by Ines Johnson
I’d never written the male POV before. I had no clue what men thought. I was a romance writer, not a mind reader. But apparently men’s perspectives was all the rage now; dual POV and in the third person.
I’d dug myself into the corner of writing a sexy book. Now, I was deep in the trenches having to convince the reader I knew what men thought. My back was between a rock and a hard place.
And then I saw his email.
At first I thought it was just a new fan. The sender’s username was “[email protected].” The subject line from the browser read, “I enjoyed meeting you”. That caught my attention because I hadn’t done any reader events or conventions in months.
Dear MK,
I enjoyed meeting you the other day. I picked up one of your books and read it last night. I wasn’t too surprised that I enjoyed it. As I’m sure you could tell, I like the way you describe things.
I’m sorry you were embarrassed by what happened between us. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and you should be proud that your body can achieve that kind of reaction. Most women would kill to be so in tuned with their bodies.
Your breasts were magnificent to hold. I don’t know if it was my imagination, but it was like they got bigger the more I touched them. That’s probably wishful thinking on my part. I’m dying to know what color your nipples blush. I wonder if they turn the same pink as your neck and cheeks did? My favorite part of our time together was how your breathing changed. I read in your book about hearts fluttering. Your breath did that when you came. I felt the shudders all over your body.
Anyway, I hope we can still be friends. I liked talking to you as much as I liked watching you come. If you need anymore help with your book, hit me up.
~Crow
I felt the tingles in my breasts reading his words. My heart pounded in my ears when he reminded me of the flutters I’d felt all over my body. My nipples hardened when I reread the part where he wondered about their color. I wanted him to see that he was right. Even though my hair was brown, my skin was fair and my nipples did turn pink when they hardened. They were likely almost red now.
He wanted to be my friend. My eyes blurred on that word. The letters jumbled and rearranged themselves into something more.
Not only was the man a poet. He’d told the story through a male’s perspective. And he’d offered to help me again. It was low hanging fruit. But the question was should I reach for it?
Chapter Eight
Every girl dreams of her wedding day. In my head, I saw myself standing on a beach.
No, wait. Scratch that. That was my sixteen-year-old dream.
As a twenty-four-year-old woman, I saw myself standing on a hilltop overlooking a body of water; probably a lake. I didn’t wear white. Even though I could because, well, I qualified. But it was not the best color on me.
Instead, I wore a light purple, princess cut gown. The bodice was strong enough to manage my girls. It cinched at the waist and then flowed down my curves giving me a semblance of an hourglass shape. I had a ton of tendrils curling around the nape of my neck. I wore a tiara because my fiancé had a habit of calling me his princess.
But it was a wedding which meant there were some unpleasant parts. My mom would manage the whole thing and be the equivalent of a bridezilla, or whatever the term was for a mother-of-the-bride-zilla. My sister would complain the whole time, insisting that my wedding was costing more than hers. Her children would act out and whine and fidget during the procession. Her husband, if he showed up, would forget to turn off his cellphone. It would ring during the ceremony and he’d disappear to take the business call. My dad would give me away. Later during the reception, he would sneak off with some widow from the groom’s side.
But it didn’t matter. I understood, even in a dream, that weddings were for the family and friends. Marriage was for the husband and wife. The wedding itself lasted the day, but the marriage, my marriage, would last forever. Just like my grandparents.
I’d never seen Gram and Pop have an argument. They’d never spent the night apart. And they were always there lending support to each other.
In my head my father was already gone from the rented hall. My mother trolled the dance floor complaining about him to anyone who would listen. My sister’s husband pulled off in his two-seater convertible to take care of business, leaving my sister to tend to her rowdy bunch all on her own.
But in my dream, standing before my new husband, we’d get lost in each other, not in the chaos. Standing before the reverend, he’d tell us we could seal our vows with a kiss. I would run my hand through my husband’s blonde hair and-
“Mary Kate, I said we’re pushing up your publishing date.”
I had tuned out my editor over the phone. But, with the news she delivered, I tuned her back in.
“We’ve already been thinking about covers,” Moira said. “I hate the whole bare chested, six-pack abs craze. But the hell if it doesn’t sell. We’ll be booking a cover shoot in the next month.”
“Wow, so soon,” I said. “I haven’t even finished the first draft.”
“You’ve never let us down before,” said Moira.
I was out of the slow lane with the new authors and back in the fast lane where I belonged.
“If there’s one thing I can say about you, you’ve never missed a deadline. Not once.”
That was true. I was a consummate professional. I’d heard of other authors in the publishing house pushing their due dates back by months. I always had my manuscript in early. I didn’t understand what those other authors did all day? My days were spent with my butt in the chair and my fingers on the keyboard.
I didn’t have much of a social life. I didn’t date often. The men in real life could never compare to the one's in my head. I’d never been one for girls night, much preferring to curl up with a good book and a warm cup of tea.
“Where did all of this inspiration come from?” asked Moira. “Is there a new guy?”
Moira and I weren’t the best of friends. We weren’t actually friends at all. But I wound up opening my mouth. “It’s very new.”
Funny that; I said its new, even though in my mind Christopher was completely entwined in my life. I’d had a pretend baby within an hour of meeting him. I had to rewrite that initial story to get the ring on my finger. A week later, in this new fantasy world of marital bliss, we were back from our honeymoon with child number one cooking in the oven.
“The facts always make the best fiction,” said Moira. “If you’re writing without an outline, I’d like to see the next three chapters soon. And I’m looking forward to reading the hero’s perspective.”
Right. That.
I got off the phone with Moira and stared at the blinking cursor. My butt was in the chair. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. But nothing came.
I didn’t know how to think like a man. In my books, men did everything I told them to do. They first acted aloof, not saying anything to my heroines. They sometimes behaved like jerks. But, I, as their creator always knew they were hiding feelings and leaving their true desires unsaid, just like Fitzwilliam Darcy, the ultimate hero. At the end of the stories, also like Mr. Darcy, the men came up with poetic grand gestures that would wipe my heroines’ minds of all the bad times and send her into their arms for a happily-ever-after.
That was simply how things were done in the world of romance.
But with this manuscript, I was supposed to write from the male’s perspective. I had no clue how to do that outside of the grand speech at the end. Who knew what men thought day in and day out?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a quarter hour. My butt squirmed in my seat. Finally, I switched from my word processing program to a web browser.
Christopher had left his phone number in the email, but I’d hesitated in calling him. His words were lovely and sincere. A great view into the male perspective. There was something between us, I knew it. I’d written enough about chemistry to know whe
n I saw it in real life.
But he was clearly a player. He’d told me to my face that he slept around. I was a smart girl. I knew our fantasy marriage couldn’t exist outside of my head.
Could it?
My cell phone rang. I grimaced when I saw my mother’s name on the caller ID.
“Principal Stafford was very disappointed not to meet you, Mary Katherine.”
“I don’t know why? He was your guest not mine.”
“He’s very handsome,” said my mother. “And single.”
“Well, that’s good for him. I’m sure there will be many female teachers looking out for that. Or single mothers.”
“A girl like you could do much worse.”
I nearly hung up.
“He’s looking for a new English Literature teacher, and since you’re unemployed…”
“I’m not unemployed,” I rose from my seat and crossed my arms over my chest, tucking the phone between my cheek and chin. “In fact, I signed a new publishing contract.”
The phone went silent, but I could hear her roll her eyes and groan. I felt a lecture coming. So, I preempted it.
“And I’m seeing someone.”
That may not have been the right thing to say. But at least I didn’t get a career goals lecture. Instead, my mother launched into a thirty minute, one-sided conversation trying to draw out the details of my new relationship.
I wasn’t seeing Christopher in the dating sense. But I decided I would see him in the literary sense. I pulled up the email with his phone number.
I didn’t think my parents would approve of Christopher. His mom owned a sex shop for God’s sake. He drove a fast, sports car and not a sensible town car. I had no idea what he actually did for a living -that is, if he worked outside of his mom’s shop. Maybe he was unemployed?
Could I be one of those modern women who supported her man? It had ripped apart my parents’ marriage. But then again, I saw no joy in my sister’s marriage where she was the one supported by her husband who offered her no support in her work as a homemaker.
My mother and sister weren’t bad people. Not really. My mother did charity work. My sister was on the PTA and volunteered at a food kitchen for the homeless. Maybe it was my dad and brother-in-law who were the bad guys?
Christopher seemed so self-assured. In fact, he was so self-assured that he thought nothing of getting two women into his bed. Which meant he was predisposed to cheat. I clicked the red X on the web browser, closing his email.
God, what was I thinking?
I knew nothing about this man I’d married and had one and a half kids with in my head. Yes, I was already pregnant with the second. Imaginary-me really liked sex.
In my mind, I packed a bag and backed out of the picket fence. I pushed aside my silly dreams and fantasies of a blue-eyed man with an angelic face and a mischievous grin. In the real world I opened my word processor and went back to my manuscript.
An hour later I was even more frustrated. The words were not coming. Especially not the words in the male point of view. I still had no clue what men thought. That’s why there were always big misunderstandings in my stories. The heroine would misinterpret the hero’s intentions until the last chapter of the book where they would finally sit down and have a heart-to-heart where he cleared everything up.
The male character in this manuscript was not following any of the plot points I’d set out for him. I wanted him to chase after my heroine, but he stood in the crowd of his friends watching her with an unreadable expression on his face.
I wanted him to call her up on the phone. But her phone never rang.
When I tried to peer into his head, I got nothing.
I had to get this story done. My livelihood depended upon it. I shoved aside my keyboard. I picked up my phone and dialed. It rang four times before anyone answered.
“Watchers Crew Auto and Detailing.”
I pulled the phone away from my face and compared the number on the computer screen to the number on my cellphone’s screen. I’d assumed this was Christopher’s cell phone. But it appeared to be a business line to a mechanic’s shop. Was that what he did for a living? It would make sense with the fancy car he drove.
“Is Christopher there?”
“Christopher? There’s nobody here named – oh wait. Crow! Phone.”
There was audible juggling of the phone, and then I heard his voice clear across the other end of the line. It reached down into the core of my being and lit a fire. It curled up into the top of my head and shined a light on the fantasies I’d tried to turn off.
“MK?”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Only my mother calls me Christopher, and she has my cell number. What’s up?”
I took a deep breath and prepared to deliver the speech I’d practiced in my mind.
“Oh wait,” he said. “I forgot to tell you.”
Forgot? We hadn’t spoken in days. But here he was talking to me now like we were old friends that just got off the phone earlier this morning.
“I was watching this movie last night. It was called A Walk to Remember. It’s based on a book by another author. I don’t know his name?”
It was one of my favorite books. I knew the author’s name.
“Yeah,” Christopher said, “Nicholas Sparks, that’s it. It made me think about you.”
Christopher was thinking about me when I wasn’t there? And he thought about me in the same stream of consciousness with one of my favorite movies and books. In Sparks’ book there was a misunderstood bad guy with a heart of gold who befriended and then fell for a shy and modest minister’s daughter. The hero gets the minister’s daughter out of her shell and helps her find her voice. In return, she becomes his path to redemption.
I wondered what sparked Christopher’s comparison between me and Mandy Moore’s character? Was it that she was introverted but full of hope? Was it that she turned the hero’s bad boy ways around? Was it that she tried new things with him? Things she never imagined herself doing?
“The hot, shy chick was like that character in your book I read. It just sucks that the shy chick dies in the movie. So what’s up? How’s the writing going?”
“I… it’s… I’m blocked.”
“You want some help?”
I pressed my thighs together. Beneath my t-shirt, my nipples hardened into tight pebbles.
“I can be over in a couple of hours,” he said. “Give me your address?”
I pressed my lips together, but somehow the coordinates to my apartment found a way out. Belatedly, I wondered how he planned to unblock me? Was he coming over to unblock the plot or the barrier to my core? I decided to deal with it when he got here.
Chapter Nine
I changed clothes three times, making a wasteland of my closet. I reined my model behavior in when I began contemplating underwear. There was no way this guy would see my underwear. Still, I wore a black lace set beneath a blue sundress that was near the color of Christopher’s eyes.
Dressed, I went into the kitchen and marinated two chicken breasts. I chopped some red potatoes and veggies to roast. I chilled a bottle of wine. Then I sat and worried that Christopher would be the kind of guy who drank beer.
I checked the clock. Did I have time to go out and pick up some beer? Did I know what brand of beer a guy like Christopher would drink?
The doorbell rang.
I raced down the hall in my wedge sandals and flung the door open. Christopher stood on the other side. He was dressed casually in jeans and a crisp, white-collar shirt. There was a devilish glint in his eyes and a curl to his lips.
“Hey, MK.” He reached out and brought me into his arms. “I missed you,” he said into my ear as he squeezed me to him.
Every plan I had went out the door as he stepped into my apartment and closed the it behind him. I was thankful I’d worn the nice underwear.
He released me and rubbed his hands together like he was preparing to dig into a hearty meal.
“So, where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“The manuscript,” he said. “I can’t wait to see what you wrote.”
“You want to read my first draft?”
“How else would I get you unblocked?”
I broke eye contact, disappointed that he’d come over to help with my work instead of trying to get me worked up.
Through my disappointment, I noticed he had a package in his hand. The package had the logo of his mother’s shop on the front. He set it down on the table. “You left this behind the other day.”
It was the book and the DVD from the sex shop. I hadn’t pulled up another porn website since the day I’d gone to Holly’s shop. I couldn’t bear to watch those women with the vacant eyes act as though they enjoyed the pounding of those men into their most sensitive areas. Especially not now that I knew exactly how sensitive those areas were. I didn’t understand how someone could fake the wonder that was an orgasm.
Christopher walked over to my desk, which housed my laptop. “Is this it?”
He hit a key to wake up the system. It opened to my manuscript. He pulled out my chair, sat down, and started reading.
My feet were immobile. I’d never seen a man read my work. I’d never thought of men reading my work. No one had ever read from my laptop. No one had ever even touched my laptop.
I watched Christopher’s fingertips as they caressed the scroll pad. He used his thumb to adjust the angle of the screen for his viewing pleasure. At one point his eyes widened. At another he grinned. Then he laughed.
He turned to me with a grin, then his nose wrinkled. “Is something burning?”
My eyebrows squished together at his question. My nose wrinkled when I smelled the smoke. I dashed off to the kitchen to save the potatoes. As I set them in a serving dish, Christopher came in.
“It’s really good,” he said.
I turned with serving spoon hand. “You finished?”
He nodded. “I learned to speed read when I was a kid. I always wanted to go outside and play sooner. I was home-schooled.”
