Page 22 of Room 1212

“Well, I could—” I had no answer for him. “Those are bad examples.”

“Okay, well, what about this one. It says, ‘The book didn’t fit into the series.’”

“That’s a valid comment.”

Drew speared me with a sharp look. “Jordan, this book isn’t part of a series.”

I huffed. “Maybe they mistook it for one of my other books.”

“Or maybe they’re entitled to their opinion, but it shouldn’t make a difference to how you write your stories. You can’t please everyone, it’s impossible. If they don’t like your books, nobody is forcing them to read it. You have plenty of fans who love your books exactly as they are. Like this one. ‘Jordan’s books are a go-to for me. They’re always guaranteed to make my heart happy.’ The site only lets her give five stars, but in the review, she says she’s giving it eleventy, however many that is, but I know it’s more than five.”

I shrugged. “It’s nice to hear, sure, but I’m in the middle of trying to rebrand myself. Now is the time to find out how I need to change. Like, maybe I should try writing some historical fiction… but focus more on the history and less on the half-naked alpha.”

“History, yes, good idea. Sounds thrilling, a bestseller for sure,” Drew said sarcastically. “Or you could write a textbook, I suppose. Math never goes out of style, and no one will fault you for not being creative enough. Plus, textbooks go for more than a hundred bucks. No more of this ten-dollar garbage.”

“Ass,” I said, laughing. I looked around for something to throw at him, finally settling on a decorative cushion, thwapping him across the chest with it.

Drew caught the pillow, and I ducked, preparing myself for a return attack, but instead, he fluffed it up and laid it on his chest, then dragged me over until I was lying on it. Then he went back to his murder mystery, his free hand draped over me, tracing patterns over my skin. “I don’t see why you need to change. You’re perfect the way you are.”

His compliment made me feel tingly, largely because of how casually he’d said it, but I refused to be distracted by some pretty words. He would never be able to understand. He wasn’t in the public eye, under constant scrutiny. There would always be seniors in need of care, so his job was secure. My entire existence depended on whether my fans felt like I was worthy.

And considering even my own parents didn’t think I was worth loving, why should I expect unconditional acceptance from a bunch of strangers.

I had been staring into space for a while, when I suddenly blurted out, “Maybe I should just quit.” It wasn’t the first time I had considered it, but I wasn’t sure how serious I was about it. It would solve a lot of my anxiety, but would it make me happier? Probably not. My stories were always clawing at my insides, begging for me to let them out, and I didn’t know how else to cope with them.

Drew set his book aside and brought his second arm around me. I couldn’t see his face in this position, and it was maybe better that way, so I didn’t take it personally when he said, “Jordan, have you maybe… considered talking to someone? Like a therapist?” I could hear how he was trying extra hard to keep his voice gentle, not judging. “After everything your parents put you through, I think it’s only natural if there are still some unresolved emotions.”

I shook my head. “A psychiatrist would take one look at me and prescribe pills. I can’t take anything and not have it affect my writing. I’ve tried before. I can’t even take suppressants for how they kill my muse. Besides, why would I need a therapist when I have you?” I teased to lighten the mood, except he didn’t laugh. Instead, he tightened his hold on me, nuzzling behind my ear, breathing me in. When he held me like this, I didn’t know how I was supposed to react. It was like he was trying to keep me here forever, and I was tempted to let him.

“Did you know that Maya Angelou had imposter syndrome?” he murmured.

“She did?” That had to be a lie, something to make me feel better. There was no way such a decorated author could possibly suffer from this kind of anxiety.

“Mm-hm,” he said. “Every time she releases a book, she said she feels like people are going to find out she’s a fraud.”

“I didn’t know that,” I whispered, my throat tight. “That’s so sad.”

“Another name you might recognize, some guy named Albert Einstein had imposter syndrome too. He said he felt like he had swindled people.”

I let out a surprised laugh. “But he wasn’t even an artist.”

“Right? It’s almost as if nobody is immune to self-doubt. Hard to imagine the theory of relativity without Einstein. Then where would gravity be?”

“So much for escaping my anxiety by writing a math textbook,” I sassed, rolling over onto my stomach so I could look up at Drew. “Thank you,” I whispered up at him. “Somehow, you always know how to make me feel better.”

“That’s right, and as your therapist, I think you need a distraction. Come on, let’s go.” He gently moved me aside so he could stand up from the couch, then he reached for my hand.

“Where are we going?” I asked, though I was already following him.

“I have a distinct memory of you promising me sex toys, so we’re going shopping.”

My eyes widened alarmingly, and I sputtered, “I can’t be seen at a sex shop!”

“Oh. Right. I hadn’t considered that.” Besides our short stop at the dance club, we’d spent all our time indoors, and I didn’t think the same disguise would work in a well-lit setting. “Well, then how about we browse online. We can have it delivered.”

I could feel my smile returning, and I reached for where he’d put my phone. “Yeah, okay. That could be fun.” And we didn’t even need to get dressed to do it.

I tried to browse the online catalog with subjective distance—what kinds of scenarios could I put in a book?—but I couldn’t help the way my body heated, my cock thickening. I kept adding items to the cart, and with each one, Drew groaned with need. A blindfold, bondage cuffs, a tapered butt plug with a vibrating insert, as well as an assortment of oils and flavored condoms.

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