“You can ask. I might not answer.”
“Fair.” I chuckle. “Have you ever role played?”
“No.” She presses her lips together as her gaze shifts away. “Why?” The barest of smiles plays on her lips, leading me to believe she likes the idea.
“Would you want to?” I level her with the smile that has gotten me my way more times than not.
“That depends.” She meets my smirk with one of her own. “What do you have in mind?”
Rosalie is different than most of the women I’ve spent time with. My competition isn’t other men. It’s her book boyfriends, and mycompetitive nature wants to show them up. “Well, I was thinkin’ . . . what if we recreated a sexy scene from one of your books?”
Her grin is unguarded. “You’d want to do that?”
“Hell, yeah.” I’d happily do anything that lands us naked together. Hell, I’m starting to think this woman could convince me to do anything in or out of clothes, as long as she keeps looking at me like this. “And for the record, I predict we’ll be better than the book.”
“Better than the book?” Her brows rise. “That’s a lofty guarantee.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure of myself. That, and I can’t let some fictional character show me up.”
“Oh.” She laughs, her gaze drifting to where I’m cupping my junk. “So, you’ve got something to prove.”
I lean over and steal a kiss. “Maybe I do.”
15
ROSALIE
The next day,my phone pings from across the room with the alert of an incoming text. I close my laptop and stretch my arms overhead, my gaze drifting to the clock on the oven. It’s already ten after one.Damn!Where did the time go?
When I woke up this morning with my body sore in the best way, the impulse to write was almost overwhelming. If anything could inspire me to open my manuscript, it would be memories from last night.
However, when I opened the document and stared at the blinking cursor, I wasn’t confident I’d add much of anything. An extreme drought of creativity has kept me from writing for almost eight years. Today probably wouldn’t be much different.
Boy, was I wrong.
Because almost four hours later, my book contains thousands of brand new words and a sex scene that’d make my own toes curl if I didn’t write it myself. God, this feels incredible. My brain is radiating with ideas, along with a newfound motivation to finally finish this book.
Is it any good? Maybe. I’m still not sure. There’s so much work tobe done, and the chapter I just wrote needs a heavy edit and polish before I’ll let anyone read it.
This is part of my problem. I haven’t let anyone read my work since grad school, and this manuscript needs feedback. Hell, even a cheerleading squad would help. The issue is that my friends will be too nice, and while I crave positive feedback, I need it to be genuine. If I ask my book club, I know they would read it. But if I feel for a second they’re only positive because they don’t want to hurt my feelings, I’ll want to disappear from sheer embarrassment.
What if I give this to Jackson?
The idea hits me with a rush of delight. I wouldn’t even need to tell him I wrote it. He isn’t as critical a reader as the other trusted people in my life. Plus, he wouldn’t pretend to love it if it sucks. This could be perfect.
My phone pings again, pulling me back into the present, reminding me why I stopped writing to begin with. I push to my feet and walk into the living room where my cell is plugged into my charger.
My book club group chat fires off messages faster than I can read them. I scroll back to the top to catch up.
Jamie: Okay, who all is coming to my house on Friday?
It’s her week to host book club, though our book club is more of a food and drink club. I’m not sure anyone reads the assigned books but me.
Maeve: You know I’ll be there!
Liv: Me too! And guess what?!? I actually read the book!
Maeve: Summer Liv is so productive!
