Chapter 5: The First Draft

Ben stared at his laptop screen in disbelief. For the first time in months, the cursor wasn't mocking him—it was practically dancing across the page as words flowed from his fingers with an ease he'd almost forgotten was possible. But these weren't the carefully constructed, emotionally distant sentences of his literary fiction. These were... different.

"You're impossible," Sophia snapped, her green eyes flashing behind her reading glasses as she clutched the book to her chest like armor. "Absolutely, completely impossible."

Marcus raised an eyebrow, that infuriating smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Impossible? Or just unwilling to pretend that formulaic drivel counts as literature?"

"There it is again!" Sophia threw her free hand up in exasperation. "That condescending, pretentious attitude that makes me want to throw every romance novel in this library directly at your thick skull."

Ben paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. The dialogue was sharp, crackling with tension, and the characters felt... real. More real than any protagonist he'd created in years. Marcus, the cynical literary writer with his defensive snobbery. Sophia, the passionate librarian with her fierce intelligence and unwavering belief in the power of love stories.

He knew exactly where the inspiration had come from, and the realization made his stomach flutter with something between excitement and terror.

It had been two weeks since he'd started Clara's reading list, two weeks since he'd helped plan Arthur and Eleanor's perfect first date (which had gone beautifully, according to his grandmother's glowing reports). Two weeks of discovering that everything he thought he knew about romance novels was embarrassingly wrong.

"The Coffee Shop Connection" had been a revelation—witty, emotionally complex, with character development that put some literary fiction to shame. The historical romance had made him stay up until three in the morning, completely absorbed in a love story set against the backdrop of World War II. And the romantic suspense had him on the edge of his seat, marveling at how seamlessly the author wove together mystery, danger, and a slow-burn romance that felt absolutely inevitable.

But it wasn't just the books that had inspired this sudden burst of creativity. It was Clara herself—the way she'd defended romance with such passion, her genuine joy in matching readers with the perfect story, the soft expression on her face when she'd watched their grandparents plan their first date. The way she'd looked at him with surprise and something that might have been respect when he'd suggested the library setting.

Ben returned to his manuscript, the words continuing to flow:

"You know what your problem is?" Sophia stepped closer, and Marcus caught the faint scent of vanilla and old books that seemed to follow her everywhere. "You're so afraid of feeling something real that you've convinced yourself that emotion equals weakness. That happiness is somehow less worthy than despair."

Marcus felt his jaw tighten, that familiar defensive response rising in his chest. But something about the way she was looking at him—not with pity or condescension, but with genuine frustration and maybe even disappointment—made him pause.

"Maybe," Sophia continued, her voice softening slightly, "if you actually tried to write something that made people feel hopeful instead of hopeless, you'd remember why you wanted to be a writer in the first place."

Ben sat back, his heart racing. The scene was charged with tension, but underneath the conflict was something else—an undeniable attraction, the kind of electric connection that happened when two people challenged each other in exactly the right way.

He was writing a romance. An actual, honest-to-God romance novel, complete with banter and sexual tension and two characters who were clearly destined to fall in love despite their fundamental differences.

And it was good. Better than good—it was the best thing he'd written in years.

The story had started as an exercise, a way to understand the mechanics of the genre Clara loved so much. But somewhere in the process of crafting scenes between Marcus and Sophia, Ben had found himself genuinely invested in their relationship. He cared whether they would overcome their differences. He wanted them to find their happily ever after.

More than that, he was enjoying the writing process in a way he hadn't experienced since college. There was joy in crafting dialogue that sparkled, in building romantic tension that made his own pulse quicken, in creating characters who felt like real people with real emotions and real stakes.

Ben scrolled back to the beginning of what he'd written—nearly thirty pages of what could only be described as a contemporary romance novel. The plot was familiar: a cynical literary writer meets a passionate librarian, they clash over the value of genre fiction, circumstances force them together, and slowly they begin to see past their preconceptions to the real people underneath.

It was, he realized with a mixture of amusement and horror, basically his and Clara's story. Fictionalized, dramatized, and given the kind of romantic arc that only existed in... well, in romance novels.

The rational part of his brain was screaming warnings. This wasn't serious literature. This wasn't the kind of work that won prestigious awards or earned respect from literary critics. His agent would probably have an aneurysm if he saw it.

But the part of Ben that was still that boy reading under the covers with a flashlight—the part that had been dormant for far too long—didn't care about any of that. This story felt alive in a way his "serious" work never had. These characters mattered to him. Their happiness mattered to him.

Before he could lose his nerve, Ben opened a new email and attached the first chapter.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Professional Opinion Requested

Clara,

I hope you don't mind me reaching out like this, but I could use your professional expertise. I've been working on something new—a departure from my usual style—and I'd value your opinion on whether it works. As someone with extensive knowledge of the romance genre, you'd be able to tell me if I'm completely off base or if there's something here worth pursuing.

I know this is an unusual request, given our... rocky introduction. But after seeing how much joy these stories bring to our grandparents, and after completing your reading list (which was, I'll admit, far more enlightening than I expected), I'm starting to understand what I've been missing in my own work.

Would you be willing to take a look at the attached chapter and let me know what you think? I promise it's not another literary fiction meditation on urban alienation.

Thank you for your time, and for opening my eyes to a genre I was too stubborn to appreciate.

Ben

P.S. - Eleanor tells me Arthur finished the second-chance romance you recommended and has been asking when the two of you can discuss it. I think you've created a monster.

Ben read the email three times, each time finding new reasons to delete it instead of sending it. What if Clara thought he was mocking the genre? What if the writing was terrible? What if she recognized herself in Sophia and felt uncomfortable about it?

But then he thought about the way she'd looked when she'd talked about connecting readers with the right stories, the passion in her voice when she'd defended romance novels against his dismissive attitude. If anyone would give him an honest, constructive opinion, it would be Clara.

He hit send before he could change his mind.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of nervous energy. Ben found himself checking his email obsessively, alternating between hoping for a quick response and dreading Clara's reaction. He tried to work on other projects, but his mind kept returning to Marcus and Sophia, to the scene he'd been writing when he'd stopped to email Clara.

It wasn't until evening that his phone chimed with a new message.

From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Subject: Re: Professional Opinion Requested

Ben,

I just finished reading your chapter, and I have to say—I'm shocked. In the best possible way.

This is nothing like what I expected from you (no offense). The dialogue is sharp and natural, the characters feel real and complex, and the romantic tension is absolutely perfect. Sophia is intelligent and passionate without being preachy, and Marcus is cynical and difficult without being irredeemable. The banter between them practically crackles off the page.

More importantly, it's clear that you understand what makes romance work—it's not just about two people falling in love, it's about two people becoming better versions of themselves through that love. You've set up a dynamic where both characters will have to grow and change, which is exactly what the best romance novels do.

I have a few notes about pacing and some suggestions for deepening the emotional stakes, but honestly? This is really, really good. Professional quality good. I found myself wanting to know what happens next, which is the highest compliment I can give any story.

Are you planning to continue with this? Because if you are, I'd love to read more.

Also, yes, you're absolutely right about Grandpa Arthur. He's becoming quite the romance expert. Eleanor mentioned that the two of them are now planning to start a actual book club at Sunset Gardens. You've definitely created monsters—adorable, literature-loving monsters.

Clara

P.S. - Please tell me Marcus doesn't stay stubborn and obtuse for the entire book. Sophia deserves better than that.

Ben read Clara's email three times, his heart pounding harder with each pass. She liked it. More than liked it—she thought it was good. Professional quality good.

The relief was overwhelming, but it was quickly followed by something even more powerful: excitement. Clara wanted to read more. She was invested in Marcus and Sophia's story, concerned about their character development, eager to see how their romance would unfold.

Ben opened his laptop and returned to the story, Clara's words echoing in his mind. The romantic tension is absolutely perfect. Professional quality good. I found myself wanting to know what happens next.

For the first time in months, Ben knew exactly what happened next. Marcus would continue to resist his growing feelings for Sophia, convinced that his attraction to her was somehow beneath him. Sophia would challenge him at every turn, forcing him to confront his own prejudices and fears. And slowly, inevitably, they would discover that their differences weren't obstacles to overcome but complementary strengths that made them better together.

It was a classic romance arc, the kind of story structure Clara had tried to explain to him weeks ago. But now, instead of feeling formulaic, it felt like a promise—a guarantee that these characters he was growing to love would find their way to happiness.

Ben began typing, the words flowing even more easily than before. He had a reader now, someone who understood what he was trying to create and wanted to see how the story would end. Someone who believed in Marcus and Sophia's potential for growth and happiness.

Someone who, if he was being honest with himself, was beginning to feel less and less like just a reader and more and more like an inspiration.

As the night deepened and the story continued to unfold on his screen, Ben allowed himself to wonder what Clara's face had looked like when she'd read that first chapter. Had she smiled at the banter? Had she felt the same flutter of excitement he'd experienced while writing the romantic tension?

And more importantly, had she recognized herself in Sophia's passionate defense of love stories? Had she seen the way he was beginning to see her—not just as a librarian who happened to love romance, but as someone who understood something fundamental about human nature that he was only just beginning to grasp?

Ben pushed the thought away and focused on his story. There would be time later to analyze his growing feelings for Clara Evans. Right now, he had a romance to write, and for the first time in his career, he was writing something that felt like it mattered.

Something that felt like truth.