It might be about my book.” She squeezed past him, careful not to brush against his hard body decked out in a supersoft shirt she’d enjoyed snuggling against on several occasions. “I can’t believe I’ll be working with an actual New York publisher. Beats the tiny astrology dating column I used to write.” She grabbed the phone and hit Answer Call before scurrying out the kitchen, through the tiny living room and into the only bedroom in the cottage. It was Rachel Stanford. She closed the door and exchanged hushed pleasantries over the phone with the only other person who’d read her fiction work. “Zoe, your article has sparked a lot of interest in your fans.” “I have fans?” She heard Rachel’s smirk over the phone in her tone. “You bet. And they’re hopeful you’re off on some sweeping romance in the rolling Welsh hills after reading your piece.”
