PROLOGUE
Mina: Hey! You’ll probably never see this message, but I thought I’d give it a go either way.
I’m a romance author and I may or may not have (I did) stumbled upon your picture while I was procrastinating (I hate editing so much). This probably sounds creepy, but there’s no other way to say it. You look exactly like the main character from my most recent novel. I was internally squealing, and my mind was blown because it’s so exciting to see my characters “come to life” so to speak. Not that you are that character or that Blake was fashioned off you. Just that you look like how I imagine he’d appear. Okay, I’ll stop rambling now.
Anyway, I’d love to send you a copy of the book, or maybe even purchase your autograph if you ever set up some kind of shop :) Sorry if this is weird. Just ignore me if it is. Sorry.
CHAPTER ONE
Mina
“He’s never going to see it.”
I’m never going to work out this plotline either, which isfantasticsince I’m already two weeks behind schedule with my manuscript.
“He might see it.” Joyce shrugs, giving me her divided attention as she continues drawing on her tablet. “I can’t believe you’re still freaking out about that. It’s been like... what? A month since you sent that message?”
A month since I texted him in the middle of the night, yes.
Two months since I discovered Leo’s existence and have thought of nothing else but him.
I glare at the wall of colorful, skull-shaped stickynotes and press the fluffy hot water bottle against my lower stomach. This romance book I’m writing has been the bane of my existence for the past three weeks—this whole year, even.
My self-loathing continues as I mindlessly rub the back of my bedazzled phone case—I’m lying to myself. It’s not mindless at all. Christ, look at me. I’m basically fighting the urge to get my fix. But what’s the point of resisting?
For old times’ sake—and because the sight of him calms my feral heart—I pull up the picture of Leo I recently saved.
It hurts just looking at him. He’s so attractive it should be illegal. The things I would do to have any kind of interaction with him. I could open the door for him and be the one to say thank you.
I can’t believe a man has me acting like this.
Leaning back in my office chair, I crane my neck toward Joyce. Her desk is on the opposite side of our living room, close to the TV. I can’t see the band posters above her desk from this angle, only the many plants that bracket her and add life to the otherwise eclectic décor.
I cross the room to shove my phone in front of Joyce’s face, so she’s forced to see Leo in all his glory; he’s glistened up with a sheen of sweat mid-workout—my favorite version of him.
Actually, I don’t think I could pick a favorite.
My best friend hums her approval under her breath, even though he’s not her type. I’ve shown her this very picture a minimum of ten times already. Still, she indulges me with a low, halfhearted whistle. “I see the appeal.”
She probably doesn’t. But there’s no denying that he won the genetic lottery.
His dark-brown hair is short on the sides, long and disheveled on top, and it somehow brings out the hard lines of his refined cheekbones and the rough edge of his jaw. His rare five o’clock shadow accentuates the sardonic curve of his lips.
An artist could spend a lifetime trying to capture his beauty, but they would forever fall short of encapsulating the godwalking among men. Even I can’t dredge up the words to accurately describe just how pleasing he is on the eyes.
Hell,pleasingisn’t even a strong enough word.
He looks like the type of man who would burn the world to the ground to put a smile on his girl’s face or rip someone’s eyes out for looking at her the wrong way—all the swoon-worthy stuff that is frowned upon by society.
Leo is exactly like the love interest in the latest book I released—the one that flopped. Blake Olson, enforcer for the Mafia, six foot four, covered in tattoos, and knows all the ways a gun can be used for both pleasure and pain.
And I’m in love with those men. Both. Equally. They’re one and the same as far as I’m concerned.
Logically, I’m aware that Leoisn’tBlake. But my heart says differently. I feel as if I know Leo like the back of my hand. All his passions and hobbies, his favorite foods, the music he likes, everything that makes him tick.
Chewing my lip, I check the message I sent him in a moment of misplaced confidence. Nothing but a giant blue bubble stares back at me, just like every other time I’ve opened the thread.
No “read” receipt, no nothing.
