Page 9 of Foreplay on Words

Shit. I looked at the tiny clock in the corner of the cell phone before I held it back to my ear. I’d thought I was doing well on time, but obviously, I was not. She hated it when I went off her little itineraries.

At least it was simply meeting another author, not a book signing. My head would be on a pike if I were ever late for one of those again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I always know where my things are.” She laughed so loudly you’d think it was the funniest thing she’d heard all year. “Yeah, yeah. I’m hilarious. Laugh it up.”

“Hilarious—delusional—either one,” Is said in her usual dismissive tone.

“Was there a reason you’re bothering me?” Other than to point out how hopeless I was.

“Just wanted to confirm that you’d gotten the PDFs with the scenes Adrian pulled for you.”

They’d come through last night. To say that I was underwhelmed was being generous. Even the very first awkward sex scenes I’d written as a university student were not this bad. Romance Writing 101. If you’ve never done it in real life, then don’t try to bravado your way through it. Research on the Internet could only get you so far—sometimes, you needed to experience it.

“I got them,” I sighed, shaking my head. Evan needed more help than she’d originally led me to believe.

“You’re too quiet. I thought you’d have all kinds of things to say about those pages.”

The character he’d developed had already gotten under my skin. She was strong, which I’d guess you’d need to live as she did, but she also had this intense sense of loneliness that resonated with me.

It made me think about the man behind the story. Was he as lonely as this girl? What had happened to him?

She’d aged out of the foster system and done what she needed to survive. Kallie had been dealt a shit hand, but what was Evan’s story?

I wasn’t proud of myself, but I’d tried Facebook-stalking him. Besides an author page clearly managed by Adrian and a couple of fan groups, I came up empty.

He was a ghost. I knew he’d been a soccer player his first year at Stanford from a Google search, but he’d disappeared after that. It also coincided with the publication of his first novel.

Was that the reason for his seclusion?

Given the Connecticut address, he’d obviously relocated to the East Coast from California, but his story was a puzzle I wanted to put together.

“You’re hooked, aren’t you?” Isobel sounded amused. She knew I liked to figure out how people worked.

“Huh? What? No.” I cringed as my voice took on that squeaky tone that I hated.

“You are! You’ve got a crush on the mystery writer!”

“I haven’t even met him. How would I already have a crush on him?” I denied—weakly.

“So, if I went through your search history, I wouldn’t find anything about Evan?” Goddammit. Was I that transparent? She knew I was a sucker for the tortured artist type.

“No.”

“Liar! Get your shit together, Chase. You need to get in, do your thing, and get out,” she warned.

“Do my what?”

“Get in there, show him how to make his characters angry fuck and get back to the city.” I could see her rolling her eyes at me from her desk.

“You make it sound so easy. You’re not the one that needs to teach a guy how to channel sexuality as a woman.”

She started laughing again—my pain amused her to no end. I had no idea what I was walking into. Fame did all kinds of weird things to writers. He could be a pompous asshole for all I knew. Add in the fact that he was antisocial and there was a whole other level of shit. I’d agreed to two weeks. Who knew how long it’d really take?

“You’ll be fine,” she coaxed. “I’ve yet to see you intimidated by any man.”

Despite it being an industry of mostly female writers, my first editor was a man. Now he was a pompous asshole. Why he’d been assigned to edit romance novels was a mystery.

He was in his late forties, divorced twice, and thought he was a literary God. He did have an excellent grasp of the written word, but interpersonal relationships were outside his wheelhouse.

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