Page 28 of Miss Behaved
Monica’s face brightens like she’s eager to get started. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a pack of gum, tears a piece in half, and pops it into her mouth.
“Want one?” She holds out the other half, and I shake my head with a laugh. “What?” she asks.
“You always could power through a whole pack of gum when writing. I guess some things never change,” I say.
Monica purses her lips and stares at me. “A lot’s changed, actually.” She turns back to her notebook and starts scribbling.
She’s right. Her tight, grown-up body by the pool last night made that perfectly clear. But I don’t want to spoil her mood further by mentioning that.
“Where do you want to start?” she asks me, setting down her pencil and giving me her full attention. She’s still clearly annoyed that I’m her partner, but she’s not letting it stop her from taking full advantage of the activity.
I shrug and get an irritated sigh in return. I know I’m not giving her much to work with, but honestly I’ve always been a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of writer. I barely outline, which drives my editor crazy, and I don’t think from one book to the next. I’m not the guy who plots and plans andhones his craft,whatever that’s supposed to mean.
Monica crosses her arms, and it makes supple mounds of her breasts. I try not to stare at them directly, but come on. Being a gentleman only gets you so far.
“Okay, tell me about your next project, then,” Monica says.
My next project—there’s a loaded question. Right now, I’m the only one sold on it, and I’m running out of fumes.
“It’s literary fiction” is all I say. “I’m still working out the details.”
Monica raises an eyebrow. “That’s…interesting.”
By “interesting,” she probably means she doesn’t think I’m capable of writing anything other than blood, sex, and murder.Take a number, darling. You’re not the only one.But underneath the blatant judgment in her tone is something else. Curiosity. And it’s enough to give me a little more courage about my idea, even if I’m not ready to talk about it.
“What about you?” I ask her.
“I’m working on a big-city romance series,” she says.
Her warming cheeks catch my attention. “Why are you blushing?”
Monica covers her cheeks with her hands. “Am not,” she says.
I dip my chin and look at her with a smirk.
“Fine,” she says, patting her hands on her legs. “I hate how you do that.”
She might, but I couldn’t stop reading her if I tried.
“It’s a five-book series,” she says. “Which is huge because the most I’ve ever done is four, and that was only once. And they love the idea, which is amazing, but they want a little more heat, or whatever it is they’re calling it, as I mentioned last night. And that’s not my thing. I do the whole kiss-and-don’t-tell, behind-closed-doors mumbo jumbo. And all they want is sex, sex, sex.”
She’s out of breath, and it makes me smile.
“I’m rambling.” She frowns.
“I love it when you ramble.” I lean my elbows onto the table to move closer to her. “First off, congratulations. Five books is a big deal.”
The corner of her lip ticks upward, and fire comes back to her big brown eyes. “I know. Thank you.”
“But, Mon, don’t let anyone push you. Your books are perfect as is. They’re you. So if you say no sex on the sheets, no sex.”
“This coming from a guy whose entire murder-mystery series revolved around a BDSM club?” Monica laughs.
“I guess I’m not the only one reading outside my genre.” I wink at her, and she blushes in return.
“What was the word you used?” she says with a grin. “Curiosity.”
And fuck, I’ve never been so happy to hear it.
