Chapter One
He walks into the room, and there’s a sinful glare to his eyes. One that makes me stop and grow weak in the knees.
“I can’t want you, Tanner,” I breathe.
“Why not?” His voice is a whisper, but his eyes are shouting at me in challenge, willing me to tell him why I’m fighting this urge to lean forward and kiss him.
I want to tear his clothes off his body and ride out our lust-filled attraction until we’re in a sea of bliss, and yet the only words I can utter are …
…
…
Fuck.
I have no idea what to write next.
When I decided to become a romance novelist, it was with high ideals of living the dream. Sleep late. Spend my days at leisure. Write when I was in the mood. And pump out page after page of literary magic.
Boy, how naive I was.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had soaring success as Lacey Rivers, indie contemporary romance author, hitting Amazon’s Top 10 list twice. But now, I’m suffering from an author’s worst nightmare.
Writer’s block.
I look down at my laptop and the blinking cursor that’s taunting me.
“You can do this, Lacey. Just get the words on the page,” I say to myself as I shake my body to reinvigorate the creative juices. Then, I start to type.
“Why do you deny this feeling?” His lips nip the lobe of my ear.
“Because I don’t believe in love.”
He pulls back and looks down at me with a deep scowl. “How can you say such a thing?”
“I can’t believe in something that doesn’t exist.”
Oh, for the love of Tom Hardy, even I know this is trash.
I once went to a seminar where Jodi Picoult said, “You can’t edit a blank page.”
That has become my motto and one I’m practicing right now. It’s complete drivel, what I’m writing, I know. But I just have to get it out. Put the pen to paper.
I start again. To my surprise, I get a vision of a romantic couple in an angsty exchange, and the scene starts to unfold.
Yes. This is it!
The words are pouring out of me now. Just let the characters guide you. Feel their—
Boom, boom, thump!
I close my eyes in frustration. “You have got to be kidding me,” I groan.
The sound of loud music coming from the shared wall of my apartment is deafening. Okay, maybe it’s not that loud, but it’s distracting as all hell. I look at the clock and see it’s nine in the evening, which means this could be the start of hours of raucous partying.
Boom, boom, thump!
With a huff, I place my laptop on the couch and get up. It pains me to do so when I was finally getting lost in a scene.
That’s why I love writing. Screw the real world and everything that comes along with it. Give me my laptop and a glass of wine, and when I’m not having writer’s block, I can get lost in writing my next novel for hours—boom, boom thump!—until someone relentlessly blares music for all to hear.
I exit my apartment and walk next door. My knuckles vibrate with how hard I knock. In fact, my fist is still moving as the door opens, and I’m greeted by the devilishly handsome smile of the man who lives next door.
Jake Moreau.
“Hey, Lacey. Want to come in for a drink?”
His grin is panty-melting for sure.
I’ve lived next door to him for a while, and his attractiveness hasn’t gone unnoticed. Lean yet muscular build, swoonworthy eyes the color of chocolate, and the perfect angle of his jaw, which is rugged and pretty, all at the same time.
Clearly, I’ve been preoccupied with describing my literary heroes because I’m currently spending way too much time appreciating how good-looking Jake is … and not the problem at hand.
“Do you mind turning the music down? I’m trying to work.”
His brows curve in concern. “Sure, but I have friends over. It’s Friday night. Most people like to unwind after a long week.”
“Yes, agreed. However, I don’t work a conventional job, and my hours go beyond the nine to five.”
He grabs the top of the doorframe and leans into it with his full mouth puckered in interest. “What are your hours?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes, ten to four, and other times, noon to ten. They fluctuate.” I shrug.
“Well, while you’re sleeping in until ten in the morning, the rest of us have been up and are four hours into our workday.”
My jaw drops as I wonder if I should be insulted or not, but then Jake lets out a loud laugh.
“I’m teasing,” he says, nudging me in the shoulder. “You’re so serious. If you want me to turn the music down, I will.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I turn to leave, but he stops me.
“What do you do anyway?”
“Do?”
“For a living. The job with unconventional working hours?”
I inwardly cringe, not because I’m embarrassed of my job. In fact, I’m damn proud. I just get weary of the reaction I get from men when they learn I write sultry love stories. The response is sometimes crude.
“I’m an author.” I adjust my feet in the carpeted hallway.
“Wow. That’s awesome,” he says, genuinely impressed. “Anything I might have heard of?”
“No. I write romance. Not something you’d be interested in.”
I start to back away, but he follows me into the hall.
“What makes you think a man wouldn’t read romance?”
I briefly close my eyes then open them and try to explain, “It’s women’s fiction.”
He shrugs. “I believe in love at first sight and kisses that make your heart pound. And trust me when I say, I wouldn’t blush at a sex scene.”
The way his eyes smolder as he says the word sex sends a shiver through my body. I need to bottle his baritone and re-create it in a love scene.
His words surprise me, too, since I’ve seen the amount of gorgeously dressed women who come roaming in and out of his apartment. He doesn’t seem like the guy who is looking for a commitment.
“Well, if you don’t mind just giving me two hours, that would be awesome. Don’t stop your party, just don’t blast the music.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in? Not even for one drink?” he asks again, motioning toward the partly open doorway.
There has to be a dozen people inside, if not more. They’re all laughing and drinking, unwinding after their long day at the office, I imagine. I’m envious of them actually. I’d kill for a drink right now and a coworker to commiserate with.
“Maybe some other time.” I spin on my heel and head to my door.
As I step inside my apartment, I see Jake has already entered his own and closed the door.
Sighing, I walk around my home, past the galley kitchen that looks into the living room. I grab my laptop off the couch and walk it over to my desk by the window. The crescent-shaped moon is bright tonight. The kind that movies use when depicting dreams. It makes me smile, seeing as I have many dreams of my own that I wish to come true. My main dream is taking my career to the next level by being represented by a major publishing house. I’d become the author my mother would be proud of, and I’d have job security that would help plan for my future.