Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
“Oh, we’re talking about the Paleolithic era again. I do love your dinosaur tales. Continue.”
He ignores me, whipping off his black glasses and setting them on the sleek metal table. “It’s got everything I want in a sexy rom-com. The mix-up with the laundry when the laid-back hero gets the uptight one’s washed and folded clothes, but then they discover they wear the same Rafe Rodmans and that throws them both into a tizzy. Hello! Hot underwear can distract even the most disciplined man!”
“Especially if it’s yellow with fox illustrations on the waistband,” I offer with a grin.
“Who knew laundry could be so sexy?”
Me. I learned it last week with Jude. “Dude, dryers. Am I right?”
Mason waggles a finger at me. “And the blanket-shopping date. Where did you come up with that? That was brimming with sexual tension and flirting. Also, why are there blankets in literally every store?”
“Everywhere, blankets are multiplying. So obviously, blankets are banging,” I say, seconding my laid-back hero’s thesis. Also, these fictional guys I’m writing aren’t carbon copies of Jude and me—no one would ever accuse me of being laid-back, and Jude Fox is not uptight.
This is my imagination cranking.
But Jude certainly helps.
“And then that scalding-hot kiss in the back of the SUV while they drove around the city.” Mason brings his fingers to his lips in a chef’s kiss. “It was hate-kiss perfection. And I was like, ‘Tremaine, you sexy beast. Get over here right now, hubs.’”
That’s the highest of praise. “I’m like lube, Mason.”
“Top-shelf lube at that. Anyway, after I read the pages, I took the liberty of talking you up to Brooks & Bailey this morning,” he says.
Shit. I was kind of hoping to stay off my publisher’s radar until I was done. Like maybe they’ll collectively have professional amnesia that I’m a year late with my book.
“And?” I ask, my nerves tripping over themselves.
“Amy Summers sent this over. Think of it as a motivational gift.” He heads to his desk to grab an orange ceramic mug then thrusts it at me. Inside the mug is a fox—my editor loves mugs with animal head figures at the bottom. Creature cups, she calls them. I smile, then unwrap the piece of paper around the fox and read her note.
Dear TJ,
Reading your books is like drinking a vanilla latte and finding a cute ceramic fox at the bottom of the cup. I can’t wait to read your new romance and discover what delights await readers on the pages! Carry on and have all the coffee!
Xoxo Amy
“Aww. I’m gonna post it on Insta when I go to Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium later today. This is like the nice editor’s way of saying don’t fucking miss a deadline again,” I say, tucking the mug into my messenger bag.
“I see you haven’t lost your ability to read between the lines. Keep those skills sharp.”
“Always.”
“Now, don’t rest on your laurels. Don’t get complacent. Keep it up. Write, write, write. At the pace you’ve set the last five days, I think you could finish this in a month.”
Has he lost his mind? “Seriously?”
Judging from his blank stare, the answer is yes, seriously. “You’ve written sixteen thousand words,” Mason says. “That’s more than three thousand words a day. Do I really need to say I was right or is it patently obvious? You needed some dates. I sent you on some.”
He’s . . . not wrong.
Dating Jude did inspire me.
But not until we cleared the air and fucked it out.
That was when the words began to flow. Words have flown faster since our just-for-us date on Sunday.
“You sure did,” I tell Mason, but I don’t dive into the truth. Fake dating didn’t motivate me. Real dating did. Maybe because my heart is no longer imitating Han Solo in carbonite.
“See? A little make-believe never hurt anyone.” Mason strides to his desk, rapping his knuckles on it. “By the way, you’re a damn good actor. The pics of you and Jude make it look like you’re enjoying his company a lot more than a ball waxing. But hey, maybe you get your balls waxed at a different kind of place than I do,” he says with a wink.
“I am enjoying it,” I say, not sure why I need to defend my fake romance to Mason.
“Good, good,” he says quickly, then pats the table. “Let’s chat about Web—”
“I mean it. Jude is—”
Mason tilts his head, curious. “Easy on the eyes, like I said? Fun? Gentlemanly?”
He’s all of that, but the words barely cover Jude. “He’s great,” I say, and even though it’s true, it tastes like a lie, acrid and bitter.
I don’t want to bite into this taste again.
“Listen, I talked to Robert Walsh at Webflix last night, and they just snagged Sebastian Lowe to play opposite Christian,” he says.
That’s quite a coup. Sebastian’s latest movie is a critic’s darling. “Sebastian is great,” I say.