“Oh, my God!” Lola says, but it’s not judgmental. It’s giddy. Excited. Intrigued.
“That’s like a twenty-year age gap,” Lola squeals. “Holy crap!”
“Lola!” Shannon yells, and Lola jumps.
“Sorry,” she says as Shannon pinches the bridge of her nose.
“It’s eighteen, actually,” I say calmly. “Don’t age me that fast. I can’t even rent a car yet.” I joke and both Shannon and Betsy laugh.
Betsy smirks at me.
“Lo, baby can you please grabJakea cutting board.”
Lola grunts in disdain and I move to dismiss the notion, but she’s thrusting a wooden board in front of me in seconds.
“Thanks,” I say, and she shrugs, going back to her perch and her device. My cheeks heat from the sudden tension in the air.
“Knives,” I say, trying to change the subject from my obvious age difference and the weird tension with Lola’s firing questions.
I spin around, looking for the utensils, and Betsy points me to the knives. Thankfully, I’ve been to enough events with Bella to know the different types of cheeses and what knives do what, so I don’t think twice about gathering them and starting my prep.
Two slices of sharp cheddar in and I’m stealing a bite because I really am hungry. Aaron was right. I should probably eat something.
“So tell me about your book,” Betsy says smoothly. Shit. I was prepared for questions about my fake relationship. Not my fake career.
“Oh, well, it’s a… contemporary gay romance with, um…”
“You’re writing a romance novel?” Lola perks up with interest.
I freeze.
“Um, yes.” I lie.
“Sweet! I love romance! What kind of tropes are you writing?”
I don’t have time to think about her question. I just answer on the fly, the words falling out of my mouth without warning.
“Age gap. One bed trope. Fake relationship.” Shannon giggles.
“Oh, that sounds soooo good!” Lola says. “Tell me more!”
She sets her phone down as I continue to slice all five blocks of cheese accordingly, and Betsy grins.
“Tell us all about your leading man,” she says, batting her eyes at me.
I focus on my current Fontina cheese block as I attempt to try my best at creating an MC in my head. Partly from experience, but also from my wide collection of romance novels I own, as well as my own dreams. My own fantasies.
Fantasies about a particular dark-haired man whose kiss really does leave me breathless.
I know enough about the romance genre to be able to generalize my fictional fictitious character, at least right now. I tell them he’s a rich older man who owns a chain of clubs—a nod to Sarah Cate’sPraise.I tell them that my MC doesn’t believe he has time for a relationship—like Bella. And I tell them that he falls for one of the dancers in his club, a young male with a big heart who’s an old soul and is only dancing to pay his way through college—like some twisted mash up of both Cassie Lein’sSin WagonandMy Soul For Sale.
And suddenly, I realize the story might be more truthful than I mean it to be.
“He sounds dreamy,” Lola says as Shannon starts to arrange an array of fruit on the board. “What’s his name?”
“Who?” I ask if only to keep from passing out.
“The old man.” She giggles.
