Page 7 of Red Flags Only

Then when we got older, it was Mars who suggested we start writing so that we didn’t have to watch Dad suffer through eight hour work days when all he really wanted was to spend his days visiting mom at the graveyard.

We couldn’t get a job in town for… surely no reason at all, but we could write, and we could do it well. Even as teenagers we were capable of producing books that were hitting bestseller status within weeks of launch. We did research, figured out what tropes to hit and how to hit them, how to market, and lucked out early with an amazing cover artist. Frank, bless her, made covers for us that pulled heavy for our marketing early on when we couldn’t afford to run ads or do much more than post about the books and hope they sold.

We love Frank.

Being Rouge – award-winning author and mysterious celebrity figure in the world of book publishing – wouldn’t have been possible without her. And it definitely wouldn’t have been possible without Mars, the ultimate mastermind behind this operation.

I might write the first drafts, but he’s the one who puts all of the heart and soul into them. He handles our developmental editing – the bit where you fix consistency and make the story a cohesive thing. I just throw words onto pages and hope to make something salvageable for him to do his magic, adding spicy scenes and romance and character backstories that I am simply not capable of creating on my own.

Wasn’tcapable of creating on my own, I should say. I’m overcoming that roadblock. Sort of. If overcoming means staring at my blank document willing something frilly to pour forth from my fingertips.

It’s a work in progress. The goal: to lessen the load on Mars when he gets this inevitable train wreck. Train wreck being a step up from the plane crashes I normally pass on to him.

Do I really want to tell Mars about this plan, though?

No. I do not.

I know my brother. He’ll tell me it’s fine, not to worry,and that he can continue to do what he’s always done, which is basically everything. I write poorly done first drafts. Mars doeseverythingelse, or delegates what we can pay someone else to do better. I haven’t logged on to our social media accounts… ever. I have logged on to them never.

The least I could do is give him a more polished draft.

The problem?

We write romance – spicy dark romance, to be exact – and I haven’t the first clue about the subject. Dark I can do. Darkness seeps from my pores, finding its way onto the page with such ease it’s like breathing. It’s the love and goo andkissingthat aren’t so easy.

I frown, meeting Mars’ gaze beneath his thick, furrowed brows.

My brother, a specialist of all things romance and intimacy.

Maybe… maybe he can tell me how he does it. I’ve been struggling for weeks trying to figure it out on my own when I have an expertright in front of me.

I’m not stupid. I’m just an idiot.

“Mars…” I hesitate. “Can you teach me how to fall in love?”

Chapter Three

WTF

Jove

“Teach you how to fall in love?” Mars echoes, a singular eyebrow creeping up on his forehead.

I nod. “Yes. Teach me how to fall in love.”

His stare penetrates, clover green, and…judgy.“This isn’t Alabama, babe, and you already know my heart belongs to our cold hard cash.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” I sigh. “It’s just… Okay, I’m writing this book, right?”

“I have perhaps heard tales ofthis book, yes. It’s the mystery book shrouded in mystery, which you won’t tell me anything about because it is mysterious.” A humored tilt lifts his lips. “Not that I’m curious, or anything. And not that our dear, sweet editor will be curious when I’m supposed to book her for it. Or anything.”

I fall into one of the sturdy wooden chairs surrounding the table and groan. “Sit down.” I gesture to his usual seat. “I’ll tell you about it.”

“Well, will wonders never cease?” He sits, draws out a deck of cards, and begins aimlessly shuffling them, whichbasically means I have one hundred percent of his attention.

“The book itself isn’t the problem. It’s another holiday romcom, because I figure that we’ve already done one romantic holiday this year, we might as well do themostromantic holiday, too, you know? Ride the wave of whatever success the Valentine book gets. And I thought if I chose something inherently romantic but maybe not so overdone as Valentine’s Day, then it would help me get into some sort of romance-centered flow state wherein I am able to write some of the stuff I normally hoist off on you. The ooey gooey bits. Theromanceportion of theromancebooks we’re trying to sell.” I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “The problem is that it’s just not working. I haven’t got the first clue about how to create chemistry between two people or make them fall in love. He sees her and thinks, ‘I would like to stab her with this flag handle.’ She sees him and ponders how many red flags it would take to create a suitable gag for him. There is no love, only animosity, and I have no idea how to get them past it and into fuzzier feelings. If you hate someone, you hate them. That’s that. You get your revenge and you move on until they do something that necessitates another revenge.”

I lean forward, unashamed in my desperation. “How do I make them fall in love, Mars? How do I take them from enemies into lovers in a way that feels genuine and the readers will enjoy?”

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