Page 25 of Role Play
“You mean sell out.”
“No, I mean have a strategy. You don’t need to work so hard at being a great writer. You already are. But if you want to be seen, then yeah, we’re going to need your characters to get trapped in a snowstorm overnight and the only inn in walking distance has one room with only one bed. Or, you need a man ina mask chasing a woman through a forest with a machete. Make your hero someone’s older brother. If all else fails, you could just write anything romantasy, because that genre apparently can’t miss.”
“Readers and their freaking dragons,” I grumble. “But okay, yeah. I’m open to anything at this point. It’s a date.”
“Good. I have to get going, but I’ll text you the details. And for the love of God, Sora, donotwear flip-flops. I don’t care if they have rhinestones on them. You need at least a kitten heel, mk? You have my apartment key if you need to raid my closet.” Daphne leans down to press her cheek against mine. “Happy birthday, my friend. I love you. Don’t worry too much. It’ll all work out.”
“Love you,” I answer back as she heads for the front door.
I smile at my best friend in the world who knows me to my core. Because, yes, I was most definitely debating wearing my bedazzled flip-flops tonight.
chapter 7
Forrest
My date’s eyes dart over my shoulder to the precarious situation behind us for the millionth time. It’s odd to see Celeste so unnerved. She owns a billion-dollar, celebrity-endorsed fashion empire. She’s an icon amongst the Manhattan elite. The world is at her fingertips, yet every time she sees her ex-husband, she visibly shrivels.
I’m really starting to hate that fucker.
The wedding band playing in the corner shifts to a slower song, something romantic. I take the opportunity to unbutton my tux jacket and grab the bottom of her chair, yanking her closer to me. With my lips grazing her earlobe, I drop my voice low. “Celeste, honey, I’m going to need you to take a deep breath, andstopglancing over at your ex. He’s going to notice you staring. You are blowing our cover.”
Ignoring me, she looks over to his table and the voluptuous brunette he brought as his arm candy. The woman laughs loudly from across the room. Even from here, I can tell that was fake, simply a girl trying to appease her new sugar daddy. She lookslike she graduated from high school yesterday—barely legal. That shit never used to bother me until I became a father.
“I’ll hand it to him, she’s pretty.”
“Are you jealous?” I ask her as I eye my glass, the champagne still bitter on my tongue from my last sip.
She pulls her head back, then fixes her gaze on me. “Not for the reasons you think.”
I run my thumb over her lip gently, so her deviously red lipstick doesn’t smudge. “He’s delirious with jealousy. It’s taking everything in him not to come over here and snatch you away.”
She scoffs, the corner of her mouth twitching. “He hasn’t looked at me even once?—”
“Because he’s been watching me. He’s busy sizing up his competition. Hate to say it, but he’s better at this game than you are.”
She slides me a disingenuous grin. “I take it as a compliment that Greg can easily out-petty me.”
“He accosted me at the bar while you were catching up with your friends,” I admit before taking another sip from my glass flute. Honestly, I hate the smell and taste of champagne. But I obediently drink whatever Celeste does without a complaint. Getting paid four thousand dollars per night means I don’t grimace at expensive alcohol I don’t enjoy. “Would you like another?” I ask, nodding to her empty flute.
“And have you risk another verbal lashing at the bar? No. What did Greg say to you?” She looks genuinely concerned, her forehead creasing with guilt perhaps, like she sent a puppy to a lion’s den.
“He just asked me how serious we were, and what my intentions were with his ex.”
It was actually more intense than I let on. Twenty minutes ago, while I was dutifully fetching Celeste another glass of bubbly from the open bar, Greg cornered me. He reeked ofexpensive cologne as he threatened me, whispering profanities with a clipped smile on his face, so no one would suspect his adult temper tantrum. He called me a broke, small-dicked cabana boy—wrong on all three counts, by the way—and referred to Celeste as his spoiled leftovers. But she doesn’t need to know all that.
She lifts a well-manicured brow, surveying the wicked grin I’m wearing. “And what did you say?”
“I told him we preferred to keep our relationship status private. And as far as my intentions”—I playfully pump my brows—“I told him all I knew for certain is that I was going to tear your pretty dress to shreds before burying my face between your thighs all night.”
She roars in laughter. It’s the first authentic smile I’ve earned all night. “You did not, Forrest.”
“I most certainly did.”
“He probably doesn’t even care.” She shrugs it off, reaching for her empty glass, then sets it back down when she remembers she finished her drink.
“Let me grab you another,” I insist, scooting my chair back, but she wraps her hand around my forearm, keeping me in place. Her touch is cool against my hot skin, the tux jacket making me swelter. I can’t wait to take this thing off.
“I’m sure the server will come around shortly. Just stay with me.” She keeps her head held high, but I see the anxiousness behind her eyes, the slight tremor in her lower lip. Not only is Greg being here at their friends’ wedding an added stress, but over our past few dates, I’ve learned Celeste has social anxiety. She loves being a fashion designer, but she hates being the face of her brand. If she could do things her way, she’d stow away on a remote island. Just her, a sketchbook, and a tropical breeze.
