Page 54 of Text Appeal

I squint. “Really? I said that?”

“You did,” he says. “Though come to think of it, you were kind of in charge with that one. So, if it was bad, that would be on you, wouldn’t it?”

“Enough communicating for one day. Time for some quiet.”

Humor fills his gaze. “Tell me what makes a good hero. Are we talking Prince Charming or what?”

“The idiot who likes to go around kissing unconscious women without their consent?”

“It’s not great when you think of it that way.”

“No.”

“Come on. What’s on your list?” he asks. “What are you looking for?”

“What I want in real life and what qualities a hero in a book require are two very different things. Though, of course, there is some overlap.”

“Have I mentioned how much I enjoy it when you don’t make sense?”

“Aw,” I say. “The overwhelming amount of joy I must have brought into your life recently!”

“So much. I honestly don’t know what the fuck to do with it all.” When he spies someone on the other side of the room, his cranky face makes its first appearance of the night. He’s all rock-solid jawline and cold hard eyes. “Of course that asshole had to be here.”

“Who?” I turn to survey the room. “Did you have a high school nemesis? Which one is it? What did they do?”

Connor sidesteps me and wraps an arm around my back. It’s an effective method of smooshing me against his front andrendering me immobile. “We’re not going to look at him, Riley, because if he receives any attention that dickhead will be straight over here getting in our faces and we do not want that.”

“Right. Got it. Sorry.”

“Tell me more about your writing,” he says, taking a small step back. Just enough that there’s a foot or so between us. “How did you start?”

“Um. I was always into books. Not just stories, but notebooks too. The whole idea of paper and pen and the things you could do with them was amazing. I used to pick apart my books and then cry because they were broken. But I wanted to know how they worked. At any rate, Mom got really good at gluing picture books back together. Then I got a tablet one Christmas and suddenly I could carry a library around with me. Mind blown.” I smile at the memory. “Best gift ever.”

“The way you talk about books makes me want to give them a chance. What the hell is happening to me?”

I slap him playfully on the arm, then ask, “Do you ever tell yourself stories before you go to sleep?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ever since I was little, I would lie in the dark and make up scenarios inside my head. Often involving famous people.”

“Give me an example?”

“Fine. But don’t mock me,” I say. “Something like Jensen Ackles turning up at my school in the Chevy Impala to take me to dinner. That sort of thing.”

“Supernaturalfan, huh? I’m impressed you know what the car is.”

“Now you’re being condescending.”

“You still do this? Tell yourself stories?” He smiles. But not in a mean way.

“Yes. It’s a habit now. One of the reasons I have trouble getting my brain to shut up so I can go to sleep.”

“I don’t do anything like that,” he says. “Though it sounds a hell of a lot more fun than worrying about what I’ve got the next day.”

“Your dreams must be so stressful.”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Yeah. And yours must be horny.”

---