Page 16 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“And don’t forget, you have fantastic inspiration right there in the house with you.” Louisa bounces her brows, her eyes alight and her tone suggestive.

“Oh my god, yes!” Haley grabs Louisa’s wrist. “I still want photos with a sword.”

“Think he’d wear a wig?” Louisa asks. “And not much else?”

“He could be shipwrecked,” Haley says, her excitement growing.

“Lost his clothes at sea,” Louisa adds, warming to the theme.

“So tragic.” Haley presses her hands to her heart. “And so naked.”

I can’t restrain an eye roll. “You guys are the worst. I doubt he models anymore. And even if he did, I can’t imagine he’d want to do a nude shot for your personal enjoyment.”

“He could have a strategically placed scrap of sailcloth,” Louisa suggests.

“He could also despise being objectified by virtual strangers,” I say.

Louisa and Haley burst into giggles, thoroughly entertained by my indignation, as usual. Eleanor manages a lightly sympathetic shrug, as if to say she understands my point, but she’s on their side. I look to Riley, hoping he’ll support my argument, but he shrugs, too.

“He modeled for clinch covers,” he says. “Pretty sure he expects some objectification.”

I concede the point with a sigh before polishing off my lemonade. I’d die for one of the mojitos Riley’s drinking, but after being ribbed for my “sloppiness,” I don’t dare partake, not today, when I’m emotionally frayed from hours of defending my singledom and delicately skirting questions about what I do for a living. Better to keep a level head.

Our conversation comes to an abrupt halt when our mother finds us on the porch and scolds us for leaving her to manage the party on her own, even though we all know she didn’t have to manage anything she didn’t want to. She shepherds us inside so Louisa and her fiancé, Reuben, can open their gifts. I went with the dish towel. It was cute and simple, even if it’s mildly embarrassing amid personalized crystal flutes, shiny new kitchen gadgets, and designer linens.

I make it through another hour of engagement-party social overload. Then I hide in an upstairs bedroom, where I google info on my grandmother’s series plans. While several sites spoil book thirty-four’s cliff-hanger—Zane Scarlett leaping off a high bluff to save Euphoria Belladonna after the villainous, cackling Balbo Blackheart tied her up and pushed her into the ocean as a means of coercing Scarlett to reveal the whereabouts of the Island of Diamonds and Desire—everything beyond that is pure speculation. And hope. Lots and lots of hope.

I’ve never considered writing fiction, let alone melodramatic romances about a surly immortal pirate and a haughty heiress gone rogue. I’ve mostly ranted about the lack of realism and relatability. I’m also aware that I have no experience or education in crafting stories purely from my imagination, and that doing so would be far more challenging than my siblings implied. Doing so well enough to get paid for my efforts seems nearly impossible, but after immersing myself in my grandmother’s fandom, and in the hope that someone somewhere would resurrect her series and give her heroes the further adventures and ending they deserve, I can’t honestly say I’m not interested. Maybe even excited. She loved these characters. Their fictional lives hang in the balance. Only by writing them out of their current predicament can they truly be saved.

At least for now, it’s only a dream, and a complicated one, even if all the pieces fall into place. The outlines. The permission from the estate. The will, the skill, the follow-through. But didn’t I tell myself last month that I wanted something to make me feel alive? Something with more agency and inspiration than my academic position provided? Something unrelated to a work environment in which I was constantly told to stop complaining and be grateful for what I had while watching my male colleagues demand more and get it? Every. Single. Time.

What if . . . I think. What if This is that something?

Chapter Six

The porch lights are on when Eleanor drops me off shortly after 11:00 p.m. Dylan must’ve turned them on for me. It’s a small thing, the flip of a switch, but I haven’t lived with anyone since I moved out of my parents’ house, and I’m not used to being thought of.

It’s a nice feeling, and one that sinks in deep.

I remove my shoes and pad into the kitchen to get a glass of water. The Truth and Dare notes are still pinned on the fridge. The smiley face is positioned directly under Dare, while the chickadee magnet is parked off to the side. I don’t know if the placement of either magnet is deliberate, but I take a chance, grabbing the small notebook I left on the counter and scribbling I dare you to text me one of your most embarrassing novel covers. I add my number, tear out the page, and pin it to the fridge with the smiley face magnet. It feels weird that we’ve been emailing for six years and living together for a week but we haven’t exchanged numbers yet, even just in case of an emergency. Knowing Dylan even on a cursory level, it also seems like a big ask, and I give myself fifty-fifty odds of him keeping his number to himself.

Although I try to move around the house quietly, floorboards creak and door hinges protest as I tiptoe through the halls and into my grandmother’s second-floor, ocean-view office. It’s a beautiful room, timeless in its way, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, big rolltop desk, and elegant anthemion chair. I can picture Grams sitting in it now, scribbling away in notebooks with her ink-stained fingers while her laptop idled nearby. I never wanted to disturb her work, so I didn’t spend much time in this room, saving me from drowning in memories while I scan the shelves. She kept copies of all of her books, as well as reprints, special editions, translations, and large-print versions. It’s quite the collection, and it’s well organized, so I find what I’m looking for right away. The first book in the Zane Scarlett series. A Pirate’s Perfect Plunder.

I want to take it seriously, I do, but a breath of laughter escapes me as I run a hand across the gold-embossed title, below which Dylan/Zane stands behind a redhead who’s in what I can only assume are the throes of ecstasy. He’s shirtless, of course, and ripped, with one hand on her stomach, pressing her against him, and the other just below her impressive breasts, almost but not quite groping her. Her red satin gown laces in the front—a rarity for the era, but I’m probably the only one to care—though it’s fallen open somehow and she’s seconds away from spilling out. Her hair and makeup are completely modern, and his breeches are at least 10 percent spandex. Behind the couple, the Zephyr’s Revenge is moored in a rocky cove, its black sails billowing, though even the most novice of sailors would know that sails get furled when a ship is harbored.

I’m nitpicking, and I know it, but I don’t understand the draw. It all seems so extreme, this fantasy of gorgeous people lusting and looting. I appreciate that it provides an escape and the glamour, passion, and excitement people might be missing in their own lives, but I can’t imagine reading this stuff and seeing myself in it. These are the stories that kept me out, not the ones that drew me in. They made me feel like only the beautiful and the brave ever found love and adventure.

Also, the real history is super interesting. Problematic, sure. Slavery was an accepted practice. Indigenous populations were being massacred and exploited. Titled white dudes with inherited wealth and power were manspreading all over the globe. Women had very few rights and were often treated as property. But the eighteenth century also included the invention of the piano, the hot-air balloon, the thermometer, and the fire extinguisher. Science moved out of private intellectual clubs and into public interest with the dissemination of books filled with experiments to try at home. Philosophers debated reason versus emotion, making major advances in understanding how we think and feel. Sure, a lot of that won’t have a place in an escapist adventure/romance, but it isn’t worth reflexively discounting for the sake of simplicity.

My hope—if I dare to allow it—is that I’ll read these books and feel like I have something to contribute. A reason to pick up where my grandmother left off.

I wake the next morning with A Pirate’s Perfect Plunder etched into my cheek, having fallen asleep while reading and rolled on top of the book. Thankfully, only the title is three-dimensional, so the heroine’s heaving bosom didn’t embed itself in my face.

I check my phone. It’s almost 9:00 a.m., later than I usually sleep, but I forgot to set an alarm, my brain buzzing with the possibilities as I dipped a toe into my grandmother’s fictional world. But the time isn’t the biggest surprise on my screen. I also have a text, or rather, a photo.

The image is from an unknown number, but it’s a romance novel cover, and I only know one person who would’ve had reason to send it. A man sits on a bench in a locker room, facing the camera. The shot is from midthigh to the base of his nose, revealing only his darkly stubbled chin and his seductively parted lips, with the rest of his face cut off. He’s shirtless in jeans with the fly and belt undone, and a trail of black hair descends low enough to suggest this is not a PG-rated read. In just the right position, he presses a football onto the bench between his parted legs, with his free hand gripping the back of his neck, displaying an impressive bicep and forcing his chiseled torso to twist. The color is desaturated into a blue-tinted monochrome, and a scribbled white title reads Twisted Seductions, Book Three: The Baller’s Final Score.

“Oh my god.” The words slip out of me through a breath of laughter. I mean . . . he looks good. Really good. His body is incredible, but also, that is not a man about to play football. In fact, he doesn’t even look like a man who knows how to play football. He looks like a man who got caught jacking off in the locker room, so he grabbed the nearest piece of sporting gear to hide his erection, then acted nonchalant about it by scratching the back of his neck. The cover doesn’t seem that embarrassing, but it is funny, and I’m now desperate to call Dylan “the Baller.”