FROM:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
RE:Be nice!
Good morning,
How did you sleep? I actually was able to get right to bed after our conversation last night. It was really fun chatting with you. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
I’m looking forward to reading what you sent over. I’ll start it at lunch, and if I don’t finish it then, I’ll finish it up at the end of the day before I head home. If you write more today (which I feel like you might?), feel free to shoot it my way and I’ll add it to the end.
Either way, I hope you have a productive day. I have a client at nine, so I’m going to go grab a fresh cup of coffeeand mentally prepare myself to discuss who gets the cat if my client dies first.
Talk to you soon,
Colin
TO:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
FROM:Grace Landing ([email protected])
RE:Be nice!
Hi,
I also went to sleep not long after we spoke. I took a shower first—you know, just in the off-chance that I might’ve caught a little something from you over the phone! Lol, only kidding. And yes, I had a great time talking to you as well.
Thank you again for offering to read for me. I rarely rely on alpha readers, but in this case, I really do need some help. I don’t love feeling this vulnerable, if we’re being brutally honest. But I guess I would rather hear that it’s complete garbage from you than from a publisher.
Good luck with your client and their cat. I have a cat. His name is Dorian Gray. Perhaps you’d like to write a will for us in your free time.
Do you have any pets?
Okay, I’m going to try and get started on some work now. Wish me luck. I’ll check my email when I take a break a little later on.
G.
It’s so hard to write when you know who your audience is. With every sentence, I picture Colin, hoping he laughs at the funny parts and isn’t too grossed out by the sex scenes.
I have Connor removed from the building via stretcher. Presley goes with him. He gets stitches and a tetanus shot, and they change him into scrubs because they couldn’t send him out of there with shredded pants or else he’d get arrested for indecent exposure.
Meanwhile, Presley’s starving, so she tries to leave Connor and get something to eat, but he’s afraid to go home, so he suggests they go somewhere to eat together. She agrees because he offers to pay for the meal, and (for reasons I’m not entirely sure of) she picks an expensive Italian place. Which is maybe not my most clever decision, given the fact that he’s dressed in scrubs, but whatever.
She comments on his outfit, and he says that if the place she’s forcing him to limp to is any good, there will be a long wait and they’ll just end up grabbing a pizza and heading back to the condo. I like Connor. He’s outwitting her.
It turns out he’s correct too. The wait for a table is over an hour and they are both starving. They grab a bunch of slices and walk back to the condo, which is only like two blocks away. The apartment is basically empty—no furniture or anything—but the remnants of open house snacks are on the counter and Presley grabs at them while reheating the pizza in the oven. He makes a joke about not having taken the Vicodin he was prescribed at the hospital because he wanted to be “fully present” in case this moment were to present itself. He starts trying to work his magic on her with some sexy talk, then walks towards her and gets ready to plant one on her, but she turns away. “Don’t kiss me,” she says. He kisses her neck instead, making her swoon, and says he can wait until after they eat.
And, oh my God. This line comes out of me:His hands landed onher hips, and he pulled her groin into his, grinding his stimulus package into her sugar cookie only once before releasing her.I can’t. I’m dying. Real-life tears are falling out of my eyes. Colin’s going to think this is hysterical—I hope!
Presley avoidsfalling prey to his pelvic sorcery(man, sometimes I’m so good) and takes the pizza out of the oven. She serves it and tries to create a comfortable spot on the floor for him to sit down. Connor lights the fire in the fireplace and turns the living room lights down, setting the mood. They eat while savoring the view out of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The lights of the 59th Street Bridge twinkle in the darkness. And then, it takes me a few minutes to finish the section, but eventually I come up with this:The azure hue spilling in through the giant panes of glass stood at odds with the warm glow of the dimmed lights and the orange flickering flames of the crackling fire. It was a standoff: hot meets cold. The slick strip of moisture in Presley’s panties foreshadowed which side would win the inevitable battle.
I can’t believe I’m going to send this to Colin. It feels like the equivalent of sending him one of my passionate love letters from back in the day. You’re safe when you’re asecretadmirer, just like you’re safe when you have a pseudonym. You can say whatever you want, and nobody knows it’s you who said it. Also, I never, ever wrote about him making my panties wet back then.
Back when I had some dignity.
Now, I just write soft-core porn for hormonal women and people who aren’t afraid to read about them, and I can’t even dothatwithout help! But who knows? Maybe Colin and I will come up with some amazing solution. We’ll fix the book, I’ll get it in on time, Lindsay will love it, and all will be right with the world. I can just picture the copies flying off the shelves of Stop & Shop, thrown into shopping carts alongside kids’ Lunchables and eight-packs of Honest Juice.
Mmm. Lunchables.
I need a break.
