Page 2 of Devoured By You

I returned to reading. Every word burned my eyes. The sentences were staccato and unvaried, there was far too much telling instead of showing, my descriptions were cloggy and lacking any kind of color, and my characters were two-dimensional arseholes.

What had happened to me? I used to find writing a joy, yet the more readership I gained, the worse I felt. Once upon a time, I could knock out ten thousand words in a day, and those words needed hardly any editing. The best I could do with this book would be to set fire to it and start over. But what if I couldn’t? What if this offense to literature was the last thing I ever wrote?

“Isn’t this you?”

I let the book fall into my lap and once more turned my attention to the handsome stranger. He’d spun his laptop so the screen faced in my direction. Staring out at me was… me.

I groaned. Stupid author bio. I hated that picture, too. I looked like such a prat. The photographer had insisted on that silly pose. Said I looked “author-y” in it—whatever that meant. My publisher had gushed over it, and the next thing I knew, it was everywhere.

Worse, though, was that my beautiful stranger had caught me reading my own book. From his point of view, I must look like an egotistical jerk.

“Um, yeah.”

“Wow, an author. That’s impressive.”

“It really isn’t.”

“Don’t talk yourself down. Millions of people would love the talent and discipline it takes to write a book, and you’ve written fifteen.”

He’d… counted.

Also… sixteen, if we included the… the… thing I held in my hands.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

The plane slowly reversed onto the taxiway. I hated the takeoff part. Once we were airborne, I’d be fine, but this first bit—

“Sometimes it helps to talk about it.”

I frowned, refocusing on the man to my left once more. “What? My dislike of taking off?”

His lips twitched. “No. Although, we can talk about that if you like. I was referring to your exasperation with your latest book.”

“Exasperation? Who says I’m exasperated?”

“I do. You’ve sighed thirteen times in less than two minutes. I could be wrong, but that sounds like exasperation to me.”

Ugh. Handsome and astute. What were the chances?

“I’m sure you don’t want to listen to my woes, Mister…?”

“Better than musing on my own.” He flashed that perfect smile again. Good God, he really was beautiful. “Call me Blay.” He offered his hand.

I reached across the aisle and shook it. His palm was warm, his skin soft, and he held on to my hand a little longer than I’d consider normal for two strangers. A delicious shiver trickled up my spine. “Jill.”

“Yeah, I know.” His smile widened.

Oh, yeah. Stalker extraordinaire.

“What does the T stand for?”

“Huh?”

“‘English author Jillian Rowe writes as J. T. Rowe,’” he parroted from my bio. “What does the T stand for?”

“Ah. I’m not telling. A girl’s got to have some secrets.”

“I bet it’s Tilly.”

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