Page 36 of Red Flag, Green Light

Reasons I could never be an author.Planninga story sounds exhausting. I’d be bored out of my mind well before I even start writing.

Speaking about stories and planning and Rouge going off the deep end…she hasn’t messaged me since I vetoed her nonsense idea about having amodest-shoulderedmale lead. I hope I didn’t offend her. I am somewhat known for having a blunt delivery when I’m being myself. Maybe her partner is modest-shouldered and she’s tall and she wanted to write a book for them.

Which, of course, is weird in its own way, given her genre, but whatever. I’m not here to judge what people find romantic.

Or maybe I am.

Because the man beside me is persistently claiming thatFlag Dayis peak romantic, and the very fibers of my being chafe at the notion.

I should message Rouge a follow-up and assure her that I’ll support her through whatever book project she wants to write. I can’t block off my entire spring for it, but I can support it. And when she proves me wrong and launches once again into the top one hundred of the store—

Mars touches my hand.

A violent shudder rocks through me as I twist toward him, discover my phone in his grasp, and my finger pressed to the fingerprint scanner.

I lurch away, but it’s too late to save my phone from being unlocked. “What are you doing?”

“Seeing what’s more important than my presentation.”

“Yourpresentation? This has been craft time with a maniac.” I stretch for my phone, but he places his full free palm against my face, holding me at bay. “Mars!”

“Careful.” His green eyes glint when they cut toward me. “I like the way you yell my name.”

My mouth drops open as heat courses through my veins.

For a solid ten seconds, I forget what’s going on. Was that…flirting? Or joking? Inappropriate joking, surely. Outlandishly inappropriate. But isn’t inappropriate joking, at its very core,flirting?

“Goodness,” he murmurs, snapping me out of the fit. “How spicy is this?”

He shows me my phone screen, which depicts Rouge’s latest Valentine novel, which is a dark romance with the sort of cover that provides a scandalous aura at a mere glimpse.

Scowling, I say, “Egregiously.”

He swipes down, to the ranking information, pauses amoment, and hums, then he moves on to the reviews.

Bemoaning my shorter reach and limited wherewithal, I watch from my side of the couch as Mars skims the reviews, nose scrunching in response to whatever words he finds there. When I catch sight of someone claiming the female lead isquirky, Mars locks my phone, tosses it into his corner of the couch, and beams at me. “So,” he declares, “you’re a reader.”

Were this a cartoon or movie, right about now would be when the camera pans out to display the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves I have piled into this room, crammed around the furniture and plants. There’s no wall space available, because I’ve gone so far as to hang shelves in every available location. Not a single stud goes unburdened, and one day my home will collapse in on itself due to the weight.

I blink.

I glance off Mars’s eyes, at some overflowing shelves.

I look back at him. “Is that…new information?”

“No.”

Right. “Can you remove your hand from my face? You’re crushing my nose.”

He obliges, with a brief apology, then charges back into his earlier nonsense. “I have weekly tasks for you, from now until Flag Day. I expect you to report back to me frequently, and I’ve blocked off days for us to review our progress. Falling behind schedule will not be tolerated.” He pulls his own phone from his pocket. “What’s your email?”

“Why?”

“So I can send you the schedule.”

Ah. I tell him my personal email, which I rarely ever check these days. Online, which is the only place I exist, I am known by my business alias, Sara Pond. I have no personal social media accounts and can only see Brian’s content because he friended me shortly after I friended my second-favorite client, TempestRain.

Apparently, they’re mutuals.

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