Page 13 of Room 1212

“I just…” He closed his eyes in a long blink, and when he opened them again, I was surprised to see him looking so entirely defeated. “I try to tell myself that it’s just imposter syndrome, that I’m not actually a bad author, but then I see my words in print and I wonder how I’ve managed to fool everyone for so long. I guess I hoped that if I tried to write something new, I might actually feel proud of what I’ve achieved. I might finally believe I’m a real author.”

His eyes took on this glassy shine, and I wondered if he was going to cry. I patted my pockets to check for tissues, but coming up empty, I passed him my napkin instead. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I think you’re a very talented writer.” Shit, now I was going to cry too.

“Thanks,” he said, but his voice was dull and listless, and it was clear he didn’t believe me. He took the napkin and dabbed at the corners of his eyes.

While my words at the book signing might have been the catalyst, it was pretty obvious to me that these were the kinds of feelings he lived with on a daily basis. The doubt, the fear. It all came with the territory when he put himself out there so publicly every day.

He dropped his pen down on the table next to his wadded-up napkin. He took a shaky breath, then steeled himself, straightening his spine, and when he looked at me, it was with a new determination in his eyes. “Look, I find myself in this jam. I suggested to my agent that we could try shaking things up a bit, and for some reason, he is willing to humor me, but when it comes to writing something a little more realistic than I’m used to, I find my imagination coming up short. So, I’ve come up with a solution, and I need your help.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I’ve decided there’s only one way to solve my problem. I need to do some hands-on research. I need you to have sex with me.”

And that was the moment I sprayed my mouthful of soup all over the #1 bestselling author Jordan Kepler.

7

Jordan

Ishouldn’tbehere.I should just turn around and go home.

I was sitting in my car, staring up at the sign that read: Golden Years Retirement Center. I wasn’t exactly sure how I’d ended up here.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true… I’d propositioned Drew.

I must’ve shocked him, because he spat his mouthful of soup at me—tomato, which left an orange spatter across the front of my shirt. I tried to talk to him about it, but he was thoroughly embarrassed and quickly packed up his food and practically ran out the door.

And that should’ve been the end of things.

The logical side of my brain said I should’ve just let him leave, chalk the whole experience up to me being ridiculous and too forward, and then never see him again. But I couldn’t seem to forget about it. I kept replaying the whole conversation in my head, over and over. I had nightmares about it. But it was thegooddreams that were the real problem.

I had this fantasy where I suggested we have sex, and Drew was like, “How about right now?” Then he swept his arm across the surface of the table, knocking everything to the floor in a fit of passion. He tore my clothes off and laid me out right there on the table to feast on, regardless of the room full of customers eating their lunch.

When I thought about it, I wasn’t really certain how Drew felt about me. First, he’d insulted my writing, then he’d given a really great apology. He’d agreed to eat lunch with me, which he then spat in my face and fled. Such mixed signals! Not to mention the fact that, when he stood from the table in a rush, I was fairly certain he’d had a boner…

And so, against my better judgment, I put together what information I knew about Drew and tracked him down. At the bare minimum, I needed to apologize, but I wasn’t quite ready to throw in the towel yet. I thought I might still have a chance with him.

As I got out of the car, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants, I concluded it was far more likely that he would be royally pissed I’d invaded his privacy.

“This is such a bad idea,” I groaned as the glass double doors slid open ahead of me.

There was a desk in the entryway, but the chair was empty. “Hello?” I called, looking around. There was a long hallway in front of me, lined with doors, but I assumed those were the residents’ private rooms. I heard voices coming from the right, so I turned in that direction.

I didn’t pass a single person in the hall. Where was everyone? Maybe they’d gone out somewhere, like on a fieldtrip or something? As I approached the open door at the end, though, I heard one familiar voice—Drew. It spurred me on, my smile widening. But there was something odd about his inflection, like he was giving a speech or something.

As I stood outside the door of what was likely their multipurpose room, his words became more distinct.

“‘Cedric’s skin was smooth as silk and tasted like cream as I ran my tongue across his chest. His pert nipple beckoned me, and I drew it into my mouth, laving my tongue over the hard nub. He writhed beneath me, whimpering. “Please, Ritter,” he begged. “I need you.”’”

My jaw dropped. I knew those words. Those weremywords! Drew was reading my book!

I peeked into the room, and sure enough, Drew was perched on an armchair at the back of the room by the window, a fluffy gray cat curled up in his lap, and in front of him were probably 20 seniors, all listening to him read. Drew held the book open with one hand, and with the other, he lazily stroked the cat. Everyone was thoroughly into the story. No one noticed when I edged in and sat down in an empty chair to listen.

Drew was a great reader. He accentuated the words perfectly, adding voices for the different characters, and his warm, deep voice vibrated through me, making a beeline for my heart. When I heard my words from his lips, I found I didn’t hate them so much.

As involved as everyone was with the story, ten minutes passed before Drew glanced up from the page. At first, he just scanned over the residents, but then his eyes stopped on me. “Jordan!” he choked out, jumping to his feet and dumping the cat on the floor. The poor creature blinked a few times, then sat down and started preening to fix its mussed fur.

The seniors, now alerted to my presence, turned to see what Drew was looking at. “Oh my gods!” a woman with rollers in her gray hair exclaimed, slapping a hand to her mouth. “You’re Jordan Kepler!”

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