(CURRENT DAY)
Yup. I’mthatasshole. The one driving everyone in the coffee shop to the verge of losing their collective shit as I tap my pen frantically against my notebook.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.
I’m starting to annoy even myself. But I also can’t find the off switch. The tapping is helping my thought process. Or so I’m telling myself anyway.
I’m trying to make a list. Not just any list, but a list of steamy romance novels towowmy teammates with.
My announcement to the team that I’m starting a steamy romance book club—Get Lit,brilliantly namedif I do say so myself—was met with less than steamy reactions. In truth, it was quite a tepid response. But they’re my brothers, and they support me and my aspirations to be aNew York Times,USA Today, orWall Street Journalbestselling author someday, so they swallowed down their reticence and got on board the smut train.
Okay, so I had to bribe them with better-than-porn sex scenes and good eats while they read—which is why I’m at Bitches Brew sampling their extensive offerings while I compile my list. I can’t believe I’ve never been here before. It’s a gem, and I dig their explosion of hot pink and down to earth quirky vibe.
Research. That’s why I have two plates of sugar topped with sugar, with a side of sugar sitting in front of me. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. I promised the team delicious treats, and I promised them literary greatness. I groan.
GTFO—Cedar Rapids’s best kept secret pie shop—and Bitches Brew have us covered for gastronomic delights—those vagina waffles might be the closest some of those idiots come to a pussy this year—but picking the books they’re going to read…that’s entirely on me. They’ve got to be good, great even.
I need to find one book a month for the next ten months, and other than adding my upcoming release—which is yet to be written or edited, but that’s another problem entirely—I find myself stuck. I have too many talented indie author friends that I could showcase. And while I love all of their work, I need to impress.
As a collective, the team isn’t convinced on the idea. Not on the book club, not on indie published books, not on romance novels, so I’ve really got to sell it. My goal is to change their minds on books, on indie published books, and on love. Some of those fuckers are cynical AF and need a little romance in their lives. Okay, a lot, but I can’t perform miracles.
I tried asking them what kinds of things they want to read, but since romance isn’t their jam, I was met with blank stares, shrugs, and skepticism. They have no ideas about tropes or subgenres, so it’s just me—me, my notebook, my now-cold Barbara Chai-sand tea, and some scrawled notes about my boys and what I think they’d vibe with.
Since I write sports romance, that box has been filled. I need to pick a suitable rockstar romance for our budding musician, Raffi. A billionaire romance for the de la Peña twins Artemis and Apollo. Their younger brother, our rookie netminder, Ares, requested a good LGBTQ+ story to read, and I’m eager to deliver.
Tate is from Texas whichobviouslymeans I need a cowboy romance, and two of the guys on the team plan to enlist after graduation so I want to include a military romance as well. Scott loves sci-fi; I’m sure I can find him a sexy space-based, alien romance to enjoy.
Maybe I’ll throw in a romantic suspense for good measure, a bodyguard trope. And for the last two months I could do a romantic fantasy and a paranormal romance—by that time they’ll have learned to trust my judgment and won’t argue when I hand them a magic-touched book that requires suspended disbelief.
I’ve got this.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.
My eyes drift back to the girl from the counter whose card didn’t work. She’s sitting with her side-on to me, curving her shoulder to offer me her back more than her side, and it somehow feels deliberate.
Her long, honey-blond hair is braided and hanging over her shoulder, stray tendrils falling around her face and her bangs straying dangerously close to her eyeballs. She’s wearing a hunter green UCR sweatshirt that drapes her to mid-thigh, leggings, and calf-length boots with a fur lining.
More interesting than her clothes, however, is the fact she had a copy of my last book hugged against her chest and seemed shameless about being seen reading it in public. I’m here for it. It was on the tip of my tongue to offer to sign it for her but she was very clearly mad at what feels like my existence.
At first I couldn’t tell if she was pissed at only me or the entire universe—if my card declined unexpectedly, I’d be pretty unhappy too. But it didn’t take long to figure out that she’s not onlymadat me, she’sbig freakin’ mad.
Why would someone be mad at someone else for helping them out of a bind at the checkout?
Her spine is taut as she sits chatting with Athena de la Peña, sister of two—I guess three now that Ares is on the roster, also—of my teammates. Is that where I’ve seen her before? Athena is renowned for hating hockey, so it’s unlikely I’ve seen them together at a game, but maybe atThe Denpost-game?
She looks familiar to me, but I can’t place her.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.
Does she always sit so stiffly?
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.
Is she always so mad when strangers offer to pay for her coffee?
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.
She shifts in her seat, as though she can feel my gaze on her back. Her attitude at the coffee bar suggests I should know who the hell she is, but no amount of racking my brain is coming up with an answer…which makes me mad that she’s mad.
