CHAPTER ONE
BECK
I’m surprisingly good at sneaking around. A lot better than I would have assumed, honestly. I can’t say it’s an excellent quality or even one I’m happy to have acquired, but it does come in handy.
I close the door to my new home office and let out a breath. Having my friends over for dinner and hanging out in my backyard was exactly what I needed. I’ve never been more proud of myself than I am right now. Not only is my release from last week still in the top three ofLovers Magazine’sbestsellers list, but I’m officially a homeowner. It only took me thirty years for the second part, but this house is perfect. Not just for me, but for the future wife and kids I plan to have.
Yep, that’s me. Beck Robertson. Hopeless romantic—or hopeful if you want to get technical—who just so happens to write romance novels. They’re damn good too. Obviously, since I’m on a bestsellers list. Okay, so I’m a little cocky too. I can’t help it. Confidence has never been something I struggle with. When I was a kid, my grandpa told me that I have to live the life I want.Don’t get stuck in a life you wish you were living.I know, it’s a little wonky. Grandpa loved his whiskey, but the point is, I wanted to live a life of confidence, control, and success from a young age, and now, being an adult, well, I’m successfully living the life I’ve always dreamed of having.
Minus the reason I snuck into my office.
I scan the white wall with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind my desk. My gaze glides over how much more work I need to do—nothing has been unpacked to fill them yet—and then to my desk. It’s a mess, too. In fact, the room isn’t even close to being organized. The desk is together and there’s a chair and my computer is open and ready to use. Technically, that’s all I need at this point.
Oh, and a damn good idea for my next book.
Fuck. I’m drawing a blank.
Without an idea of what my next book is going to be about, I can’t even focus on having a couple hours of fun with my friends. Now, I know I’m more than just a romance writer, but hell, this is one of my favorite parts of my life and I’m… stuck.
I drop into my seat and pull my phone from my pocket. Doug, my agent, has been texting me for two days now, but it’s the latest message that stresses me out the most.
Doug:These chapters are shit, Beck. Do you still want this double book and movie deal or not? Give me something better. Again.
Fucking hell.
Again.
Again!
And yeah, I want that movie deal. What author would pass that up?
I’d like to type back a snarky reply, tell him he shouldn’t talk to me like that. I’m his client. I deserve respect, but considering we go back to our college years and have competed against each other chugging a beer bong upside down, praying the liquid doesn’t come gushing from our noses at numerous frat parties before our careers started, I know he’s just being honest, and in the end, his ability to tell me how it is will help me in the long run.
Plus, he’s not wrong. The chapters he’s referring to are the fourth set of beginning chapters for a new book. They’ve all sucked. I knew it before I even sent them, but hey, something is better than nothing, right?
Not to mention, writers are known to be hard on themselves. Something I might think is boring as hell might be gold in the eyes of another.
I open a Word document and just stare at the screen, the sound of laughter outside my window pulling my attention. Now isn’t the time to start a new book. I have guests. Then again, considering all my friends are romance writers themselves, they’d understand. Hero was just in this spot a little over a year ago. Struggling to write because of an outside event that wouldn’t let his mind calm down enough to focus on his creativity. For him, it was a bad review.
Me?
That’s not my problem.
Simon would tell me to relax and take a few days off to let my mind rest. Tobias would tell me to step out of my lane. That’s a hard no for me. He’s the only romance writer I know who can write whatever he wants whenever he wants and get away with it. Then there’s Graham, and while he would have sound advice, our writing couldn’t be more different. I’m all about the slow burn, no clothes, saucy shit, and he’s… milk and cookies with an arm around her shoulders while they watch the Hallmark Channel. Which means our approach to what helps the process is different. Zane would be down to go on a run with me. He never seems to struggle with plot issues, and he’s great at helping me fix mine.
So, yeah, I have a lot of options, but truth be told, they’d all ask what happened to cause this disruption in my writing life, and I’m not ready to talk about it with any of them. I’m not even sure what the hell is going on myself.
I snap my MacBook closed and head out of my office.
Staring at nothing isn’t going to help me.
I jog up my basement steps and am just about to open one of my French patio doors just off the dining room when Calla, Simon’s younger sister and the biggest pain in my ass, grabs my wrist and pulls me down the upstairs hallway. It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes. I swear, I don’t know what it is, but this woman… hell, she deflates my maturity by twenty years.
“What?” I ask and pinch the spot between my eyes. Between her and my book problems, I need to find some advice.
She peeks over my shoulder in the direction we just came from and then pins me with a glare.
As soon as my eyes lock on hers, my heartbeat picks up pace and the memory of the last time we were alone takes over.
