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.”
“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
