Page 14 of Guys Can't Write Romance
“Fine. Chloe’s just being Chloe.” She took a sip of her wine, appreciating its rich complexity despite herself. “Tell me more about this potential promotion.”
As Ethan launched into a detailed explanation of corporate ladder dynamics, Daisy found her thoughts drifting to the novel outline tucked in her purse. She’d sketched out the entire plot structure during her lunch break, using her favorite purple pen. She’d been so excited to share it with Ethan, to have him understand this part of her life.
But maybe that had been unrealistic. Maybe there would always be this division between the life she’d built for security and the dreams she kept tucked away in notebooks and digital files.
The risotto arrived. Ethan wrinkled his nose slightly; he preferred his food predictable, like everything else.
“A bit rich, isn’t it?” he commented.
Daisy took a bite, savoring the complex flavors. She shook her head. “It’s just right.”
The rest of the evening carried on much the same, with Daisy nibbling at her risotto while Ethan droned on. As they finally finished their meals and the waiter carried away their plates, Ethan reached across the table and lightly took her hands in his.
“You know I’m proud of you,” he said. “For all the effort you put into things, however small they are.”
There it was again. Small.
Daisy offered a faint smile, trying not to overthink it. This was Ethan, she reminded herself. The plan. The stability. The right choice.
“Hey, Carter. McKenzie’s writing a romance novel,” 29-year-old Troy Mitchell blared out as he and Rhino returned from the bar with two pitchers of beer and set them on a table.
At a nearby pool table, 29-year-old Brett Carter looked over and did a double-take, as if Troy just said a UFO landed outside. “A what?”
Across the pool table from Brett, Chad leaned up from the shot he’d been lining up and glared daggers at Rhino. “Nice job, big mouth. You had to go and tell the dummies.”
The boys were at their favorite beachside dive bar, The Salty Siren, for a happy hour of beers, bar sports, girls, and fried food. A crowd of regulars mixed and mingled throughout the fishing-themed pub, while 80s tunes played on the jukebox and neon beer signs lit the wood-paneled walls. Being just steps from the sand, the air smelled of salt water, cheap beer, and fried calamari.
“A romance novel,” Troy repeated, loud enough this time for the guys at another pool table to overhear.
“Like a chick book?” Brett said.
“Yup.”
Brett turned to Troy. “Dude. Tell me it’s not true.”
Chad let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“Really?” said Troy. “Because it sounds like you’re about to start wearing pink and arranging flowers.”
“And singing Barry Manilow,” Brett added.
“It’s for a contest,” Chad said. “This chick bet me I couldn’t write romance, so I’m gonna prove her wrong.”
“Are they taking bets on this?” Brett said. “‘Cause fifty bucks says the chick’s right.”
Troy fished a wad of cash from his pocket and quickly counted it. “I’ve got forty that says she’s right.”
“Put me in for twenty, bro,” Rhino said.
Then, from out of nowhere, a group of eavesdroppers at a nearby pool table chimed in. “I’ve got twenty,” one of the boys said.
Chad shot them a questioning look. Who were these guys? But before he could say anything, one of the regulars seated at the bar also chimed in.
“Yup. Me too,” he said.
And so did the guy seated next to him. “I’m in for ten.”
“Put me down for twenty, Rhino,” said Jeff the bartender, sliding a beer across the counter to a customer.
