Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Sometimes I think I should just go back to what I know. Teenage drama and impossibly cool, magically powerful book boyfriends. But I started writing that series when I was sixteen, and now I’m almost twenty-four. I want to let my characters grow up, too. To swear and fight and have as much dirty, kinky sex as they want.
But my last boyfriend’s words still live rent free in my brain, like a squatter I'm powerless to evict, making me doubt everything I write. Because no matter how much of a jerk he ended up being, he hit me right where it hurt when I told him my plans.
“Really, Lo? You’re so vanilla it’s funny. You can’t even say the word ‘cock’ without blushing. I thought authors were supposed to write what they know.”
Frustrated, I slam my laptop shut and march to the kitchen, intent on a caffeine injection. While I fire up the coffee machine, I tap Grace's number on my phone and put it on speaker. As my best friend, she’s read everything from the insane stories I wrote about my Sims' lives when I was ten, to the cringeworthy first drafts of what turned into my bestselling series. She's one of the few people I trust to give me an honest opinion.
It takes her a few rings but she eventually answers. “Hey, babe. Everything okay?”
“Please, tell me it's good.” I pull my favorite mug out of the dishwasher. The one Grams got me last Christmas with “A GOOD ROMANCE HERO IS HARD” in bold letters, and “to find” in lowercase underneath. “I really need to hear it’s not as bad as I think. Actually, one sec, the coffee machine is starting.”
I haven’t been in this house long enough to update much, so the kitchen is still straight out of the 1900s, but decent coffee is non-negotiable. I used my advance for two things, moving across the country, and a fancy coffee maker. Right on cue, the built in grinder fires up, the sound of beans being crushed making it impossible to hear anything for a good fifteen seconds.
When it’s done, I lean my butt against the deep, chipped porcelain sink in front of my kitchen window and wait for the brew to finish. “Okay. Go.”
“I need to get myself one of those machines. I deeply regret not asking for one in our wedding registry.”
“Pester Terry enough, and he'll get one. You've got him wound around your little finger.” Grace found the kind of love people like me write books about. Her husband Terry might not be six-foot-five, with a trust fund and a job in finance, but I've seen how he and Grace lean into each other, how they smile and throw little glances at each other, and how he's always there when she needs him. A real life romance hero, waving every green flag in the book.
“Maybe,” she agrees with a giggle. Followed by a sigh. “Okay, so about the book.”
Oh no. I know that tone.
“It's bad, isn't it?”
“No! Not bad, just…”
I shouldn't have called. Right now I need her to tell me that the chapter drafts I sent her are absolutely brilliant, the steamiest, sexiest, most compelling romance she's ever read. Not the truth.
“All the elements are there, but… It's missing your usual spark.”
Ouch.
I turn to stare out my kitchen window, not really looking at anything. “Maybe I should try a different genre. Cozy mysteries are popular.”
She laughs. “Lo, I love you, and I’d read anything you wrote, but do you really want to write mysteries?”
“Noooooooo,” I whine. “I love romance. Happy endings are the best.”
“Exactly. But you’ve been in a slump since he-who-shall-not-be-named. I totally get why you wanted a break, and then it was hard with your grandma dying, but you need to get back in the game or you’re going to forget why people love your books in the first place. Get out there, fall in love, or at least into bed a few times. Make it dirty!”
“Easy for you to say. You’re married,” I grumble. “Sorry. You know I’m happy for you guys. You’re my proof that happily ever after isn’t just for fiction. You’re both coming tomorrow, right? It’s nothing big. I just want to make dinner and—”
Grace laughs. “Stop. We wouldn’t miss it. This is the first birthday we can celebrate together since you moved back! Look, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll email you my notes on the first couple chapters. Maybe something there will help you get your spark back.”
I put down my phone and breathe in the scent of fresh coffee. Outside the kitchen, a breeze makes the bright spring green leaves rustle. Behind them, the wall around the motorcycle club is just visible, with the top of the old grade school peaking over it, and behind it, the church clock tower. From down here, you’d never know it’s full of bikers instead of little kids in plaid uniforms.