Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
They are just fictional characters in a fictional novel that in no way reflects real life.
“Okay. So, what did you have in mind?” I eventually question. “What did I say that triggered this detour to the book?”
“Flaws,” Chase responds without hesitation. “People have them.”
“Yes…they always do.”
“Which means your characters should too. And right now, Clive Watts doesn’t have many.”
I roll my eyes. “Clive has flaws.”
I mean, he’s got to. I always give characters their special brand of quirks, and there’s no way I wrote this guy any different…right?
“Name one.”
I search my mind, scrolling through the chapters from the book. “Well, in the scene with…” I pause. “Oh, that time that the other producer…” I stop again. “When they go for a swim in the pool in…” Yet another pause.
“He makes right of every situation immediately.” Chase verbalizes my thoughts.
I frown.
“Even in the breakup scene with River, he sees the error of his ways, and at the base of it all, he’s trying to protect her.” He reaches out to pat my hand that rests on the table. His touch makes the nerve endings in my fingertips zing to life. “All I’m saying is to take another look at this guy. Give him some human mistakes—some tiny annoyances. It’ll make the book that much better.”
Oh, you have no idea what you’re asking me to do.
“Don’t look so sad,” he adds. “Everybody’s got flaws, remember?”
I almost sigh, but when a little “Cheer up, Brooke” chuckle leaves his perfect mouth, I find myself smiling instead.
I’ll tell you one thing—Chase’s laugh doesn’t have any flaws at all.
Chase
La Croissette is packed to the brim, but I hardly notice the chatter of the other guests around us, but that’s probably because my dinner partner has kept me wildly entertained with her infectious laugh and sense of humor.
The dim but cozy lighting only makes Brooke look more enchanting beneath its glow, and it makes me wonder if she knows how beautiful she really is. She’s good at laughing at herself in the best way, a truly endearing quality, but I don’t know if she truly understands how she looks from other people’s eyes.
Does she know she’s an incredibly attractive woman?
The thought pulls me up short, and I mentally berate myself. She’s one of my authors, for fuck’s sake. The last thing I need to be doing is taking inventory of her allure.
Brooke’s green eyes are filled with light and humor, and her hair hangs past her shoulders in soft waves. She reaches out to take a sip from her glass of wine, and I find myself watching the way her full lips perch around the edge.
It’s a good night. A great night, actually, and everything feels pretty damn perfect.
Everything except for the fact that my sister Maureen keeps peeking her head out of the kitchen door every other minute. Currently, she is trying to get my attention or stare actual holes through my skull, I’m not sure, but I refuse to engage.
Instead, I focus on Brooke.
She sets her wineglass back on the table and glances toward Benji for a brief moment before meeting my eyes again.
“Okay, I’ve got one for you.”
A smile is already on my lips. “Hit me with it.”
“What did the writer say to the other writer?” Brooke asks, setting up another joke I’m sure will have me snorting my Old Fashioned through my nose. But my sister’s eyes have turned wild now, the top half of her body hanging entirely out of the kitchen door, and I’m not sure how much longer I can let this go on without the entire restaurant erupting into a scene.
Mo’s arm waves like she’s ushering in a 747 for a low-visibility landing, and when she puts two fingers to her lips in what I’m sure is preparation for a whistle, I interrupt Brooke.
“You know what? Can you hold that thought?” I question, but it’s entirely rhetorical. She’s going to have to hold that thought or else my sister is going to make a scene in her own fucking restaurant. “I’m really sorry, but I need to run to the restroom for a minute.”
Brooke’s eyes widen in surprise, but other than that, she takes my weird bathroom emergency behavior in stride. “Uh…yeah. Sure.”
I smile as genuinely as possible and jump up from the table, my legs churning toward Mo like a New York Marathon runner.
“Get back in the kitchen, for God’s sake,” I say through gritted teeth, grabbing her by the elbow to force my suggestion into action as I get to her.
We tumble through the swinging door like a couple of newborn horses, and at least three kitchen staffers jerk to a surprised halt. Mo ignores them, the rabid nature of her obsession superseding even her own business.
“What are you doing here with Brooke Baker?” she asks with big eyes and an even bigger, over-the-top, and super-unnerving clownlike smile. She might as well be all teeth and eyeballs. “Does she know you have a sister? Does she know this is my restaurant? Did you bring her here to meet me?”