Episode 2: Spellcheck Your Heart
1229 Words
I don’t normally panic over coffee dates.
Okay, I lied. I do. Especially when it involves someone whose books include lines like “His eyes burned with a need no flame could match.”
And now I was going to sit across from that guy—Chase Navarro, Mr. Romance Hero—while pretending this was totally professional and that my editor brain wasn’t screaming bad idea in twelve different fonts.
Still, I showed up.
9:55 AM. Monday. Half Past Brew Café.
I’d picked the location. Quiet. Cozy. No risk of heart-shaped latte art unless requested.
When I pushed open the door, I spotted him immediately.
Leather jacket. Casual black T-shirt. A smile like he was the main character of every swoony scene I’d ever crossed out for being “too unrealistic.”
“Max,” he said, standing up as if we were old friends or something. “You came.”
“You invited me.”
He grinned. “Still counts.”
I sat across from him and tried not to fidget. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m here for editorial purposes only. No swooning. No flirting.”
Chase put a hand over his heart. “Swear on my entire backlist.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Even the one with the shirtless vampire cowboy on the cover?”
“That book paid for my motorcycle.”
“You have a motorcycle?”
“No,” he said, laughing. “But it paid for my mom’s new bathroom tiles, and that’s close.”
Okay, I’d give him this—he was disarming. And annoyingly charming. And he looked at me like he already knew I’d argue with every sentence he wrote… and liked it.
“You said you wanted to talk edits,” I said, pulling out my tablet. “Let’s talk edits.”
He leaned back in his chair, sipping his Americano. “Do I get to defend my ‘darkening eyes’ line?”
“No,” I said flatly. “We’re cutting that.”
“But it’s dramatic.”
“So is a thunderstorm. Doesn’t mean I want it in every chapter.”
He laughed. “I like that you’re ruthless.”
I shrugged. “It’s my job.”
“Is it also your job to make me rewrite entire paragraphs?”
“Yes.”
He tapped his cup thoughtfully. “You ever think about writing your own?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve got voice, timing, and zero fear. That’s at least three things most writers would kill for.”
I felt my cheeks warm. “I’m not a writer. I edit. I fix other people’s messes.”
“But what if you didn’t have to fix them?” he asked. “What if you created one?”
I sipped my coffee to buy time. “Are you trying to turn this into a rom-com plot twist?”
He smirked. “Don’t tempt me. That’s Chapter 8.”
“Funny. I thought we were still in Chapter 2.”
He raised a brow. “You’re keeping track?”
“No,” I said quickly.
I was absolutely keeping track.
Two hours passed. We talked edits. Then writing. Then stories. He told me about his first rejection letter, framed and hanging on his office wall. I told him about the time I accidentally deleted an author’s whole manuscript and had to pretend it was “lost in the cloud.”
By the time we stood up to leave, I wasn’t sure what had happened.
I came in for coffee.
I left with something else buzzing in my chest.
At the door, Chase turned to me. “Hey… thanks for giving me a shot. Most editors don’t talk back. You do. It’s nice.”
I shrugged. “You make it easy.”
He held my gaze just a second too long. Then smiled. “See you in the margins, Max.”
The week that followed? A blur of edits and emails.
Chase:
“I rewrote Chapter 6 like you said. Less longing stares. More actual conversation. My characters are becoming emotionally literate. Are you proud?”
Me:
“Marginally. Still too many smoldering looks. Cut three.”
Chase:
“But the SMOLDER.”
Me:
“Pick a flame. Not a bonfire.”
I hated how easily the rhythm formed between us.
He wasn’t just funny—he listened. Every comment I made, he took seriously. He challenged me, asked questions, argued over phrasing with the intensity of a man trying to prove love was a four-letter word worth fighting for.
It wasn’t just banter. It was connection.
And I was in trouble.
One night, past midnight, I got another email. No manuscript. No edits.
Just this:
Chase:
Ever think typos happen for a reason?
If I hadn’t messed up that email, you never would’ve read my draft.
Just a thought.
Also, “manuscipt” is growing on me. Sounds like a magical sword.
– C
I stared at the screen.
Why did that message feel like a page turn?
The next time we met, it wasn’t at a café. It was at a book event.
Indigo Ink was hosting a reading, and Chase was one of the authors. supposed to be there—I preferred to hide behind pages, not podiums—but Jonas practically shoved me into a blazer and forced me into the crowd.
“There’s free wine,” he said. “And Chase will be there.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because you’ve been smiling at your laptop like a teenager with a crush for two weeks.”
“I have not.”
“You giggled.”
“I don’t giggle.”
“You did. During line edits.”
I glared. “Shut up."
The event was packed. Chase stood at the front, reading a scene from the new draft—our draft. I watched him scan the crowd, and when his eyes found me, his smile shifted into something softer.
Something just for me.
Afterward, he came over.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I’m contractually obligated to make sure you don’t say something wildly inappropriate.”
“That’s fair.” He hesitated, then leaned closer. “You looked good laughing in the back.”
My heart did something. A weird, fluttery skip. I tried to play it cool.
“You looked very authorly. No typos in your speech.”
“Miracles do happen.”
We stood there, surrounded by people and noise, but somehow in our own little silence.
Then he asked, “Do you wanna get out of here?”
And I said yes.
Not because of the wine. Not because of the lighting.
But because of him.
Because somewhere between red pens and rewritten chapters, I started to like the way he made the world feel a little more romantic… even for someone like me.
We walked. We didn’t go anywhere in particular. Just wandered the city, laughing about edits, arguing about fictional tropes, and talking about everything and nothing.
At one point, he said, “You’re not what I expected.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It’s the best thing.”
And just like that—no dramatic music, no slow-motion kiss—I realized I was in Chapter 3.
Of something that might actually be real.
- Writer
