The Romance Plan: Cupids: Book 5

by Lila Monroe

  “No, I meant, moving in together!” April snorts with laughter. “It’s only been six months!”

  “Still, that’s a big deal,” I say, a little envious. “And meanwhile, you and Wes are still going strong?” I ask Katie.

  She gives a smug little grin, the kind you give when you have hot sex on tap. “I mean, the man drives me crazy, but that’s not necessarily a good thing.”

  “Ugh.” I sigh. “And I mean that in the best of ways.”

  Katie laughs. “Don’t write yourself off so quick,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “I have a good feeling about this hot boss sex robot of yours.”

  I’d love to spend all day boozing with Katie and April, but technically I suppose I am supposed to be working, so I switch to water before heading back to my “home office”—by which I mean, my laptop and my couch. A change of scenery—and some quality girl talk—really did help clear the cobwebs out of my brain, and I’ve made some pretty good progress on the book when my email dings with a new incoming message. I feel my stomach flip with excitement when I see an email from Verity, with the completed manuscript of Rock Hard attached!

  Yes!

  I grab a seltzer and a snack, then light a candle, wanting the ambiance to be perfect as I feast my eyes on the first new work from Verity Lange in half a dozen years. I settle in to read, my chest fairly heaving with anticipation, but I’m barely ten pages in when I feel my face fall and my heart begin to sink.

  This book is bad.

  Like, really bad.

  The plot is one of her trademark soapy set-ups, following a woman with a dark past being blackmailed to get dirt on the heir to a luxury jewelry empire… Only to fall into his arms—and his king-sized bed. But despite the juicy conflict, and all Verity’s usual dishy tropes, something about it just doesn’t feel right. I push on, wondering if maybe I’m just not in the right headspace for romance right now after everything that happened with Liam. But the deeper I get, the more the pit of dread in my stomach begins to grow. It’s definitely not just me, I realize slowly. The twists are boring. The dialogue is flat. And the hero is…

  “Flaccid,” I mutter. The very worst thing for a hero in a romance novel to be!

  Maybe my taste has changed, I wonder? Or maybe Verity was just never the superstar I thought she was? But no, that can’t be right. I get up off the couch and head over to my overstuffed bookcase, running my index finger along the colorful spines until I find my well-loved copy of Passion in the Sands, Verity’s first book. The pages are waterlogged from a dozen bathtub reading sessions, the corners dog-eared, and faded cover half-torn off. Right away it falls open to my favorite scene, and before I know it I’ve devoured fifty pages, desperate to see what happens next even though, of course, I already know.

  I set the book down on the glossy hardwood floor, leaning my head back against the bookcase. I wasn’t wrong. Verity’s books are incredible. Her writing was sharp and transporting and incredibly sexy, once upon a time.

  So what the heck is going on with Rock Hard?

  I dig out my phone and dial her number, but there’s no answer. I shoot off an email, trying to strike the appropriate combination of cheerful and concerned, but by the time I log off for the day—and I’ve forced myself to slog my way through the rest of the manuscript—I still haven’t heard from her. And when I wake up the following morning, my inbox is still stubbornly empty.

  I get dressed and drink my coffee and pace the tiny apartment for a while, trying to figure out what to do next. I feel anxious about Verity and itchy over Liam, like the whole city is suddenly closing in on me. Liam made it clear, Verity is my problem—and he expects me to deliver.

  That’s when I get an idea. If the game won’t come to me, I’ll just have to take myself to the game.

  An hour later I’ve rented a car and am cruising out toward Long Island, the windows rolled down and Taylor Swift cranked all the way up on the stereo. I sing along defiantly, remembering Liam’s sour judgment last time around.

  Is it weird I’m missing his scowly, handsome face?

  I shake off the thought. I have way more important things to worry about, like this stinker of a manuscript Verity just turned in. I pull up the long, winding driveway that leads to the house that Romance built, and park, bracing myself for battle.

  I find Verity sitting by the pool in an enormous pair of heart-shaped sunglasses and a straw hat the size of a flying saucer, a gauzy robe wrapped around her waist. “Eliza, dear!” she says, when the male model butler leads me out onto the deck. “This is certainly a surprise.”

  Is it? I wonder. After all, I only called about a dozen times. Still, I just smile. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping in like this,” I tell her, perching on the edge of a lounge chair beside her. “I was just so excited to talk about the pages!”

  “Really?” Verity looks over her enormous shades at me. “Which part did you like the most?”

  “Well…” I pause. “The characters were very… vivid. And, um, the plot… Well, it certainly kept right on moving…” I’m grasping for anything complimentary to say, when Verity snorts.

  “Oh, come off it, honey,” she tells me with a sigh. “I know why you’re really here. Admit it: they’re crap.”

  I blink. What?

  “Oh!” I say, feeling my cheeks get warm. “I—no! I wouldn’t say that at all.”

  “You might not say it, but that doesn’t make it any less true.” She reaches for the neon blue cocktail on the table beside her and take a long, defeated slurp. “You know they’re crap, I know they’re crap, and thanks to your boyfriend’s obsession with deadlines, pretty soon the entire world is going to know that I’ve lost my mojo.”

  My what now? I’m about to object to her description of Liam, but I’m guessing it’s not the time.

  “The truth is, I haven’t been able to write anything decent in years,” Verity continues dramatically. “I’m a has-been. The artist formerly known as Verity Lange.”

  I’m shocked into silence for a moment, both by the words themselves and by the fact that she’s admitting defeat this easily. This is the mother of modern romance. This is Verity Lange, whose books were my saving grace growing up.

  “First of all, you’re not a has-been.” I insist. “Every author runs into a few… road-blocks, sometimes.”

  “Try a damn landslide,” Verity corrects me.

  “Second of all, if you were having trouble, why didn’t you say anything?”

  “What should I have said?” Verity asks, sitting up a little straighter. “Sorry, peaches, but I’ve spent through my entire advance, there’s no way I can pay it back, and the only thing this manuscript is good for is a toilet paper shortage?”

  I cringe, I can’t help it. I mean, it’s not like she’s wrong. “Let’s not panic,” I tell her—hoping I sound authoritative, talking to myself as much as her. This is my job on the line—and the jobs of all my friends, and the entire future of the company—but I have to think clearly. “I can help you.”

  “You can?” Verity looks extremely dubious.

  “Of course,” I tell her, mustering a smile. “I wasn’t kidding at dinner the other night when I said I was your number one fan. I remember exactly what made your books so great. If we put our heads together, I’m sure we can come up with something.”

  A flicker of hope passes across Verity’s face. “You really think so?” she asks, and suddenly, she sounds like every young author I work with, just needing some encouragement to get back on track again.

  “I know so,” I vow, crossing my fingers that it’s true.

  She nods. “I’ll go get my idea book,” she says, looking cheered. “And have Alejandro come peel us some grapes.”

  “That sounds… great,” I tell her. “Whatever helps the creative process!”

  My phone chimes with a text as she’s swanning back into the house. Liam again. Where are you? he wants to know. FYI, I don’t generally condone working from home for extended periods. I find
it cuts down on productivity.

  I’ll show you productivity, I think, my eyes narrowing. Still not feeling well, I type. Picked up a nasty bug somewhere. I think I’ll be out the rest of the week.

  I set my phone to Do Not Disturb before dropping it back into my purse. Hopefully, by the time he figures out he’s not about to catch whatever I’ve supposedly got, Verity and I will have enough chapters that it won’t matter.

  “All right!” Verity says, appearing on the pool deck again. She’s changed out of her bathing suit into a flowy sundress cut low over her enormous bosom, a pair of rhinestone glasses on her face. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” I tell her, hoping it’s not written all over my face that I have no idea what I’m getting myself into, that I’m nowhere near as confident as I sound. “Let’s get to work.”

  12

  Liam

  Eliza is out sick for the rest of the week.

  It should be a relief—after all, now I can finally buckle down and get some work done without her presence around the office pulling me away from the work. But try as I might (and believe me, I do try) I still can’t get her out of my head. I keep thinking I see her out of the corner of my eye: getting coffee in the kitchen, pressing the button for the elevator in the lobby. One morning I follow what I think is the scent of her perfume all the way down the hallway and around a corner—

  Before bumping right into Irma, our seventy-five-year-old copyeditor.

  Our payroll meeting is scheduled for Thursday morning, so I pick up an extra-large black coffee on my way into the office. I settle myself in a hard-backed chair in the conference room—I had all the leather ones removed to discourage dawdling in meetings—and try to concentrate as I listen to our team of accountants report glumly on even more budget shortfalls.

  I try to pay attention. After all, this is important information for me to have, but we’re barely ten minutes in before I find my thoughts drifting to that night in Eliza’s apartment.

  That mind-blowing, incredible, sexy-as-hell night I can’t seem to forget.

  I remember her quiet moans and the way she clutched at my shoulders, the rhythmic feel of her body contracting around my fingers as she came. I’ve replayed the encounter over and over in my head dozens—maybe hundreds—of times in the last few days, and it still hasn’t lost its power over me.

  Because hell, that might just have been one of the sexiest moments of my life… And I didn’t even take off my pants.

  I reach for my coffee, hoping the caffeine will help me focus. I know I was an idiot to walk out of her apartment like that. But what was I supposed to do? She’s my employee—for as long as I can keep the company running, anyway—and I’ve got a job to do here. I can’t let my feelings for her get in the way.

  Still, I can’t help but imagine in full Technicolor detail what might have happened if I’d stayed, instead of running out like my hair was on fire. If I’d swept her up into my arms and spread her out on her bed, taken my time peeling her dress down her body until finally, finally—

  “Uh, Mr. Sterling?” One of the accountants is looking at me curiously. “Did you want to weigh in on this?”

  Shit. I’ve been spending too much time worrying about Verity’s book, clearly. I’ve got romance novels on the brain.

  “Yes.” I blurt, trying to pull myself together. “Let’s look at the footnotes on page six…”

  The meeting wraps up not long after that, thank goodness, but instead of heading directly back to my desk and parking myself there for the foreseeable future, I find myself wandering by Eliza’s office. I stand in the doorway for a moment, gazing at her empty chair, her darkened computer screen. Inappropriate and unprofessional thoughts aside, I can’t help but be a little worried. She’s been out sick all week. What if I’ve been lusting after her, while she’s laid up with a nasty bug?

  I call her cell to check in, but it goes directly to voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message, and try to decide on a course of action. The obvious answer is to do nothing… But I don’t like the thought of her alone. Being sick solo is the worst. And there’s no reason I couldn’t swing by her place to check on her in person. In a strictly professional capacity, of course. After all, what if she’s got something serious? If the whole office needs to be quarantined, I ought to find out as soon as possible.

  Impulsive? Yes.

  Stupid? Probably.

  But I just can’t help myself.

  I stop by a specialty foods store and pick up some soup on the way over, plus a baguette and some fancy tea. I might not be much for social graces, but my mother taught me that much. But when I ring the doorbell at Eliza’s building, there’s no answer.

  I stand on the steps for a moment, debating my next move. I’ll admit, I didn’t really come all the way over here out of fear Eliza was lying feverishly on the floor of her apartment, unable to call for help. But now I’m starting to worry. Could something really be wrong?

  I’m pulling my phone out of my pocket to try calling her one more time, when a pretty dark-haired woman comes downstairs and out the front door, an NPR tote bag slung over one shoulder. “Uh, excuse me,” I say, trying to look as little like a serial killer as humanly possible, “do you happen to know if Eliza is home?”

  The brunette shakes her head. “I know she’s not, actually,” she says. “I’m her friend Maddie. I was just here to feed the cat.”

  “Eliza has a cat?” I don’t know why that surprises me.

  “Well, not technically,” Maddie says. “It’s a long story. Anyway, she’s not here. She’s is having some kind of crisis with one of her authors and she went out to Long Island to get it sorted.” She smiles. “Would be nice if everyone’s work crises involved holing up in a fabulous beach house for the week, am I right?”

  That stops me. “She’s with Verity?” I ask.

  “Um.” Maddie’s eyes narrow, like she’s realizing all at once that she may have said too much. “Sorry, I—” She breaks off. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “I didn’t,” I admit, sticking a hand out. “I’m Liam Sterling.”

  “Oh, crapwaffle.” Maddie grimaces, clapping a hand over her face. “Look, please don’t tell her I told you where she was, okay? I know she’s determined to handle this whole thing on her own.”

  “What whole thing, exactly?” I ask, my suspicions rising.

  Maddie shakes her head. “I’ve gotta go; I’m late for, um… a bikini wax. Yeah. Okay, bye!”

  She all but sprints away, but I stand where I am for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell is going on here. If there was some kind of crisis with Verity—especially one that needed to be handled in person—why wouldn’t Eliza have told me about it so I could help?

  Possibly because you’ve spent the last two weeks telling her that her job depends on everything going 100% smoothly, an annoying voice in my head reminds me.

  Ugh. I feel like a complete and utter ass.

  I have to sort this out, and quickly. Because I’m betting the bank on this new Verity book, and any delay is unacceptable.

  And anything that keeps Eliza out of town isn’t great, either.

  I hop back into my car and make the drive out to Long Island. I ring the bell but there’s no answer, so I wander around back to the pool deck, where sure enough I find Eliza, who by all appearances is in perfect health. She’s stretched out on a lounge chair, pecking industriously away at a laptop.

  Wearing a string bikini.

  And nothing else.

  I can’t help but stare at her for a moment, her long tan legs and the flat planes of her stomach, round breasts encased by a pair of spandex triangles that leave very little to the imagination. Just for a second I imagine untying the knot at the back of her neck, ducking my head to her nipple, and—

  “What the hell are you doing here?’ she yelps, seeing me standing there for the first time.

  I clear my throat, trying to ignore the sensation of all the blood in my body ru
shing southwards. “I could ask you the same thing,” I manage, trying to sound stern. “Especially since I’m not the one who’s been lying to my employer all week about being too sick to come to work.”

  Eliza’s eyes narrow. “I am working,” she says defiantly. “And I can explain.”

  “How, exactly?” I raise my eyebrows.

  Eliza sighs. “Look,” she says, lowering her voice and motioning for me to come closer. “Verity sent me the finished manuscript for Rock Hard earlier this week.”

  “She did?” Right away I feel myself brighten. “We’re still way ahead of the new deadline. That’s great news!” But Eliza isn’t smiling. I pause. “Isn’t it?”

  “Not exactly,” she says, and I can tell from her tone that she’s trying to soften the blow. “We’ve got… a ways to go with rewrites before the book is ready for the world, I think. Or before the world is ready for the book.”

  “I see.” I try to keep my voice steady. “So how much of the book is done, exactly?”

  “Conservatively?” she asks. Eliza winces. “None of it.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I exclaim, my voice rising.

  “I wish I was,” she says, then lays it out for me bluntly: The book is a train wreck. Excruciating. Utterly unpublishable. “I’ve been here for days trying to get things back on track,” she finishes. “But Verity is… temperamental.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I protest. “I mean, according to you, this woman is a legend. Everything she writes turns to gold.”

  “And I stand by that assessment!” Eliza insists. “She’s going through a creative dry spell, that’s all.” She sighs. “Look, I know you wanted this turned around ASAP. But I think if we can just give her until the fall—”

  “The fall?” I gape at her. “There’s no way.”

  Eliza sets her jaw. “You don’t understand how publishing works, okay? This schedule of yours is completely insane—”

  “This schedule of mine is hardly the only chance she’s had to put words on the page,” I counter. “She’s had years!”