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“Fake relationship,” I said, snagging the backless black dress from the bed.
“Solid choice,” she said as I hung the dress in the closet again. “One of my fave tropes, actually. Beware. The lines get blurry really quickly.”
“Yes, in romance novels. Not in real life. This is a job. A good cover story is essential.”
She rubbed her hands together. Shit. That meant she was mentally working on a list of scenarios.
“Okay. Let’s work through this. Your backstory, your motivation.” She held up a sequined halter top I wore when we’d scored last-minute tickets to see Beyoncé four years ago.
“My motivation,” I said, grabbing the hanger out of her hand, “is to solve a crime and get paid and come back here to hang out with your overdramatic ass.”
She paced to the window, tapping her chin. “So you’re his long-distance girlfriend. How did you meet?”
“I dunno. We’ll figure all that out eventually.”
She pressed her fingers to her temples. “You are literally killing me right now. This is what I do.”
“You write thrillers that involve grisly murders.”
“But I include romance. Sometimes.”
I rolled my eyes. “Could have fooled me. Was it romance when the heroine in your last book fucked the killer on the hood of his car?”
“Yes. That was hot. And she eventually caught and killed him.”
“Not real life. And not this situation.”
“Okay, okay, okay. Give me a minute.” She paced back to the door, taking her hair down. She stopped by the bed and shook it out before arranging it artfully in a messy bun that on her looked artistic and chic, but on me would look unwashed and crazy. “You met years ago. In passing. You got stuck somewhere—an elevator?” She tapped her chin again. “Ooh, a boat. You were on a boat together.”
“A boat?”
“Yes, go with it. And you parted, never exchanging phone numbers. He spent years tracking you down, and after he went to a psychic who saw your initials in a crystal ball, he found you.” At this point, she was jumping up and down excitedly.
“That sounds batshit crazy.”
She scratched her head. “Not my best work, but first drafts always suck. You know that. I’ll keep working on it.”
I pulled up my Taylor Swift playlist, hit Play, and dropped my phone onto the mattress.
Liv generously helped me fold sweaters and jeans, and only once did I have to pull out a lace bodysuit she had hidden between cardigans.
“I’ve got it!” she exclaimed after several minutes of uncharacteristic silence. Not total silence, of course. Naturally, when “Anti-Hero” came on, we both sang along.
“You should be me. Tell everyone you are Amazon best-selling novelist L.T. Shipman. You’re researching your next book series, which is set in the wild Maine wilderness.”
“I can’t impersonate you, Liv.”
“You totally can. I’ve never shown my face. Gotta keep the readers wondering. And it’s my pen name. Pretend it’syourpen name. You help with research, and you’ve read all my books. It’ll be easy.”
I shook my head. I loved Liv, but she was known for her ideas. Mostly because they were rooted less in reality and more in the wild fantasies that lived in her head. An amazing quality in an author, but less so for solving mundane, everyday problems.
“That way no one will even blink when you ask intrusive questions. Everyone knows writers are nosey assholes who’re always looking to take people’s lives and turn them into stories.”
“Huh. You actually have a point.”
“Um. Of course I do. It’s perfect. You know what goes into researching and writing books. And people are always psyched to overshare when I tell them I’m an author.”
She wasn’t wrong about that. And book research was no joke. She spent months figuring out details and planning every book.
