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“Come in for a sec.” I step out of the way for her to enter, then close the door and make my way across the room to the bag. “Keep them. Or donate them. Either way, they’re yours.” I pass it to her and try my best to keep my eyes on hers. She didn’t come back with a new bag, so she could be wearing whatever she purchased under my clothes. And, fuck, do I want to know what it is.
“That’s really generous of you. Thank you again for last night and, well, everything.” She takes a hesitant step closer. “I do have one question before I head next door: if I kissed you, would you slap me?”
“No,” I chuckle, stuffing my hands in my pockets before I do something reckless. “But it’ll have to wait until tonight.” Leaning in, I press a single, soft kiss to her cheek. She sucks in a shaky breath as I pull back. “I’ll see you downstairs in a little bit. If you need anything, let me know.”
Sloane turns to leave, and as she reaches the door, she glances back at me. “If we go out tonight, can it be away from the hotel?”
“Sure. How does Mexican sound?”
With a soft smile, she nods. “Like… a date.”
9
SLOANE
After getting ready, placing my dead phone on the wireless charger, and having a quick bite to eat, I locate the meeting room for the workshop. I could’ve had breakfast with Wyatt, but the lines are blurring more than I’d like to admit. The more distance between us, the better. It doesn’t help that he’s right next door for two more nights, then we’ll both be back in Southern California. Even if we have an amazing dinner, it could be that he’ll forget all about me when we’re home… but there’s no way in hell I’ll forget him.
The workshop is starting in a few minutes, and I’m running behind, later than I’d like. As I walk in, the room is quiet, with only a few people talking. Nearly all of the chairs are empty, and I step out to double-check the sign beside the door—I’m in the right place. I reenter and make my way to the front. There are only five people, including Wyatt, my friend Amanda, and two other authors I recognize.
Amanda spots me approaching and greets, “Hey, Sloane! Glad you could make it.”
“Where is everyone?” I glance around at the empty chairs.
“The roads were closed last night, so most of the authors won’t be here until later. It may only be the five of us for this workshop, so we can probably crowd around a single table and make it more of an intimate discussion.”
I feel Wyatt’s gaze on me, but I don’t want to let on that we already met, having to explain last night. Except, all I want to do is hug him for all that he did for me—and I’m not normally a hugger. I’ll just have to explain later why I have to pretend to not know him.
We all take a seat around one of the tables, and Amanda starts, “Good morning, everyone. For formality’s sake, I’m Amanda Storm, and I write primarily romantic suspense. I’m an avid reader and enjoy devouring everything from nonfiction to erotica. I’ve been invited to help with a few exercises to help inspire your writing sprints this weekend. Let’s start with the awkward introductions and make them quick—since everyone hates them.” We all chuckle. “Just tell us the pen name for the current manuscript you’re working on and what genre you write under.”
“I’ll start,” a younger woman begins. “My name is Harriet Alexander, and I write YA fantasy, but my current manuscript is a new adult romantasy.”
“I’m Merlot Bennet, and I write contemporary romance.” I’ve never met Merlot in person, but we follow each other on social media. She’s friends with Amanda and a bestselling author. While I haven’t personally read any of her books, Rachid has always raved about them.
“Merlot was a last-minute addition to the retreat,” Amanda explains. “The organizers insisted we have a few more romance authors in the mix, and she’s on deadline for her upcoming novel, so it’s the perfect opportunity for us to pressure her to finish.” She winks at Merlot. “Who’s next?”
Wyatt offers, “I’ll go. I write romance under W. Vennlig.”
“What subgenre do you typically write?” Merlot asks, lighting up at his mention of romance.
“I’ve only written three books, and they’re all small-town contemporary. My current manuscript is more of a dark romantic comedy.”
“My favorite,” Merlot coos.
“All right, last up we have Sloane.”
Despite there only being five of us, my mouth is dry. “Hi. I’m Sloane Marino, and I write historical fiction.” It’s then that I realize I’m the only one at the table who doesn’t write romance or romance-adjacent books. I’m suddenly feeling out of place.
Amanda launches into how, as authors, it’s important to keep an open mind and consider writing under different pen names to dabble in other genres as the tides shift in the industry. I’ve seen it myself in the past decade, with romance blooming into a billion-dollar industry, though there’s no way I’d ever consider writing it myself.
After we each give a brief synopsis of our works in progress and recent releases, Amanda suggests, “I feel it’s important to be well-read and to read diversely. I had planned on having the other thirty authors put their names in a hat to draw from and suggesting everyone read a book from their assigned author’s backlist. But, if we do it now, you may end up getting your own name. I’ll use a name randomizer on my phone.” She takes a minute to type everything in. “All right, Harriet, you have Merlot. Wyatt, you have Sloane. Merlot, you have me. I have Harriet. Which leaves Sloane with Wyatt.”
Fuck.
“Shouldn’t Wyatt read something by another romance author?” I suggest.
Wyatt smirks. “I’ve read books by these three.” He half-shrugs. “So, it would be cheating.”
Double fuck.
