I swallow. “You can tell that just from looking at me?”
He leans closer, so close that I can feel the heat pouring off his chest and smell the mint on his tongue. His breath tickles my ear as he whispers, “A real man has patience when it comes to women. Not just the ones he wants to bed. He listens. That is what makes a sensual lover.”
My heart pounds against my ribs as he settles back, and that grin of his graces his face once again as I rub my thighs.
“You should get back to Natalie,” I say.
He blinks at me, as if he almost forgot he had a woman waiting for him in his apartment. “And you have to get back to your pretend boyfriend.”
He rises and walks toward the door.
“Have fun, Tanner.” I wave sarcastically and then point toward the kitchen. “Don’t forget your lime juice.”
He reaches toward the counter and raises the bottle. “Thanks.” When he gets to the door, he opens it and then pauses in the threshold, turning back to me. “Night, Lacey girl.”
He leaves, and I let out a heavy breath. My skin prickles, and my pulse is racing. Jake’s visit definitely threw me off, and I need to re-center and focus.
I look back down at my computer. That cursor is still blinking, taunting me.
Daring me.
Glancing over at the door, I think of Jake and wonder if he’s right.
Maybe my hero should be an artist. Someone patient. Someone who can read body language.
I put my laptop away, pull out my notebook, and start jotting down notes.
Hopefully, my romantic hero will come to life very, very soon.
Chapter Four
“Lacey Rivers! Oh my God, I am your biggest fan! The Suit is my favorite of all your books, although The Racer is a close second. I need to know when the next book is coming out.”
I smile at the woman standing in front of me with a rolling cart full of books. Peeking down, I can see she has all of my novels with her for me to sign.
“I’m aiming for a January release. I’ll announce the date soon,” I reply kindly as I take a book from her and start to sign it.
My marker is getting dull, so Charisse, who is acting as my assistant for the day, hands me a new one.
“Thanks.”
“The youngest brother is such a mystery. I can’t wait to see what you have in store for him,” the fan, whose name is Jenny, gushes.
“Me too.” I’m smiling as I hand her the book.
She’s the twentieth person I’ve had in line at this signing at a local bookstore, and it never ceases to amaze me how people take time out of their day to see me, spend their money on my words, and reiterate some of the lines that touched their souls. When one fan showed me a quote from Fire and Gold tattooed on her skin, I knew I’d made the correct decision on following my dreams and publishing that first book as an indie release.
With all the books signed, I walk around the table and take a photo with her in front of my banner, the six-foot sign with my name on it. I’m one of twelve authors here today. It’s a small signing but a good one. To my left is a mega-famous author, who even I am fangirling pretty hard over. She has so many readers here today that the store owner had to give out tickets to help with crowd control at her line. Someday, that will be me. For now, I’m pretty damn happy with the turnout.
So far today, I’ve reconnected with six of my closest reader friends in the area, finally met a blogger who has been incredibly kind to me, and come face-to-face with the best readers a girl can have.
And they’re all dying to know about my next book.
“Does the new book have a title?” another reader asks.
I sway my head from side to side, deciding on if I should wait or let her in on a little secret. “The Artist,” I lean in and whisper not so softly.
The women in line swoon at the sound of it, and I hush them, asking them to keep mum about it until I make a formal announcement.
Charisse turns to me, surprised. “The Artist? I like it. Where did you get that from?”
I sign the next book and hand it to the reader. “My neighbor inspired it.”
She curves a brow as we stand up, so we can take a picture together. I do, and then we take our seats again.
“Which neighbor? Wait. The one with the towel who you met when you first moved in?” She snaps her finger as if trying to remember his name. “Jack?”
“Jake,” I correct her and greet another reader.
Charisse smiles like the cat that caught the canary. It’s distracting.
“Why do you look like you have gas?”
She rolls her eyes. “Because your hot-as-hell neighbor inspired your next title.”
“You don’t know he’s hot.”
“Yes, I do. You’ve mentioned him in the past. The seafoam-green towel—”
“Why is that detail so important to everyone?” I muse. “Never mind. So, yes, he’s cute.”
“If you’re saying cute, then he’s hot as fuck,” she says loudly and then apologizes to the woman standing at the table, getting her book signed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t mind me,” the woman says. “I’ve read plenty worse in this one’s books. So …” The reader looks down at me and says rather loudly, “Tell us about the hot-as-fuck neighbor.”
I widen my eyes to Charisse in a now, look what you’ve done way. “He’s a handsome gentleman who just happened to give me an idea. That’s all.”
Charisse looks at the reader and explains, “I have it on good authority that he has six-pack abs and is a thirst trap.”
“You should put him on the cover of one of your books and bring him to signings,” the woman suggests, and I chuckle
