“Ryan’s a good guy. It’s just his mom . . .” I start to say. “Wait, why am I defending him? It is shitty. And I am hereby adding it to the growing list of shitty things he did. Do you know he sold his motorcycle without telling me? That might sound trite, but—”

“He sold the motorcycle he was riding when you two met?” Noah shakes his head. “The motorcycle that was the origin of your story?”

“That’s exactly what I said!” I say. “I loved our rides. Then Ryan just got rid of it and acted like I was crazy for caring.”

Noah toys with the tab on his beer can. “After my ex and I split up, a long time passed before I let myself get angry. I guess, subconsciously, I knew it was a slippery slope. I had this idea that I should be better at relationships than the average guy, because of what I write. Which, I learned, is false. Just because I can write love stories, doesn’t mean I can live them.” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh, and through it, I see a tenderer part of Noah Ross. “Once I let myself accept that, I realized our relationship was pretty toxic from the start.”

“When did you break up?” I say. Who was this woman? What did she do? Where was she from? What did she look like? How serious were they?

“About a year and half ago,” he says, looking away.

My brain accidentally does some math, and I realize this would have been right after he finished writing Two Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows. That is, the last thing Noa Callaway wrote.

“Oh, don’t do that,” he says, reading my mind. “She is not the reason I’ve been blocked.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” I say, letting him know with my eyes that I’m teasing.

“Maybe she was a tiny contributing factor. At first.” He shakes his head. “What am I doing? You’re the last person who wants to hear this.”

“It’s okay—”

“It’s not. I don’t want to worry you. You came up with this grand plan to get me writing again, and I’m up for it. I think . . . it’ll work out. I know your job is on the line and everything. So please, Lanie, don’t worry.”

“Sure.” I nod. I’m surprisingly not worried. Inside, I feel reassured. For the first time, I can see the human heart that’s written Noa Callaway’s books.

Suddenly, I don’t just want this next book for my career, or for Peony’s bottom line. I want it for Noah, too.

“You want to see something that will make you laugh?” I say.

When he looks up at me, glad for the change of subject, I reach into my box and gather the courage to show him my Ninety-Nine Things.

Chapter Twelve