Page 22 of Bonfire and Bliss Bookstore

Armor on, I place my hand over hers again, stopping her from picking at the remnants of her napkin. When I squeeze, her eyes jump to mine. “Please. You’ve obviously thought about this a time or two. Tell me what’s wrong with my books?”

Chapter 8

Penny

Oh God, me and my stupid, stupid mouth.

Beneath Monty’s heavy hand, mine burns. My entire body does. Shame rushes through me like a forest fire, likely leaving me splotchy. Oh, my stupid pale skin and its inability to hide my emotions.

Shaking my head, I pull my hand back and grab my drink, downing the entirety of my cider. Then with a finger I signal to Rosie. A check would be perfect right about now. If only my ride wasn’t the one I was trying to run from.

“It’s okay,” he says in that even tone. “I can take it.”

My gaze flits toward him. Beneath his black frames he looks almost amused. Like he finds this all entertaining. Like he assumes I have no idea what I’m talking about, but he’ll indulge me.

The thing is, I do know what I’m talking about. At least when it comes to his books. I’ve read them more than most, I’m sure. Not because they’re particularly good—they’re not, or at least not the last few—it was more a study in figuring out what went wrong. What happened to the kid who left Hope Harbor ten years ago with this incredible storytelling ability? How did he turn into this?

I don’t want to sound mean or judgmental, but I fear that’s how it will come across. His books have one glaring problem, though, and if he’s suffering from writer’s block, well, maybe this will help.

Rosie appears and I order us two more ciders. Once she’s brought them, I take a long gulp before setting my palms down on the bar top. Then, without looking at him, I say, “Your male character lacks depth. I didn’t believe a thing he thought or a word he said and don’t even get me started on his interactions with Sadie. There was no chemistry, no longing, no yearning—” I turn to face him, energized from the truth. “It was words on a paper, dialogue without emotion. He didn’t believe in love and you never resolved that.”

Monty’s brows dip and then they knit together as he repeats my words. “No chemistry? It was a thriller.”

I point at him. “Right. But he wasn’t the killer. And she was his best friend. He saved her and then you just ended it.”

“Well, the mystery was solved. They stopped the killer. He saved his friend.”

“Who he was in love with!” I screech.

“No, he wasn’t.” He shakes his head. “Like you said, he didn’t believe in love.”

“And yet he risked everything for her. Risked his life. Spent all his time with her. You dangled a carrot to the readers and then snatched it away. You wrote half a book.”

He pushes back his stool. “I don’t write romance.”

“Well, maybe if you did you would have earned out your advance.”

Shit, the minute the words leave my mouth, my cheeks burn.

Monty chokes on his drink, clapping his chest to catch a breath.

“I’m so sorry,” I mutter.

Dammit.

Monty pulls off his glasses and swipes at the water that’s formed in his eyes from choking. “I asked.”

Apparently I can’t stop myself. “It’s just, and tell me to shut up if you don’t want to hear it, but why don’t you write romance?”

“Because I write thrillers?” He says it like it’s a question, which has me pushing.

“But why not do both? Romance is the fastest-growing genre. The bestselling genre. You—looking like that”—I wave at him—“would make a killing if you figured out how to write some good old-fashioned yearning. Some off-the-charts chemistry.”

He coughs out a laugh. “Looking like what?”

My cheeks are flaming again. “Don’t play coy, Monty, you know exactly what you look like.”

He glances down—he’s in jeans, worn-in sneakers, and an old Green Day T-shirt—and frowns like he doesn’t understand what I’m going on about. It’s infuriating.