Page 1 of Foreplay on Words

Chase Rodgers

Pen name: Chastity Rose

Occupation: Romance novelist

Boston

My eyes were unfocused as I stared at the edge of the desk in front of me, still trying to process exactly what was being asked of me. I’d heard Isobel’s request, but there was no way I interpreted it correctly. I had a deadline. There was no way she was asking me to do her a favor of this magnitude when the clock was already counting down.

While my life may have looked chaotic from the outside, I dropped into focus mode with blinders on once that release date was set and preorders were scheduled. I became the characters––ate, slept, and breathed their journey––until the last two magical words were typed into the first draft.

I didn’t have time for a special assignment. I certainly didn’t have time to understand the motivations of characters that weren’t mine. An author’s methods were sacred, and I wasn’t keen on sharing mine with someone who couldn’t get their novel on track.

“Oh, come on. You can’t expect me to hold some rookie writer’s hand,” I complained as I sat stiffly in the chair across from my editor in her office at the Boston offices for my publisher.

We’d worked together for the past several years, having met shortly after I’d signed with my current publisher.

“I can, and I do.”

“No. Not happening. I don’t have time to walk some amateur through developing a sex scene,” I adamantly refused.

With one perfectly groomed, arched eyebrow in response, I knew I was fighting a losing battle. “He’s not an amateur. He’s already published quite a bit, actually.” The way she said it piqued my interest, but I remained skeptical of being roped into a project when I didn’t have extra time to spare.

“Then what do you need me for?” The first book in my newest series was already in motion, and I didn’t have time to take on some charity case for Isobel, no matter how much I enjoyed our working relationship.

“You’re our highest-grossing romance novelist right now.”

“And?” I’d worked my ass off to get where I was, and I wasn’t derailing my career for someone I didn’t even know. Her words weren’t meant to inflate my ego, they were facts. It still didn’t work to convince me of my value in this situation. I was a novelist, not a writing consultant. There were dozens of people in this building with advanced degrees in English that would be a million times more suited to doing something like this.

“He’s currently got two books on the Times bestseller list.” My eyes narrowed at her smirk, and I suddenly felt myself sit up straight in my chair. Exactly who did she want me to work with?

“Cut the shit, Is. Why do you need me to hold this guy’s hand?” I was irritated, but had to admit the idea sounded intriguing with her last tidbit of information. This wasn’t some rookie writer; this was a pro. I’d yet to clear the top 1000. So how did I fit into this equation?

“He’s having some trouble with character development in his new novel.” The nonchalance in her shoulder shrug kept her body language casual, yet her voice had an edge. She needed me on board with this.

“I have a deadline. I don’t have time for this. Can’t you throw a junior editor at him?”

“The higher-ups were thinking more about collaboration,” she responded casually, as if she hadn’t just told me I not only had to work with this guy, but I also had to share the credit when he was the one who needed me.

Oh, hell no. I was not tying my brand to some other author and then practically writing their book for them. I was halfway through book one on a three-book contract and still needed to do some research to flesh out the male lead. I’d gotten more comfortable writing from the male perspective in my career, but I always wanted to ensure it didn’t come off as forced or too over the top.

“He could probably help you with your book,” Isobel hinted as she gave me an imploring look.

My hackles rose as I clenched my fists. “I don’t need help. I need my editor to not drop a babysitting gig in my lap right now.”

“I promise you’ll like this one,” she smirked as she tossed a hardback book across her desk and pulled open the cover to show me the inside of the book jacket. “Meet Evan––”

“You mean Stone Evans? What does a mystery writer’s new book have to do with this conversation?” I interrupted.

“God, Chase,” she sighed loudly, “quit being a royal pain in my ass and let me get through a sentence.”

“Go on.” I motioned as I slumped in my chair and crossed my arms.

“Stone Evans is a pen name. His real name is Evan Stineman,” she explained as I continued to look at the black-and-white picture. “He’s writing a new thriller, and one of the main characters is a call girl.”

“I do NOT write porn,” I stressed as I stared at her, unimpressed.

Isobel smirked at me from across the desk. “You write erotic fiction.”

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