Total pages in book: 8
Estimated words: 7167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 36(@200wpm)___ 29(@250wpm)___ 24(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 7167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 36(@200wpm)___ 29(@250wpm)___ 24(@300wpm)
“I am not a literary lawyer, per se, but I can handle your contract. Do you have it with you?”
“I do,” she says, pulling a file folder out of her giant purse. She slides it across the table to me. The folder is covered in bright pink flamingos. That’s definitely a first.
“What kind of book is it?” I ask as I open the file.
“It’s an erotic modern retelling of Pride and Prejudice, called In Vain.” Erotic. Could this woman get any hotter?
“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. Jane Austen had a way with words,” I say, thankful my mother read my sister and Me the classics when we’re growing up. Again, her eyes widen.
“She did,” she says, nodding. “Most men don’t quote Ms. Austen like that.”
“I think you’ll find that I am unlike most men, Ms. Meyers,” I reply.
“I am beginning to see that,” she says.
“Let me look over the contract tonight. Can you come back tomorrow, around the same time?”
“Sure. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing, please. It’s on the house.”
“Surely, an attorney of your caliber requires a retainer.”
“Normally, but as I said, this is on the house.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fredericks. I will see you tomorrow.”
“Warren, please,” I say, extending my hand to her. She shakes it. That one touch tells me she’s going to be mine.
As soon as she’s out of the office, I check my calendar and realize the rest of my day is free. I drop her file into my briefcase and head out to the nearest bookstore and grab a copy of her book. I don’t give a fuck if she is a client, come hell or high water, I will be a bachelor no more.
Chapter Two
Hilda
Oh. My. God. I still can’t catch my breath. Outside his office, the hustle and bustle of Linden Avenue passes me by as I lean against the building I’ve just come out of. I have never been so… moved by a man before. Hell, I haven’t even been with a man since I was in college. As it was nothing to write home about, I started writing about the men that fueled my fantasies, and it’s been very lucrative indeed. Back then, I was a chubby, shy nobody. I'm still chubby, but I'm a lot more sociable than I used to be. I had to be. As an author, I couldn't be a hermit, not if I wanted to meet my readers, which I did. I have the best readers in the world. They love me no matter what kind of insane, depraved storylines I come up with.
But I’ve never actually met a man who outshined my fantasy until now. I fan my face. I know it’s beet red. I adjust my bag and force myself to walk away from here. I get to come back, and tomorrow I won’t be dressed like a little old lady.
After getting an Uber, I head back to my apartment in Powellhurst. It’s not fashionable, but it’s home. Growing up in Portland, I made the decision that I’d live in Seattle one day. That was a long time ago now. It never panned out, but maybe in the future. Inside, I change into pajamas, feed my cat, Trixie, and grab my laptop. Getting comfy on the couch, I work on my next indie novel.
Man, I am heading for spinsterhood. Ugh. Back to my current book boyfriend, Tyler. Fireman, sex god extraordinare. I am almost done with this book, just a few chapters left, and it’s off to the editor. The next thing I know, it’s six o'clock, and there’s a knock on my door. I haven’t ordered dinner yet, and no one ever visits me. My parents hate coming into the city, so I know it’s not them. When I open the door, I am surprised.
“Mr. Fredricks?”
“Warren, please. May I come in?”
“Um, yes, of course,” I say, stepping aside.
“Thank you, Hilda,” he replies. It’s the first time he’s said my name, and I love it.
“What can I help you with?” I ask, looking down at what I am wearing. You have got to be kidding me. Holey pants with sheep on them and a white tank top that’s two sizes too small. And, of course, it’s covered with spaghetti sauce stains.
“I read your book,” he says, pulling a copy of In Vain from his pocket.
“You read my book?” I ask, confused.
“I did.” He gives me no indication of what he thought about it, but I have to know.
“And?”
“You should sign the contract and write more things like this.”
“Okay,” I say as if it were ever a question of not writing more books.
“Can I buy you dinner?” he asks, totally surprising me. Surprising me would be an understatement.