Then he pushes away.
Just like that. No mind-blowing kiss. No heat-sparkingclimax. Just empty space and another smug-as-shit grin splitting across his handsome face.
“What the hell?” I gasp, breathless and flustered.
Reaching across me, he gently closes the laptop. “Try writing me into another woman’s mouth again,” he says softly. “And I’ll startrewritingthe rules myself.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
His wink makes my clit pulse. “Guess you’ll have to wait and find out.”
And then he walks out of the room like he didn’t just steamroll my brain and body all at the same time.
I stare up at the ceiling and groan, “I’m sofucked.”
FIVE
noia
Flinging open the bedroom door,I march into the living room like I’m storming onto a battlefield.
Dressed in a baggy hoodie, leggings, and enough eyeliner to scare off a raccoon—I’m more than ready for a fight to the fictional death.
But what I’m not prepared for?
Ryder sitting on my couch like a centerfold in a writer’s retreat brochure. He’s readingmy book, writing notes in the margins, in red pen, all while Goonie—the little furry traitor—lays curled up next to him on the couch purring away.
“Are you editing my novel?” I ask incredulously.
Keeping his eyes on the book, he casually licks his thumb and turns a page. “Technically, I’m critiquing your dialogue—the early stuff. You got much better later on.”
Anger flashes through my veins. “You’re marking up my best-seller with a red pen like it’s a fuckingterm paper?”
“You repeated the word ‘breathless’ six times in chapter three,” he volleys back, still flipping. “We get it. He takes her breath away. Maybe let herbreatheonce in a while.”
“I’m going tomurder you.”
Finally, he looks up. “You already tried. Remember? The Lexi smooch scene? I barely survivedthatcliché,” he huffs, giving me an over-the-top shudder.
With a groan, I flop onto the loveseat and dramatically shove my face in my hands. My next words come out a muffled, “Why are you being like this?”
“Because. I’m a creation of your deepest, darkest fantasies. And, because you imagined me this way, you’re just going to have to deal with it.”
Silence fills the air between us. The only sound is the gentle rasp of Ryder turning another page and Goonie purring as my fragile ego bleeds out somewhere between chapters six and seven.
Then softly, he asks, “Why has it been so hard for you to write lately?”
Flopping my arms into my lap with a sigh, I drop my head against the back of the couch and stare up at the ceiling.
“I was supposed to get married.”
The sound of flipping stops.
“I had the dress, a violin quartet and the cake. It was all planned perfectly.” I swallow against the lump attempting to crawl its way up my throat and roll my head to look at him. “And he didn’t show.”
Ryder doesn’t speak; he just looks at me. For once, his expression isn’t smug or smirky. It’s a look that makes my chest pull tight.
“What a fucking asshole.”
