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)
If I don’t deliver soon, they’ll move on to the next writer.
That excitement I felt while writing these pages was classic brain trickery. My mind fooled me into thinking my fingers were spinning solid gold.
When I was actually spinning solid gold shit.
I blow out a shaky breath. This anxious feeling is becoming all too familiar as I tank my career more with every passing day. “But I don’t know how to do that anymore. Maybe you need to send me to a writer’s camp or something. To writer rehab? Does that exist? Maybe it should. Maybe I should write a story where a guy meets another writer in writer rehab.”
“TJ. Take a deep breath.”
Inhale. Exhale. “I don’t even know how to type most days,” I say, and there’s a reason they call it spiraling—I’m a tornado right now.
“You’ve written ten books. All with great reviews. One of them was a massive, huge fireball of a hit that turned your backlist into money trees. Incidentally, that’s my favorite kind of tree. So, all you have to do is just do that again. Write another good love story. Can you do that, TJ?”
My heart slams too hard against my rib cage. My breath comes too fast. “I don’t know.”
“You can. Repeat after me. I can,” he says, sounding like a TV self-help guru leading the live audience in an affirmation.
“I can,” I mutter. I should be able to. There’s no reason why I can’t pull it off. Except, the answer isn’t logical. It’s emotional.
It’s Jude.
“I just need to focus on what those stories all had in common,” I say, giving my own pep talk. “The magic ingredient.”
Mason’s eyes say you’ve gotta be kidding me. “Could it be . . . oh, I don’t know, you believed in romance before Flynn? You were fucking romantic. You went on dates to watch baseball, or play pinball, or go thrifting, or compete on game nights. You felt the mojo. You were getting out there.” He gestures to my arms. “From the looks of it, the only place you’re going these days is to the gym.”
Even I glance at the biceps in question. The guns are bigger than they were a year ago. “Gym equipment doesn’t break your heart.”
“But rock-star writers who don’t deliver their next novel break mine,” Mason says, clutching at his chest. “You don’t want to do that, do you? Or, say, break your contract?”
Vehemently, I shake my head. I keep my promises. Like when I was a teenager and discovered the truth of my parents’ divorce. I promised myself I’d never breathe a word to my brother, and I didn’t.
“But I don’t know if dating is the solution. Maybe my next hero should be a detective, a cool-as-a-cucumber private eye, who’ll track down my muse.” I offer a lopsided grin like that’ll cover up the case of my missing inspiration.
Mason aims finger guns at me. “That’s what I’m talking about. A little humor. You can use that on dates. Because you need to get back in the romance groove.”
I’d rather listen to Jethro Tull perform in a Broadway musical while I drink bad coffee. “There has to be another way. Maybe I can just walk around the city and take notes.”
“That’s what you’ve been doing for a year,” he says matter-of-factly.
“How do you know everything?”
“It’s my job to know all. See all.” Mason stands and strides around his desk, looking all sharp in his slacks and his tailored shirt, and sets a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, you’ve got a contract and a deadline. There are only so many ways I can do a song and dance for Brooks & Bailey,” he says gently this time.
“Yes, I know,” I say with a wince, still embarrassed that he had to ask for three extensions for me already.
“This isn’t like you. You popped out books like you were making kettle corn at the farmers market back when you were the swinging stud of New York. You need to start dating again. How hard can it be, especially with those arms?”
Hard? Try granite level.
Why would I want to date when it could lead to an epic fight that shreds my soul? I never want to go through that again.
“Romance and I are on a timeout,” I mutter, admitting the sad, stark truth.
He cups his ear. “What’s that? Oh, that’s the sound of the buzzer on your timeout. You’re up, TJ. Get on a dating app. We don’t even have to use Grindr anymore. We can do Tinder. We can use any app. Hell, you can do Boyfriend Material and level all the way up. Is that such a bad idea?”
I lean into the public’s perception of me. “It’s taken a year to get the Flynn-breakup stink off me, but if I’m on an app, the whole Team TJ versus Team Flynn debate will rage on.”