Two hours of watching horrible acting, and I still have nothing and am beyond irritated.
I’m searching through photos of Tom Hardy, who is my physical-feature muse, when there’s a knock on the door.
Whoever is there had better watch out because they’re about to get the brunt of my frustration.
I look through the peephole and see the impossibly handsome face of my neighbor.
I swing the door open with more might than I probably should. My eyebrows are raised, and my hand is on my hip.
“There you go, interrupting my work hours again,” I announce.
“Damn, you really know how to make a guy feel wanted,” Jake says in a roguish reply as he strolls in my apartment.
I roll my eyes and drop my arms to my sides as I close the door and follow him into the kitchen.
He leans against my counter as he takes an olive from my snack dish and pops one in his mouth. “It’s past ten. Office hours are closed.”
“Nonconventional job, remember? I can’t just clock out when the bell rings.”
“That’s the reason people dream for careers like yours—so they aren’t slaves to their desks when they should be out, partying.”
“What makes you think I don’t have hot plans tonight?” I ask with a defiant crossing of my arms.
He’s smirking as he stares at my yoga pants and oversize sweatshirt while he looks amazing in his slacks and button-down.
“Do you?” He raises his eyebrows in question.
“I’m on a deadline, and I’ve finally connected with my characters. I can’t desert them now,” I lie.
“Ah, another fictional boyfriend. Who’s your hero? Let me guess. A charismatic thirty-year-old florist from Chicago?” he asks wistfully, like he’s talking about himself.
“Nice try.” I laugh off his idea as I round the kitchen island. “Wait, you’re a florist?”
“Moreau Flowers, fourth generation. You sound surprised.”
“A little.”
He doesn’t seem to be bothered by this as he continues, “At least tell me your literary hero has dirty-blond hair and chocolate-brown eyes that make you melt.”
Yep, he’s describing himself.
“Readers like their men to have dark hair and blue eyes.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It’s the truth. I polled my Facebook group, and it was practically unanimous. You’re not their type.”
It’s a lie. Based on looks alone, Jake is every woman’s type. If I were to write him into a book, I’d say he was an Adonis of a man. With his chiseled jaw, full lips, fit physique, and a smile that gleams from his eyes, women become weak in the knees with just a glance. His charm and wit would make a woman fall in love instantly.
All, except for me.
“Admit it, Lace, I’m everyone’s type. And before you make a joke about how conceited I am, what I mean to say is, I’m a people-pleaser. Diplomatic. Tactful. I’m a total catch.”
“You mean, catch and release.”
His eyes squint as he looks over at me suspiciously since a neighbor knows more than anyone else about the comings and goings from a home. “Clever.”
When I moved into this building, he was the first person I met. Sure, he was standing in the hallway, wearing a towel around his waist and saying good-bye to a woman who looked like she’d slept over after their first date, but he was welcoming and cordial, even inviting me in for a welcome-to-the-building drink. I refused, of course, because no sane woman follows a half-naked man into his apartment. He appeared a few nights later, asking for sugar. I told him that sounded like a bad introduction to a porno.
I glance at the clock and sigh. “What are you doing here anyway?
“I need lime. The woman who owns the yoga studio next to the flower shop swung by to talk cross promotion. She wants a cosmopolitan, and I’m out of citrus.”
“A rather intimate and late business meeting, don’t ya think?” I say with a knowing grin as I walk to the refrigerator.
He levels his gaze at me. “You’re judging.”
“What is there to judge? Other than the fact that she drinks cosmos when Manhattans are the superior drink.”
“Just because an attractive woman—whose name is Natalie, by the way—wants to come to my place for a drink does not mean she’s throwing herself at me.”
I grab the tiny green bottle and turn back to him. “Never said she was.”
“Your face implied it.”
“So, you don’t plan on taking her to bed?”
“I probably will end up sleeping with her, yes. But we’re adults, living the single life in our early thirties. It’s healthy. Based on your judgment, I take it, you haven’t had a date in a while.”
“I have plenty of men ask me out on the regular.”
“I have no doubt that you do. I just never see you leave here with anyone. Or get dressed up for that matter.”
I tap my foot on the floor and bite my lip while I try to think of something witty to say back, but what’s the point? I have nothing to hide.
“For your information, I’m just as happy, being here on a deadline, wrapped up in my fictional world for the evening, than being with a man who is a waste of my time.”
I push the bottle of limejuice into his chest—a tad bit forcefully—and walk over to the couch, where I was working.
Propping my feet up, I put the laptop back on my thighs and look at the screen. I’m about to start typing again when the cushion next to me dips with the weight of the man taking a seat beside me. When I glance up the bottle is sitting on the counter looking like a forgotten thought.
“What are you working on anyway?” He slings his arm behind me, resting it on the top of the couch.
I roll my head toward him. The scent of his cologne is so damn sexy. I wish he’d bathe in fish oil, so he’d have at least one repulsive trait.
“Don’t you have a date next door?”
“She can wait five minutes. You seem like you can use the company. You’re awfully on edge.”
His eyes curve in concern as he smiles. I know I’m being short with him, which is unfair. I just get so anxious when I start a new book, especially when I have no idea where it’s going.
“I’m finishing up a three-book series about brothers. The first hero was a badass racecar driver. The next was this enigmatic CEO, and now, I’m at a total loss. I need him to be bold yet gentle. Sexy yet down-to-earth. He has to be … dreamlike.” Yes, even I hear the wistfulness in my tone.
“You do realize, these guys aren’t real, right?”
I pop my head over with a scowl. “Better than anything I’ve ever met in the flesh.”
He puts his hand to his heart and acts like he’s been shot. “That’s cold, Lace.”
“I’m sure you’re heartbroken.”
“You have no idea.” The way his eyes glint with a closed-mouth smile makes him seem sweetly endearing. “Maybe I can help. Tell me about what you’re writing now.”
“Are you sure you have time?”
“You look like you need a hand.”
I’m taken aback by his interest in my books. It makes a small grin spread across my face. I sit up straight. “Well, I’m messing around with a scene, just to get a feel for my characters. Tanner—”