Page 1 of Devoured By You

Chapter 1

Jill

Handsome and astute.

What are the chances?

Success was a strange phenomenon.

Ambitious people, like me, strived to reach the mountain summit, slipping and sliding and falling on the way to the top. Sometimes we ended up with a bloody nose, or a bruised ego, but we picked ourselves up and carried on, not because we wanted to, but because we had to.

For so long, I’d lived with this rabid need to make it to the pinnacle of my career, certain that when I achieved a goal I’d had since I was six years old, happiness would be there, waiting for me, arms outstretched. The proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Instead, imposter syndrome became my new best friend. And until I discovered a way to beat that fucker, I had this awful feeling that I’d remain stuck with the worst writer’s block ever. Hitting number one on the New York Times and the Sunday Times bestseller lists was simultaneously a dream come true and my worst nightmare. I’d set a bar, yet a singular thought whirred inside my mind.

What if I’m a one-hit wonder and everything that comes afterward sucks?

I pushed the depressing notion to the back of my mind and boarded the plane for a much-needed holiday with three of the best friends a girl could wish for. I refused to let this crippling doubt stop me from enjoying this break. I needed it. Badly.

Before I hit burnout.

An author friend of mine had slammed into that wall a few months ago. She still hadn’t recovered. I didn’t want to end up like her, exhausted and unable to type a single word. It was for this reason I’d agreed to the trip. My best friends had gotten together, like the three witches of Eastwick, and staged an intervention.

And here I was, turning left on the plane for the very first time. I’d earned a treat, and a first-class ticket from London to Miami where I was due to meet my girlfriends before starting our two week adventure, was my chosen gift.

My jaw hung open as I copped a first look at the exclusive cabin. Wow. Talk about luxurious. A steward, smartly dressed in a navy uniform and a blue-and-gold tie, showed me to my seat. I mean, I could have found it. There were only fifteen in total. All part of the service, I guess. But when he asked me what time I’d like to book the first-class bathroom—equipped with a proper shower, no less—I gaped.

“Um, I’m not sure. Just…” I motioned with my hand. “Whenever.”

“As you wish, Miss Rowe.”

I made myself comfortable in the middle seat—I’d rather not be beside the window—and accepted a glass of crisp champagne from a different member of the cabin crew. A woman took the seat to my right. I smiled at her. She responded with the coldest stare. Okay, people in first class weren’t the talkative kind. Got it.

Maybe this wouldn’t be as much fun as I’d thought. That shower, though. I’d have to do that, if only for bragging rights with my friends.

I dipped into my carry-on bag for my latest novel. I read the first line and sighed. Dreadful. You can do better than this, Jill. Could I, though? If I was capable of better, then why hadn’t I done better? For six months, I’d worked on this manuscript, and it was still a big steaming pile of crap.

“No good?”

The silky smooth American accent came from seat 1A on my left. I turned to answer, a cordial smile in place. Ohhh. A swarm of butterflies took flight in my stomach. He’s gorgeous. I hadn’t a clue why, but I’d expected to come face-to-face with a middle-aged man and have to craft a polite way of signaling that I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat. Instead, sitting across the aisle from me was a guy in his late twenties or early thirties. Medium-brown hair curled over his white shirt, and his eyes were the color of the finest jade. He had a perfect aquiline nose, model-worthy cheekbones, and a jawline that I’d give up this seat to run my teeth along just once.

“Sorry?”

He pointed his chin at my book.

“Ah. No. It’s terrible.” I wasn’t lying. If my editor saw this, she’d drop me faster than I could type “Goodbye, career.”

“Then why read it? Life’s too short to force ourselves to do things we don’t enjoy.”

I attempted a wry smile. “If only it were that simple.”

He flashed a set of perfect white teeth and removed a brushed-gold laptop embedded with a logo I couldn’t make out from his bag. Seconds later, he began typing, long, slim fingers moving effortlessly over the keyboard, his eyebrows dipped in concentration.

All righty, then.

Maybe he thought I’d given him the brush-off with my answer. Or perhaps he found me boring.

Ouch. Stop with the self-flagellation, Rowe. My confidence was already teetering on the precipice. It didn’t need a helpful shove over the edge of the cliff.

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