Chapter 6: The The Jules Darcy Problem**

Chapter 6: The The Jules Darcy Problem

The kiss hung in the air between them long after Lena had fled Julian’s office. It was a ghost haunting their email exchanges, which had reverted to a stilted, excruciatingly professional tone. They talked about marketing timelines and subsidiary rights, discussing everything but the fact that he had kissed her with the desperate force of a drowning man, and she had kissed him back.

Lena spent two days in a state of agitated confusion. Her body still hummed with the memory of his touch, the shocking heat of his mouth. But her mind was racing, replaying the other earth-shattering revelation of that afternoon: Jules Darcy.

It was the key. The one thing that could cut through the mortifying awkwardness and put them on entirely new footing. The kiss had made her vulnerable; Jules Darcy had given her the power. She decided to use it.

Ignoring the pretense of their last email chain about font choices for the cover, Lena typed a new message.

Subject: Your Other Project

Julian,

I think we need to address the elephant in the room. And no, not that one. The other one.

Send me the Jules Darcy manuscript.

Lena

She hit send before she could second-guess herself. The reply came in under a minute, a testament to his own coiled anxiety.

I don’t know what you’re referring to.

Lena laughed, a full, hearty sound in her quiet apartment. He was a terrible liar.

Subject: Re: Your Other Project

Don't you? Let's be honest, we're stuck. You think my characters are unrealistic, and I think your edits are soulless. You can't fix my book if you don't fundamentally understand the assignment. So, consider this a diagnostic test. Let me see how the master of literary thrillers handles a meet-cute. Send it over, Croft.

It was a gamble, a direct challenge to his pride. For an entire day, there was only silence. Lena was starting to think she had overplayed her hand when, late the next evening, an email arrived. There was no subject line, no body text. Just a single attachment: Evergreen.docx.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She clicked it open.

The title page read: Evergreen, a novel by Jules Darcy.

As she began to read, a strange thing happened. Lena, the sharp-witted book blogger who could spot a lazy plot device from a mile away, was impressed. The prose was magnificent. Every sentence was a perfectly calibrated machine, elegant and precise. The structure was flawless, the pacing immaculate. The descriptions of the misty Pacific Northwest setting were so vivid she could almost smell the damp pine and taste the salt in the air. Julian Croft—or Jules Darcy—was, without question, a brilliant writer.

But as she read on, a hollowness began to bloom in her chest. The characters, a brooding botanist and a cheerful small-town librarian, moved through the perfect plot like exquisite chess pieces. They said all the right things, hit all the required romantic beats, but their interactions were utterly devoid of warmth. When the hero confessed a deep-seated fear, it sounded like he was reading a medical diagnosis. When the heroine laughed, the text described the sound, but Lena couldn't hear it.

It was a masterclass in the technical aspects of writing, and a complete failure of the heart. A beautiful, ornate music box that played no music. A perfect body with no soul. She finally understood Julian’s problem. It wasn’t that he looked down on romance; it was that he was terrified of it, approaching emotion with the cautious, detached air of a bomb disposal expert.

The next day, she requested a video call. This time, when his face appeared on her screen, framed by his stark white walls, Lena was the one in control.

“I read it,” she said, without preamble.

Julian’s expression was a careful mask of indifference, but his knuckles were white where he gripped his glass of water. “And?”

“It’s brilliant,” she said honestly. “The prose is breathtaking. It’s one of the most technically proficient manuscripts I’ve ever read.”

A flicker of relief, of pride, crossed his face before he could suppress it.

“And,” she continued, leaning forward, “it’s completely empty. It’s dead on arrival, Julian. I felt more romantic tension during my last dental cleaning.”

The mask shattered. He looked genuinely wounded. “The narrative arc is sound. The character motivations are clearly delineated—”

“You delineated them, you didn’t make me feel them!” Lena cut in, her voice softening slightly. She wasn’t trying to be cruel; she was trying to break through. “Your botanist, Alistair, is supposed to be tortured by his past. But he just comes across as grumpy and rude. Your librarian, Clara, is supposed to be a ray of sunshine, but she feels like a list of quirky traits. I don’t believe they like each other, let alone love each other. You built a perfect house with no people in it.”

He stared at the screen, his sharp intellect offering no defense against an emotional truth. He looked lost.

“The kiss,” Lena said quietly, finally addressing the first elephant. “In your office. That had more heat, more story, more heart in ten seconds than in this entire three-hundred-page manuscript. That’s what’s missing from Evergreen, Julian. And that’s what you keep trying to edit out of my book.”

The mention of the kiss sent a jolt of electricity through their connection. He looked away, his jaw working.

“So here’s the deal,” Lena said, pressing her advantage. “We’re going to trade. My book has a soul, but you’re right, some of the structure could be stronger. Your book is a perfect skeleton, but it needs a soul. So I’ll be your ghostwriter—or maybe your ghost-feeler. I’ll help you find the heart for Jules Darcy.”

He looked back at her, his blue eyes narrowed, suspicious. “And in return?”

“In return, you become a real editor for my book. Not a critic, an architect. You help me make the foundation stronger without tearing the whole thing down. You help me with structure, and I help you with feeling. We fix each other’s books.”

It was an insane proposal. But it was also the only path forward. A long silence stretched between their two apartments, a digital abyss filled with unspoken things.

“Fine,” Julian said at last, the word clipped, reluctant. But it was a yes.

Their collaboration transformed overnight. The formal emails ceased, replaced by a constant stream of texts and late-night calls. Their work bled into the twilight hours, the lines blurring not just between their books, but between themselves.

11:47 PM - Text from Lena: Alistair wouldn't just notice her dress. He'd notice the specific shade of blue reminds him of a rare flower he once discovered. Be specific. Emotion is in the details.

11:52 PM - Text from Julian: Acknowledged. In return, Chloe’s fight with her sister in chapter seven lacks stakes. What is she truly afraid of losing? Define it. Page attached with revised outline.

The calls were even more revealing. They would share screens, debating a line of dialogue until one in the morning, both of them in pajamas, hair messy, guards down. One night, while trying to unpack Alistair’s emotional constipation, Julian admitted something in a low voice.

“My father once said that sentimentality was the enemy of intellect,” he murmured, staring at something far beyond his sterile office. “I think I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove him right.”

Lena’s heart ached for him. “Well,” she said softly. “Your father was wrong.”

He looked at her through the screen, his expression raw and vulnerable. They weren’t just editor and author anymore. They were partners, confessors, two lonely people in separate apartments, building something together in the quiet, intimate darkness of the night.