Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Like it’s constructed from biohazard waste, I stuff it into a canvas bag to donate stat.
Bye-bye, anything with foxes.
I return to my closet to hunt for a shirt that doesn’t make me think of the guy whose face is everywhere these days.
Including in my head.
Far. Too. Often.
Ah, perfect. This purple shirt has tiny illustrations of vinyl records on it. I check my reflection. Much better. I head uptown on another unseasonably warm March morning in Manhattan—no jacket required. I push through the revolving glass door of CTM, eager for Mason’s feedback.
A minute later, I exit the elevator on the eleventh floor. From behind the reception desk, Rachel waves excitedly at me, her chunky bracelets jingling and jangling against themselves, revealing bits and pieces of the tattoos of vines that line her arms. “It’s been forever, TJ! Good to see you again. Mason said to just wave you in.”
“Thank you, Rachel. It’s great to see you too,” I say. It is, indeed, good to be back in the land of, well, writers who write.
When I reach Mason’s corner suite, he’s seated at his desk, scratching his head.
Huh.
I was kind of hoping he’d be standing in the doorway, blowing a trumpet as he hailed my return.
A mild foreboding tickles my brain. Maybe that’s just nerves, though. Normal ones and all.
Parking my hands on my hips, I clear my throat. “Hello? Where is the parade? The ticker tape? The marching band? I’ll wait for them but, man, I expected you to be a little faster.”
Mason lifts his gaze from his screen. He’s inscrutable, his eyes behind his black glasses a total closed book as he stares at me.
I kind of wish Mason would say something. Like he loves the premise of my new book.
That tickling sensation grows annoyingly stronger. I try to fight it off, wagging a finger at him. “Wait. I know what you did. You got me a singing telegram, didn’t you? One of those Magic Mike strippers will jump out in just a second and tell me how awesome you thought the pages were.”
With a beleaguered sigh, Mason removes his glasses, sets them down on his desk, and scrubs a hand along the back of his neck. “For the record, if I ever order you a stripper, it’ll be a cop.”
“Sweet. I ordered one the other night after a burger and a beer. It was basically a perfect night,” I deadpan, hoping to at least make him crack a smile.
A small smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “That.” Mason stabs his finger against the computer screen. “Why isn’t that in this?”
That’s not the reaction I wanted from my agent. Worry digs into my gut as I step into his office, head to the cushy blue chair across from his desk, and park myself in it. “Why isn’t what in what?”
“That kind of humor. That kind of wit. Stripper jokes. Humor. Badinage. Wit. Banter.”
“That’s all in there. That’s really funny. And full of heart.”
Why can’t he see that? Isn’t it clear?
“Is it?” Mason clears his throat and reads from the screen. “Ten Rules for Dating My Ex. Chapter One. The first rule of dating? Don’t go out with a dude with a one-syllable name. I learned that the hard way the other day.”
“See? Flynn.” I drag out his name like a warning. “He’s an ex. Ergo, that’s a good rule.”
There are other exes with one-syllable names too. Cough, cough. Jude.
“Allow me to read more,” Mason says, then dives into the story as the hero sets up his dilemma—Lessons learned from the frontline of dating—because it’s a battlefield out there.
When Mason trails off at the end of the second page, I scoot forward in the chair.
Doesn’t he like it?
Oh, shit. Does he . . . hate it? Are my words complete and utter garbage?
“TJ,” he says heavily, and, uh-oh, that sounds less like a seal of approval and more like a veto.
Worry wiggles down my spine. “Yes?”
“There’s no romance in here. This is a breakup book.”
I bristle as I’ve never bristled before. “Did you read all ten chapters? It’s a set-up for a romance. He’s just . . . well, the hero is just . . .” I cast about for words to describe my hero’s situation. “He’s recapping the lessons learned from a handful of past breakups.”
A handful that doesn’t include the big, epic, painful, slice-his-soul-into-a-thousand-jagged-pieces breakup. My hero’s not talking about that one. Nope. My character won’t touch that in this story.
Mason stares at me like his eyes are a bullshit detector. “Yes, I get that. But he’s recounting unexceptional breakups with a couple of guys he only dated for a little while. It’s not like he let the love of his life slip away in some epic knock-’em-down-drag-’em-out fight.”
I flinch, too clear memories snapping before my eyes. A cottage in Venice Beach. Words that stung. Accusations that flew like sharp knives.