Page 11 of Guys Can't Write Romance
“Name one.”
Chad thought about it as he capped his bottle and set it on the bleacher. “The guy who wrote The Notebook.”
“A guy wrote that?”
“Yup.”
“Okay. That’s one.”
“And the guy who writes those books about teens with weird diseases and stuff.”
“What happened to you wanting to become Stephen King?”
“It’s just one contest. I prove to Daisy I’m the better writer, then boom! It’s back to real literature.”
“Have you even read a romance book?”
“Don’t have to. Tanya made me watch The Notebook with her back in college, so I know all there is to know.”
“The Notebook doesn’t count. Every girl makes her boyfriend watch it.”
“It’s still exposure to all the rules.”
“Now you’re just sounding like a nerd.”
Chad rolled his eyes. “Every genre has its rules. For romance, rule one is make girls cry. Rule two is make them cry some more. The end. I can Google the rest.”
Rhino chuckled. “Bro. This girl’s gonna kill you in the contest. And I’m gonna be there with a big I told you so.”
“Not a chance.”
“Seriously, bro. You might wanna get some help from her.”
“That’s not gonna happen.”
“Why not? You said she’s cute.”
“Dude. Her stories suck. She’s okay with the prose and structure parts, but her characters and dialog put you to sleep.”
“So do a trade-off. Your characters don’t totally suck, so help her with her characters, and have her help you with the mushy stuff.”
“You’re sounding like our group moderator.”
“She sounds like a smart woman.”
Chad shook his head. “Whatever, man. I’ll think about thinking about it.” He picked up a towel and wiped his face,pausing to watch several girls jog past on the bike path. “What time are we meeting the guys?”
“Sixish?”
Chad pulled out his collar and sniffed it. “Think we have time to shower?”
Rhino raised his arm and took a big whiff of his armpit. Judging by the sweat stains, it was probably toxic. “What for?”
The maitre d’ led Daisy and Ethan to a corner table at Lumière, the kind of restaurant where the menus didn’t list prices and the serving portions couldn’t feed a rabbit.
“Your table, Mr. Sterling,” the maitre d’ said with a slight bow.
Ethan straightened his already straight tie and nodded. “Thank you, Pierre.”
