CHAPTER ONE
Lacey
An open document, a blank page—every author’s worst nightmare. So much for plotting a new story before classes start tomorrow.
I let my head fall back onto the tree trunk. Its stately limbs are usually inspiring when slipping into whatever fantasy scene I’m scribbling, but today the angled knots irritate me.
Relax, Lacey. It’s just a tiny case of writer’s block.
A ping sounds on my tablet, and a new email notification flashes on the bottom right of my screen.
Giselle’s name sits like an omen at the top of my inbox, sending a spike of anticipation—or anxiety—through my veins. Is it a good sign when an editor gets back to you within three hours of receiving a manuscript?
I click the email to open it and read the first line.
What was that?
I cringe. A bad sign, apparently…
I’m a little confused. Romance is supposed to inspire, titillate… to make me need a fresh change of panties. But that… I couldn’t even get past the second chapter.
I love ya, lady, but… that was boring as shit. What happened?
Closing my laptop, I squeeze my eyes shut, but her annoyingly honest comments flash behind my lids as though burned into my retinas… or soul.
Lacey Wright, college student by day, boring-as-shit romance author by night—now there’s a tagline to kill a career.
What happened?
Olly. Olly happened. With his cocky smirk and dirty mouth, it was only a matter of time before my crush turned to obsession and every scene I wrote became an explicit fantasy I could never act out.
Because we are just friends.
Giselle is right. That manuscript sucks, but it’s the first draft I’ve written while trying not to picture Olly as the love interest.
Buzzing tickles my thigh. I pull my phone from my pocket and check the screen.
Olly.
My heart slams against my ribs, competing with a hamster sprinting on a wheel, careening toward a finish line that never comes.
Except with Olly, everyone comes.
Careful, Lacey.
I turn off my naughty author’s mind, press the phone to my ear, and hope my voice sounds even. “Olly.”
“Ask me if he swallowed.”
My best friend’s voice is a low, soft purr that hits me straight between the thighs. I hold back the groan, close my eyes again,and try not to picture myself on my knees in front of him, contemplating swallowing.
I let out a breathy chuckle, the uptick in my pulse making it harder to funnel oxygen into my lungs. “Good night, was it?”
“It was a very, very good night, Lovely Lacey.” My nickname slides off his tongue with seductive ease.
Friends.
Just friends.
