“What, uh…” The chief’s voice crackles into my ear. “What can you tell me about Rafael Gray?”
act II[structure]
also known as the “emotional roller-coaster zone,” where every interaction drips with chemistry and every accidental touch sends shock waves through the plot; expect long stares, heart-fluttering moments, and inconvenient feelings that no one is ready to admit
the fake dating[trope]
a rom-com-approved contractual arrangement in which two people pretend to be a couple for reasons that are definitely not feelings
“Look, all I’m saying is I don’t buy the premise. Fake dating relies on the idea that being single is some kind of national emergency. ‘Oh, no, my ex got engaged, so now Ihaveto show him I’m totally over him by fake dating this guy I’ve hated since high school.’ Because nothing says ‘I’m doing fine without you’ like staging an elaborate charade involving a man who bullied you during your formative years.” I bite my nail. “And if it’s not that, then it’s ‘My mom keeps setting me up with weirdos from her yoga class, so the best solution is to fake-date myboss.’ It’s like the entire world in these books is allergic to the concept of being single.God forbidyou enjoy your own company for more than five minutes. No, no, according to these stories, you’ve gotta have a boyfriend on standby, just in case society tries to revoke your happiness card.”
I pause just to breathe.
“Why can’t the protagonist just tell her family, ‘Actually, I’m perfectly happy with Netflix, a pizza, and not sharing my bed with a snorer’? Why does everyone act like being single is some sort of failure? Here’s a wild idea—maybeit’s okay to be alone sometimes. Maybe, just maybe, you don’t need to invent a fake boyfriend to convince everyone else that you’re happy. And maybe fake dating is just a convoluted way to say, ‘I’m terrified of being alone.’?”
Celeste blinks, then drops her glasses onto her desk. “Yes, Scarlett. So you said.” She shows me the script. “Forsixpages. Is that really all you have to say about this book?”
“Well, I saidotherthings,” I mumble.
She narrows her eyes at me and, after clearing her throat, reads out, “?‘Every single page of this book feels like it was written for a rom-com algorithm. You’ve got the quirky heroine who’s clumsy and adorable, the brooding love interest who’s hiding a heart of gold beneath layers of emotional trauma, and a plot so predictable I could have outlined it in my sleep. The writing? Filled with so many clichés, it’s practically a bingo card.’?” She levels me with a glare. “This type of thing?”
“Yes.” I shift uncomfortably in the chair. “What’s the problem? It’s not the first time I’ve criticized a book. You always say you want my honest opinion.”
“Youropinion, yes. But this is slander, and it’s not about the book. It’s about the reader.” She sets the paper down, her bob following the movement of her head shaking. “Maybe you were right and we just made a mistake.”
“No, wait,” I choke out. “I’ll… I’ll work on it. Maybe it was just the wrong book. Maybe I can rewrite it.”
For the fifth time.
Celeste rubs her forehead. “All right. Think you can give me something by Friday? We need to air this next week.”
“Yeah,” I say, as if it doesn’t mean I’ll have to spendseveralnights up. “No problem at all.”
“All right.” She picks up a different paper. “Of course, the script forMurders & Manuscripts’ next episode is immaculate. You made me want to read the book.”
“I lovedThe Widow’s Veil. The prose alone was astounding. And the way Anders Peterson makes your skin prickle—I swear, his words jump off the page and come alive.”
She removes her glasses with a giggle. “This, Scarlett—your passion—is why you’re my best podcaster. I need you to redirect some of it to romance.” Picking up my script, she insists, “Because no one wants to listen to this.”
Ouch.It’s not like I spent most of my weekend working on this. “Okay. You got it.” I stand when she looks back at the computer. “I’ll work on a new draft.”
I close the door of her office. Booked It is nearly empty this close to lunchtime, and Damien seems focused on writing, so I walk out of the building undisturbed.
The sun’s shining and the parking lot is quiet, but as the door clicks shut behind me, an unsettling tingle crawls up my spine, the kind you get when someone’s eyes are glued to your back. I peek over my shoulder, but nothing’s weird.
Shielding my face from the bright light, I make my way toward my Toyota, but I get that prickling feeling again, like eyes burning holes in my back.
I whirl around, scanning the street. There are people going abouttheir day, cars rolling lazily by. My heart hammers a little harder as I hurry toward the car, fumbling for my keys, the sense of being followed sticking to me like a shadow.
“Scarlett!”
I clutch my chest as I spot Vanessa in her uniform, then exhale in relief. She’s hard to miss—tall, with broad shoulders that make the dark fabric of her patrol shirt look even sharper, blond hair pulled neatly into a tight braid. Her blue eyes scan the area as she walks closer.
“Geez, Vanessa, trying to give me a heart attack? What are you doing up here?”
“Just had a meeting.” She points at the bank, on the ground floor of the Booked It building. “I’m on my way to work.”
I catch my breath. “How’s the apartment hunt going?”
