Page 16 of Romantic Hero
Then he types in ‘River Oakley’ and ‘Oakley Ranch’, once more being directed to my website and then after that a Reddit thread entitled ‘My Top Ten Fictional Assholes’, then an Instagram page where one of my most loyal readers @NancyDrawsStories has posted her fan art renderings of the Bedlam Creek characters, including what I can now see is a pretty accurate representation of River smoking a cigarette in the moonlight.
He frantically dials a number. ‘I’m calling the ranch,’ he says. ‘This is bullshit.’
The operator’s voice sounds out in response.‘This number does not exist.’
‘Huh. I’ll try Matty’s cell.’
Matty is one of the stable hands at Oakley Ranch. The closest thing River Oakley has to a friend.
‘This number does not exist.’
River drops my phone onto the couch, nostrils flaring. ‘I … I must be dreaming. That’s all this is. Some fucked-up terrible dream. I’m still in Blue Egg Meadow, snoozing underneath the big old cedar.’ He scratches his jaw. ‘I’ve been real tired lately, Cassidy’s been on my ass, and the developers are circling for the land auction. I must be flat out. Stressed to high heaven. This is a dream. England, romance novels, Googly.’ He turns to me. ‘You need to slap me. Slap me right now and wake me up out of this nightmare.’
‘I don’t think you’re dreami—’
‘Slap me, goddammit.’
I shake my head. ‘Violence is not the answer. I’ve never slapped a person before and I won’t start now. If you’d just calm down and listen to me—’
‘This is a dream,’ he says again, peering over at my stack of books, utterly befuddled. ‘It has to be. I amnotpart of some crappy book series by some two-bit—’
He stops short as my hand connects with his cheek. Not hard enough to cause any damage, I’m sure, but swift enough to make an audible sound.
River puts his hand up to his face, eyes glinting with shock.
‘My books are excellent,’ I say, lifting my chin, heart pounding. ‘They have a 4.5 average on Amazon. 4.2 on Goodreads. They bring joy and happiness to the world.’
‘You slapped me,’ River mutters, rubbing his cheek.
‘You asked me to! Begged, actually. I didn’t do it that hard. There’s no mark. Your cheek hasn’t even gone red.’
‘You slapped me … and I didn’t wake up. I’m still here.’ He plonks down onto the sofa, shoulders slumping as if all the energy has left his body. ‘So this is not a dream.’
‘I guess not,’ I say apologetically. ‘I think this might actually be happening. But how? Bedlam Creek doesn’t even exist in the real world’
‘But Bedlam Creek is real. I amreal.’ River runs both hands through his hair so the soft ash locks stick up at jaunty angles. ‘How did this happen? How could this possibly be happening?’
‘I don’t know, it’s like … magic …’
I trail off as my eyes snag on the periwinkle fabric folded on top of the washing machine. The kaftan Mrs Casablancas made me wear last night at the manifestation ceremony.
The manifestation ceremony.
Oh God.
It couldn’t be …
Could it?
No.
Oh fuck.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Doing a second creative manifestation ceremony was not something I had on my bingo card for this year. But then neither was unexpectedly getting parked by the love of my life, or losing my ability to write, or, you know, willingly doing the first creative manifestation ceremony.
‘Manifestation? This really is ridiculous.’ River is sitting smooshed up on the roof terrace’s little patch of grass, a pink rose-patterned blanket laid out before him, my ‘Sexy Library’ scented candle flickering away in its centre. He glances over the rooftops, seemingly unimpressed with the view. To be fair to him, it’s not as beautiful and balmy out here as it was last night; bruise-coloured clouds crawl above us threateningly, the sound of a police car siren whining in the distance.
