Page 3 of Foreplay on Words

“What exactly am I supposed to be helping him with? Surely Adrian can give him some pointers on structure and flow.”

“He needs someone who’s used to writing something more graphic that draws the reader in,” she explained. “The plot is there, but he needs help getting the passion on paper. And we know if Adrian handled the rewrites, the character’s voice wouldn’t resonate the same way.”

“Does he know you’re pulling in a consultant on his book?” I didn’t want to be put into an awkward situation if I wasn’t wanted. “Isn’t he going to be pissed at Adrian?” Everyone was pissed at Adrian at one point or another…but still.

“He does,” she nodded with a sly grin. “He asked for you.”

“Adrian asked for me?” He was another editor in the publishing house’s mystery/action/suspense/thriller (MAST) department. He was not a fan of mine, but he did have a huge crush on Isobel.

“No,” her smile grew. “Evan asked for you.”

“Me?” I clarified, confused. “Has he even read my work?”

“He has. Adrian said he wasn’t willing to meet with anyone else.”

“Have I met him before? You’d think I’d remember that face, but I know sometimes the book jacket doesn’t match up to the person.”

Even in black and white, I could see how his light eyes sparkled with hidden mystery. It seemed fitting that the mystery writer would have an allure to his appearance. His hair was curled slightly, and he had an open expression that wasn’t quite a smile. He was an incredibly attractive man, but there was something more...

“He doesn’t do industry events.”

“Writer’s conferences?” I had no idea how he would know who I was if we didn’t run in the same circles. Being the talent for the same publisher didn’t mean that authors knew one another. Sometimes there were hundreds of authors simply in your genre.

“Nope.”

“And you’re sure he requested me?” I repeated, a little baffled.

“Positive.”

Something wasn’t adding up. Why would a successful mystery novelist be familiar with my work? I didn’t always read in the genre I wrote, but if he was a spice-writing virgin, chances were he hadn’t read any of my open-door romances.

“Evan wants to meet you the day after tomorrow. He’s got some specific scenes drafted that he wants you to work with him on,” she told me, easily dropping back into business mode while I tried to figure this situation out.

“So, coffee shop? Park? Where does he write?” I liked to sit in a quiet corner of the library or a park if the weather was nice.

“Well...”

“Spit it out, Is,” I urged.

“He needs you to come to his house.” It seemed like a simple enough request, but the way she said it made it sound like it wasn’t something I would readily agree to.

“And that’s bad?”

She sighed as she avoided eye contact. “Not exactly, no.”

“Is there something wrong with his house? What neighborhood does he live in?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but her eyes widened as she glanced over my shoulder toward her door.

“Hey, Is?”

I turned my head as a knock sounded, and Adrian stepped into the doorway. I would have thought he was handsome if I didn’t know what an egotistical jerk he was. His athletic frame filled the space inside the doorway, with broad shoulders and an impeccably fitted suit clinging to the obvious muscles in his arms.

“Yes?” she responded, and I glanced between them. There was always tension in the air whenever they were in the same room. Part of me knew my imagination liked to create romantic scenarios where they didn’t exist, but the looks Adrian sent Isobel’s way weren’t subtle.

“Oh, hey, Chase. Did Is talk to you about the consult…” he started to ask as he stepped into her office and sat in the chair next to mine.

He was classically handsome––tall, full head of slightly wavy dark hair and gorgeous dark blue eyes—it was a shame he was such an asshat. Isobel said it was a trait only I seemed to bring out in him, but I was skeptical. He seemed to hate most romance writers based on genre alone.

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