by Lauren Runow
If there ever were a home that told a tale, it is this one. And this home is about love, especially when you see the picture frames on table after table of their baby, who entered their world three years ago.
I put Aubrey down on the floor in her toy corner, and she immediately starts playing with her doll, putting her in a cradle and rocking her to sleep. I pat her silky black hair and give her a kiss.
On the coffee table is a photo of Charisse and me, taken about six years ago. She was the first friend I made when I moved to the city. We were working at a production company when we hit it off as great friends. Fast-forward a few years later, she told me she was sick of waiting for the perfect woman to come around and wanted to have a baby on her own. Being a mother was the only thing Charisse had ever dreamed of, and she didn’t want to put it off for another moment. I gave her my support and my time, even meeting her during her lunch breaks to give her hormone shots for her fertility treatments.
Two months into the pregnancy, she met Melody. Not only did Melody not care that this fabulous woman she was falling in love with was pregnant, but she also wanted to be part of the journey. They married a year later, and the rest is history.
“Wine or water?” Melody asks as I take a seat on one of the barstools around the oversize island that separates the kitchen from the living room.
“It’s always one or the other, huh?”
“The drink tells us what’s really going on in that head of yours.” She winks, and Charisse gives an agreeable shrug.
“Vino it is.” I give in with a mock motion for her to make it a heavy pour, and the two women laugh.
While Melody pours, Charisse sets out a tray of meat and cheese. “What are your troubles, Miss Rivers?”
“The words aren’t coming, and the ones that do all suck.”
Melody tops off a glass for me and then pours a second tall one for herself.
Charisse leans over and looks at the pour with exaggerated eyes. “You having writer’s block, too, Mel?” she teases.
“I”—Melody places her hand on her chest—“am being a good friend who doesn’t leave another friend to drown in her sorrows alone.”
“Oh, okay. So, I take it, I’ll be making dinner while you two sorrow it up?” Charisse shakes her head.
“Sounds good,” Melody responds as we clink glasses.
“For the record, she’s my friend. No stealing.” Charisse smiles as she opens the fridge and takes out a brick of Pecorino Romano.
“No fighting, ladies. There’s plenty of my crazy to go around. Here, give me the cheese, and I’ll grate it for you.” I reach over the counter in offer to help.
Charisse hands me the brick, grater and a glass bowl. “I’ve been with you since you published your first book, and I’ve never known you to have a problem with telling a story.”
Melody agrees, “That’s right. The two of us are always amazed at how you create these worlds and story lines. It’s like we want to crawl into your head and be a part of the brilliance.”
I give her a kind smile. “Says the woman who is a brilliant attorney. I want to be in your head for a day.”
Melody cheers glasses with me again, which has us both taking another sip.
With the brick of cheese in my hand, I start to run it over the sharp edges of the grater. “I think I’m just inside my head too much with this series. The first book was a huge success, and then the second book became an instant best seller. I have readers emailing me nonstop, saying how much they love these novels and that they can’t wait for the conclusion. This morning, a woman messaged me to say she is taking the day off of work on release day because she’s that excited to read the final installment. There’s so much pressure for this story to top the first two that I feel like my head is going to explode.”
Charisse leans on the counter. “You got this, Lacey. You’re an award-winning writer. The first two books came so easily to you. What makes this one different?”
I sigh before looking up at them. “I think I’m running out of ideas.”
Melody laughs. “No way. With that imagination of yours? You could write for a hundred years and still surprise the hell out of us.”
“It’s like I can’t picture the guy in my head. I don’t know who he is yet. What his quirks or mannerisms are. I don’t even know if he likes wine or whiskey.” I go back to grating, frustrated and taking it out on the cheese.
Charisse takes the brick and grater from me. “Okay, we only need enough to put on our salads. We’re not making a lasagna here.”
I chuckle under my breath as I drop my chin to my chest. “Why is my brain on lockdown?”
“Maybe it’s because you haven’t actually been on a date in eons. Have you thought about that?” Charisse asks as she puts the cheese away, taking out the romaine. “When was the last time you went on a date?”
I blow her off. “I’ve been on plenty. To a gala at an art museum, dinner on a rooftop in San Francisco—”
“Those were fictional dates in your books. When was the last time you went out with a real man?”
I grab my glass, almost too embarrassed to answer. “Not since Michael.”
Melody’s jaw drops as she looks at her wife, who nods in a knowing way and turns to me sympathetically.
“Honey, the asshole left five years ago. No wonder you’re running out of ideas. You have nothing to spark your imagination,” she says.
I purse my lips. “I read books and watch movies. Plus, I watch my couple friends. I have plenty of inspiration,” I explain.
“Why don’t you let me set you up with Tommy? He’s a good-looking guy and a successful accountant,” Melody suggests.
“Oh, he’s cute. Lacey, he’s totally your type. Thick, dark hair and these amazing hazel-greens. The whole package,” Charisse says with a glimmer to her eye.
“You are not hooking me up with a finance guy,” I deadpan.
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a businessman. Hell, you’re always writing them as these hot dominants in the bedroom. Shit, he might even be able to save you some money with those crazy-ass quarterly taxes you have to pay.” Melody nods while pointing at me with her glass in hand.
I shake my head and take a gulp. “You know, I’ve always considered you my favorite couple because you’ve never tried to set me up with someone. It’s as if the world can’t handle a twenty-eight-year-old woman without a love interest.”
Charisse pauses her chopping and tilts her head while resting the knife on the counter. Her expression has just morphed from best friend to concerned mother. “You can’t stay single forever. It’s been five years. I get it. I was there when Michael left and fucked up your world, but that was just one guy. I swear there are good ones out there. Don’t turn into your mother.”
The problem with having close friends is you let them into all aspects of your life. Even the parts you don’t want to talk about.
I’ve been content these past five years, living my life the way I want. I like not having to answer to anyone, and I don’t need a man to make me happy. Yes, my mom hasn’t dated anyone since my dad walked out on us, but that’s her choice. And this is mine.
I try to lighten the mood by laughing when I say, “Coming from the girl who’s never liked guys.”
Charisse throws a strip of lettuce at me. “Totally different, and you know it. I just hate seeing you not even trying to get back out there.”
I play with my glass, pretending to think about it even though I’m not really. I have no interest in dating. Not anymore. My book boyfriends are all I need. This one just isn’t talking to me yet. I know he will eventually.
Melody nudges me and says with a sweet tone, trying to lift up the mood, “Come on. You’ll like Tommy. He’s really sweet, and he totally understands what it’s like to have a broken heart. His girlfriend walked out on him last year. I have his number. I can set you guys up.”
It’s not that I haven’t ever wanted to meet someone and fall in love. Be
ing married and having children have always been the end goal for me. I love love, and I love children even more. It’s just hard to explain to others who are living the blissful life how I feel about the possibility of experiencing heartache again.
A telephone rings in the distance, and I realize it’s coming from my cell phone in the foyer. I jump out of my seat, anxious to get out of this conversation of a potential blind date.
Taking my phone out of my purse, I see Wendy Walcott—my agent—on the screen. Ninety percent of our conversations happen over text or email, so the fact that she’s calling me at seven on a Saturday night is not a good sign.
“Hi, Wendy.”
“So,” she sings out, “how’s it going?”
“Everything’s good. Really good. The manuscript is coming along,” I say, sliding my hand in my jeans pocket.
Then, I hear Charisse cough out from the kitchen, “Liar.”
I walk around the corner to give her the evil eye, and they both laugh, so I walk back down the hall to get some privacy.
“That’s awesome because I have huge news for you. I’ve been shopping you around to a bunch of publishing houses. Winston Arms just returned my call, and their editor read your books and is loving this series. She said they’re looking for a new author to sign on, and she thinks you might be a perfect fit for their readers.”
My hand flies to my mouth as I take in the magnitude of this moment. Winston Arms is one of the premier publishing houses in the country with an imprint dedicated to the romance genre. Anyone who signs with them becomes an instant New York Times best seller.
“Oh my God, Wendy, this is huge!”
“Honey, this is beyond huge. If you sign with them, you’re talking a massive signing bonus and royalties that will make you drool.”
I pump my fist in the air as the excitement builds up in my body, making my eyes well up. Being a self-published author has been amazing, but I’ve been dreaming about being signed to a publishing house. I could extend my reader base and get my books on the shelves of bookstores.
“What’s the next step? Do they want to meet me?” I ask.
“They want to read you. They’re looking to sign you to a three-book deal, but all is contingent on how you close out this series. If you can outsell the first two books in the series and show you have the stamina, then they’ll sign you on the spot. I told them that’s a no-brainer. Talked you up big time. I said I’ve already seen the pages and that the writing is brilliant. Now, don’t make a liar out of me. When can I see the first half of the book? Can you get it to me by the end of the month?”
I inhale a sharp breath and pull on my bottom lip. If I thought disappointing my readers was giving me writer’s block, this monumental moment—in which my entire career is riding on—is sending me into writer’s shock.
“Three weeks? I don’t think I can—”
“Girl, this is the big leagues. They’re looking for a writer who can do the work and do it fast.”
Fast. Well, I have always thrived under pressure. Maybe this is the boost I need.
“Sure. Yeah, I can make that happen.” It’s a lie. There’s no way I can get forty thousand words out by the end of the month. Maybe if I had a story, but right now, it feels impossible.
“I’m so excited for you! I know it’s crazy to call on a weekend, but I just had to let you know. I can’t wait to read this one. The youngest brother has been such an enigma in the first two books. I loved the secrecy of him, and I can’t wait to see what you have planned.”
I smack my palm to my forehead.
He was an enigma because I didn’t know who he was either.
“Yep, you’re going to love him. He’s the best yet,” I lie through my teeth.
“Great! Okay, well, I’ll let you get back to your writing. Have a good night.”
“You too.” I hang up and drop my head to my chest.
When I walk back into the kitchen, Charisse and Melody are staring at me with a mixture of excitement and curiosity, wondering what my phone call was about.
While I want to laugh—and cry—about the opportunity that is within arm’s reach, I throw my hands up and declare, “I’m so screwed.”
Chapter Three
Another day passes, and I have a document with only five thousand words total. Sadly, most of it is a recap about the first two books in case someone jumps in now and hasn’t read the previous two. It’s total crap because no one wants to open a book and reread old stories. I’m resorting to bad habits in storytelling, and I know it.
I’ve written six books in my short writing career, and I’ve never had writer’s block like this.
I’ve tried everything to get out of it.
My day started with music while I cleaned my kitchen. Often, if I do something mindless, like scrub the floors, I can clear my head, and ideas come to me like magic. After my entire apartment was spotless, I still had no clear picture of who this guy was going to be.
I tried going for a jog, and then I tried centering myself with yoga. Neither helped.
As I hopped in the shower, I was sure the premise would come to me. I’ve had my most amazing plots pop in my head while I lathered shampoo through my hair. Not today though. I stood there until the water was cold and my freshly shaved legs were getting goose bumps from the shivers running over my body.
With my coziest writing clothes on and my hair in a high, slick bun, I light a candle and decide I need to immerse myself in research.
Authors are always posting about how if their computers were ever stolen, people would be sure they were serial killers. It’s true. In my career, I’ve looked up how to pull off the perfect murder, unique sex positions, and how to commit money laundering. Us authors need to make sure there are no holes in our plots, and the dark World Wide Web leads the way.
I open my browser, like I have a million times before, except, today, I’m not searching how to hide crimes. I’m looking for bad porn—the kind that actually has a story line that most people will fast-forward through to get to the good stuff. Not me though. I’m dying for any twists or turns that could spark an idea.
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.”
