“Secretly evil.” Leeann grins, finger posed at a paragraph beneath what I assume to be character traits. “He must be princely in appearance, but with a dark side. Prone to insufferable teasing despite undertones of kindness and care. Obsession is a must. Devotion is non-negotiable. Sense of humor must be elite and on the brink of chaos. Let his edges be dipped in insanity. Let there be nothing he isn’t willing to do for the woman he loves.”
I find myself blinking at the elderly women while hope skyrockets.
Obsessed? Check. Devoted? Double check. A bit insane? Well, I’m here, in her town with her grandmother, lookingthrough a binder outlining her ideal type, aren’t I? If we need proof of my ability to tease, we can check back over any of the emails August and I have shared during her three years as my virtual assistant.
I don’t know whether or not she’d consider my sense of humor “elite,” but I have at least once—so professionally—threatened to keep her in my basement if she finds anime too compelling a distraction from work.
So.
Maybe I can be close enough to what she wants?
“I can do secretly evil,” I offer, glancing at my grandmother, who balks.
“You?” She places a hand upon her heart. “You donate to half a dozen charities a year.”
I wave a flippant hand. “Tax write-offs.”
“You pay all of your grandfather’s and my living expenses.”
“Every villain needs a soft spot for someone. Be honored that you and Grampa Edgar are mine.”
Grandma Beth crosses her arms. “You regularly volunteer on the weekends at nursing homes and animal shelters.”
I clear my throat. “…because the fact that I’m evil is…” I cough, wetting my lips. “…secret.”
Grandma Beth’s expression withers. “Right.”
“Now, now.” Leeann lifts her hands to settle my grandmother. “Let’s not be too hasty. August entrusted me with finding her the perfect male specimen this summer. And wehavefound him.Shejust doesn’t know that yet.” Lifting the blond boy page, she peers at the collage, then her nose wrinkles as she drops it like it’s filthy. “We must pity the youth in their immaturity. Right, Ali?”
I nod, very willing to pity poor, poor August and her misplaced ideas about her type. Considering—of course—thatshe is very thoroughly mine. Stretching out my hand, I say, “May I see the binder?”
“Oh, of course.” Leeann passes it over the coffee table, and I turn the lavish spread toward me, scanning the words that outline August Winslow’s ideal man.
Willing to use force, but supportive of my autonomy.
Rough, but gentle.
Wicked, but loving.
It’s a collection of contradictions and impossible statements without some manner of anime magic at work compelling the main characters down a path that inevitably leads them to bliss. In real life, this sort of duplicity is tricky, because in real life no one knows when they’ve gone too far unless they constantly communicate openly and honestly.
But that’s not verysecretly evil, now is it?
I turn the page.
Genre:Romance, obviously.
Pressing my lips together, I read the fine print beneath that flowing declaration:If you manage to find a faerie prince or an elf for me, I would be eternally grateful and quite content to add “Fantasy” to the genre, but if that’s probably impossible, I do—most regrettably—understand.
If August weren’t August, I’d be inclined to believe she’s pranking her grandmother.
Fortunately, August is August in every way.
Locating her list of tropes, I read aloud, “Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, small town, financial security (in lieu of billionaire…sigh, sigh, sigh…unless?), secret identity (prince, perhaps?), slow burn.” She’s drawn the eyes emoji after every single insane declaration. Smiling, I continue, “For microtropes, we have… Only one bed, he cooks for her, borrowed clothing, shared ice cream, sunscreen application, bathing suit kisses, angry kisses, can’t-stop-ourselves-even-though-we-hate-each-other kisses, rain kisses, power’s out kisses…” I run my thumb over the dear, dark promises as I return my attention to the women on the couch beyond the coffee table. “Her microtropes aren’t really givingslow burn, are they?”
“No, they’re surely not,” Grandma Beth murmurs.
Leeann, promptly, smacks her friend in the shoulder. “Let the youthlive.”
