Page 23 of Red Flag, Green Light

He does not stir. He does, ever so softly, snore.

Ah, I see.

Lifting his plate of carrot cake, I take a bite out of the sweet delicacy myself, lean against his doorjamb, and sigh. Classic existential crisis devolving into naptime. I guess somethingabysmal happened at the hardware store, and he couldn’t slash anyone’s tires to make himself feel better in the aftermath.

Pausing with my fork sticking out of my mouth, I blink. Ah. I see what happened. Lyra was at the hardware store, wasn’t she? What timing.

Thumbing through my mental database of relevant notes, I discover that Jovey’s little Ly-Ly has a Make Your Own Hanging Planter class this week. That would prompt hardware store visits, wouldn’t it? Yeah. Yeah, it would.

I cock my head against the jamb and eat another bite of cake.

Poor kid.

Asking me about love as though he’s not twenty miles below sea level, drowning in the stuff. As though the love he’s trying to reach for the sake of work hasn’t always been here with him, making carrot cake and mischief.

The spice, spice, baby expectation in our genre isn’t anything more than literal copy and pasted nonsense. If you go to classes for it, that’s what they tell you to do to save time. You copy and paste the motions then fill in the dialogue a la “in character.” Once, I didn’t even change the dialogue because the fun thing about being on brand in this genre is that sometimes the characters are all such similar archetypes, half the time it hardly matters what happens around the spice.

Sadly for my abysmal work ethic, the half of the time where it doesn’t matter has passed. Now, I have Sara Pond looking at our stories and goingwasn’t this exact thing in book blah, blah, blah?

Somehow Jovey-wovey has decided I make all the difference when it comes to our work.

But, actually, it’s Sara.

All I do is try not to embarrass myself in front of the smartest, funniest, most enchanting woman I never thought I’d meet. And since she doesn’t know that Rouge is two brothers, who are hernext-door neighbors, I have a reputation to uphold as a dark romance author.

Readers will read just about anything. It’s why books I couldn’t get through the first chapter of are soaring high in the charts. Quality doesn’t matter to the masses. Readers only want to resonate.

But quality does matter a great deal to Sara.

So, I don’t copy and paste anymore, and she tells me when it still sucks, and I bask in the wonder and glory of her genius while my dear brother assumes I’m the secret sauce to our success like a pure, innocent dove.

With a sigh, I shut Jove’s door softly, take myself to my own bedroom, turn on my computer, and check my email. Fan mail. Fan mail. Fa— Oop. Nope, that’s a death threat, which is another fun thing about this genre. Death threats. Daily. And we donottell Jovey about them. Because Jovey? Jovey would not look at a death threat toward his little brother and reciprocate in kind.

Jovey would say,Threat? Never Heard Of Her, and proceed right to thedeathpart.

I love Jovey.

It is, however, his fault that my body tenses just a little bit when I come upon an email from none other than our editor.

Today, 5:26 p.m.

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

SUBJECT: Spring bookings

Hey Rouge,

I know it’s rare a day goes by that we don’t chat, but I figured I’d send a professional email concerning this professional topic.

When do you think I’ll be getting my grubby little paws onyour next book? I’m currently filling my spring with clients, and you know you take precedence, so I want to make sure I block the time off for you before I start going through any other queries.

Impatiently waiting,

Sara Pond

I need to book a spot for Jove’s Flag Day book. Sara isn’t exactly in low demand. She has waiting lists, people who refuse to publish until she can look at their work, people who won’t even post on their blogs until she gives them the green light.

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