits down, gently crossing her ankles as she leans over the counter. She props her head up with her hand and elbow, and I note freshly deep red-painted nails poking through her thick curls. Her lips are red again as well, although this time a dark cherry, and I legitimately don't know what to look at without making it weird. How does it make sense that someone this beautiful can exist in real life?

"Are you headed to an event?" I ask her. I'm proud I manage to get it all out without stammering or anything, even though it feels like my heart stutters with each heavy, thudding beat.

Roz smiles wryly. "Clubbing," she says. "Catalina got us on the list to some new place. I'm mainly going to talk to Mauro, but I guess it's nice to be forced to take a shower every now and again."

"Ah." I nod. I don't remember the last time I went clubbing—nope, nope, I take that back. It was Gina's birthday in January. She wore a short, sleeveless dress that clung to her curves—no tights, no jacket, no nothing—and complained about the New York winter weather the whole walk back from the subway.

I had given her my fleece-lined denim jacket, which later ended up having to get washed, thanks to her watery, alcoholic vomit. No wonder I forgot about that. I'd stood off to the side the whole night, people watching, collecting ideas for characters and conflicts and connections that I might later pull together into some kind of book. Gina spent the whole night dancing front-to-back with her friends and refusing to look at me.

It's a miracle we were together for as long as we were. I can't believe I didn't see it before, honestly.

"So...." Roz starts, then stops, biting her lips before she continues. I try to save this look for later—this shy one, like I saw at the cafe last week. It's different for her. I like it. "What are you thinking thus far?"

"I love it," I tell her immediately. "It's amazing. Roz, you were made to write this book."

If she's blushing, her seemingly airbrushed layer of foundation hides it well. "You don't have to be nice. Really. I don't want you to hold back."

"I'm not. Believe me. I've written, like, fifteen pages of notes on just the first seven chapters, and I've left a shit-ton of comments on everything. I have my fair share of critiques, but the bones are there, Roz. I don't read a lot of romance, and I obviously haven't read the whole thing yet, but this beginning is as solid as any of your other books, if not more so."

"You ... you think so?" Fuck. Seeing her like this, looking so self-conscious for the first time ever, with one hand squeezing her curls and the other tugging on the hem of her dress as it tries to ride up on her thick thighs, makes my stomach twist.

"I know so. It's almost more intriguing right off the bat, because Noelle and Faye hate each other so much. The tension, the bantering, the inherent conflict—it's addictive. And, because it's a romance and we know they have to get together, it's even more enthralling, because it's like, what? They're terrible for each other. How is this going to work?"

Roz looks panicked for a second. "Do you think it's too far-fetched? Because—"

"No, no, I don't mean like that. They're complete foils of each other. Total opposites." I'm frowning, but I'm not upset; my hands are gesturing emphatically in front of me. "But you also show these little glimmers of hope that drive me fucking crazy. Like, Faye buying flowers from the tulip woman? Noelle giving her the croissant? It's perfect, Roz. Seriously. You're already doing an amazing job. I can't wait to read more."

"Wow." Her shy smile widens, and her shoulders straighten slightly. She sits upright, dropping the hand formerly furled in her hair to her lap. "Thank you, Marcella."

"Yeah, of course." I can hear my pulse whumping in my own ear. My throat is tight. Why am I so fucking nervous? "I'm sorry this isn't brutal. Or constructive, even."

"This is actually better. Thank you." She looks at her phone, then sighs. "Okay, I should get going. My Lyft is here."

She gets off the stool, surprisingly steady on her heels. They're way taller than usual, but they're wedged at the back instead of her usual kitten or stiletto heel, so maybe that makes them easier to walk in. Either way, when I slide off my own stool and stand before her, she's pretty much the same height as me. She walks around me and presses the elevator button, then turns back to face me. And all of a sudden, her expression is completely foreign.

We're staring directly into each other's eyes, our gazes intensely locked. The air between us feels staticky, somehow. Like it's brimming with potential energy, waiting for one of us to make a move.

"Marcie," she says, quietly. It's my name, sure. It's the name everyone uses for me. But somehow, hearing her use that instead of "Marcella" feels all the more intimate. It's strange. And the way she's looking at me—like she's trying to slide all the pieces of my puzzle into place, then maybe eat me—isn't helping.

Is she also thinking about how easy it would be to reach out, pull her into me, and press my lips against hers?

... Probably not.

"Thanks again," she says. "Are you ... heading out too?"

"Uh, you go first. I have to use the bathroom," I lie. Somehow, the idea of being trapped in an elevator with her right now doesn't feel wise. For either of us.

"I can wait," she offers, not breaking our eye contact.

I try not to gulp. I want to. But ... I shouldn't. "Nah, that's okay. Your Lyft is here. I'll see you Monday?"

She hesitates, then nods firmly, strutting over and grabbing her familiar black clutch from off the back of her couch. I try not to let my gaze linger on the way her hips sway as she walks. Then she straightens, flips her hair over her shoulders, and flashes me a winning smile.

"See you Monday, Marcella," she says as she passes by me, and then—my heart stops—winks.

The elevator doors open, and she steps into them, smoothing her dress over her hips as she goes. She casts one last look over her shoulder. "You're sure you want to wait," she says.

"Positive," I croak.

The doors slide shut behind her, and I literally have to steady myself against the kitchen island. Just: holy fuck, what was that?