Page 3 of Is This for Real?
“So, you’re just looking for humdrum as opposed to magical connection? That explains...never mind.”
I don’t deign to respond.
He flips through the book and reads out a line. “No ‘every part of her burned with fire’ for you?”
“I’m not particularly looking.” I cross my arms.
“But you’re writing a romantic comedy.”
“But it’s focused more on the comedy than the romance—more focused on the midnight caper.” Some people are leaving. One bumps me, and I put out my hand to avoid falling into Rory, grabbing his bicep. Rory holds my hand as if we’re about to do the jitterbug.
“Hence the title,Midnight Masquerade,” he says.
“If only the title alone could sell it.” I release him.
“You just need one agent and one publisher to love it. And it’s funny, especially the scenes with the motley team trying to steal back her painting.” He chuckles.
InMidnight Masquerade, my artist protagonist has that night to find her stolen painting or lose her chance to participate in a career-defining art exhibit. And if she doesn’t learn to trust her feelings for her sleuthing partner, she’s going to lose a lot more.
The hostess greets us by name and starts to seat us at our usual table for two, but we tell her we need a table for four. As we settle into the blue booth, I can’t decide whether I should take off my hat or leave it on. Jamie is supposed to see me in the hat. All I want is one twinge of regret—one second glance, one “maybe I made a mistake.” At least while he has a girlfriend. But eating with my hat on seems awkward. Like I’ve got an appendage coming out of my head. The hat partially obstructs my side view. I don’t envy horses with blinders.
The waitress is new. She reminds me of a collie. She’s tall, with a narrow face, and friendly. She asks if we want to order now. As Rory explains that we are waiting for friends, I smile at her. Waitressing is tough. I tried it, as the typical side job for a writer, but I’d jot down impressions of my customers while waiting for them to make up their minds, and I’d inevitably miss part of their order. And my boss was not sympathetic to my using his order pads for my notes.
Now, I’m supporting myself by making miniatures to sell on Etsy, staging doll soap operas for my blog and Instagram to increase my sales, and dog-sitting temporary canine roomies who pay my rent.
“So, what about you? Would you act as my fake girlfriend at some client gigs coming up?” he asks.
I stare at him. He lightly presses my open mouth closed. His eyebrow quirks upward.
“You could consider it research for your next book,” he adds.
“Why me?”
“Because you’re my best female friend and you won’t believe it’s for real.”
Yes, I definitely won’t believe it’s for real. I flag down the waitress and ask for a cup of tea. More caffeine is needed.
“Neither will anyone else,” I say.
“What? Why not?” He seems genuinely confused.Cute.
“Rory, you usually date gorgeous, six-foot-tall women. I amsonot your type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
I snort. “Oh, really? Let’s look at the evidence.” I scroll through the photos on my phone. I’m sure I have pictures of Rory with his last few girlfriends at various events. All of whom have been gorgeous and tall. Rory and Marie, five foot eleven inches and blonde. She was so sweet and together. Here’s a picture of Ayanna, his college girlfriend, from Rory’s Halloween party last year. She’s five foot eight, stunning, funny, smart, always up for midnight snacks after dancing. She was my favorite, but now she’s engaged. We still chat sometimes on Instagram.
“Okay, okay.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “No pictures of Callie, huh? Didn’t you like Callie?”
“I didn’t like Callie.”
“Hmm.” He looks down at the table.
“Are you sure you don’t have commitment issues? These women seemed pretty magical to me.” Sometimes I can’t decide if Rory has commitment issues, or he’s such a romantic that if the relationship is not absolutely perfect, he moves on.
He winces. “I don’t think so. But it’s important that the relationship feels right.” He runs his hand through his hair, which makes his wavy, brown hair look even more tousled. “I feel like I’m parroting my dad.” He faces me. “So, you’re saying no one will believe I’m dating you because you’re five foot five?” He pulls one of my curls and it snaps back. He loves to do this.
I roll my eyes at him. “Whatever. I’ll pretend to be your girlfriend if it will help. It will be great research for my next book.”
