by Jillian Dodd
“For what?”
“For being happy for me.”
I give him an incredulous look.
“No, let me explain.” He turns to face me, the salad forgotten for now. “The last few girls I dated were actors, like me. All basically at the same level—some regional stuff, maybe a decent production here or there. But nothing impressive, you know?”
“Sure.”
“It’s like a competition all the time. Like, I wouldn’t feel right going to them and being happy over scoring an audition out in LA because I’d know they’d be jealous. Even if they pretended not to be, I’d be able to see it. When I was in Philly and word got out that I was nominated for a Barrymore, my girlfriend at the time broke up with me.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Not even a little bit,” he sighs with a shrug. “It took five days before she packed up her stuff and left. She couldn’t stand being around me anymore. Said I had a big head. All because I’d gotten nominated for an award. Hell, I didn’t even win. I heard from mutual friends that she cheered and clapped when she heard I hadn’t won.”
“Ew! What a jerk!”
He laughs. “I love the way you put things. Yeah, that was a jerk thing to do.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t feel supported back then.”
He takes one of my hands, lifting it to his lips and placing the softest kiss on my knuckles. I didn’t know before now that it was possible to get turned on by such a slight kiss, but here we are. The fact that he holds my gaze the entire time only makes me want to jump him even more.
“I feel supported now, which is what matters.” He kisses my hand again before letting go. “So, what did you think of Bill?”
“I think he has your best interests at heart, which is saying something for an agent.”
“I guess you know a lot about that.”
“I’ve heard stories of people getting screwed over, yeah. I bet you have too.”
“I know I’m absolutely lucky to have him in my corner. He goes to bat for me time and again—well, you know, you’ve seen it for yourself. I’m sure those producers didn’t care to hear about some nobody from New York. He works his ass off.”
“You deserve an agent who’ll do that for you.”
“He likes you a lot. I can tell. That’s high praise.”
“I’m flattered.” Though I would like to know what this has to do with kissing me, which is what I wish he’d do right now. We can talk later.
But no, he’s still too keyed up over Bill’s announcement. “LA. An audition for a movie. A real movie too, not some student film. I can’t tell you how many of those I’ve done, and they never go anywhere.”
“It’s so fancy. I’ll be able to say I know somebody who auditioned in LA.” I put my hand over my chest and bat my eyelashes. “I’ll be able to say I knew you when you were tending bar.”
“And I’m able to say I know someone who’s written best sellers,” he teases. “Don’t forget how fancy you are.”
“Not so fancy. Look around. You don’t see any paparazzi outside my apartment. I think I like that too. The anonymity. I have to be honest. I don’t know if I could stand being recognized by everybody on the street. I’d lock myself away.”
“Like Greta Garbo,” he muses.
“Oh, my grandmother was a huge fan of hers and used to see her on the street all the time,” I tell him with a grin. “It was like a sport in Manhattan for a long time—Garbo sightings. I can understand why she was so reclusive. I don’t think I could ever live up to that image. Because it’s all fake.”
“I think some people forget that,” he muses, picking through what’s left of his food. “They start listening to their own press and forget they’re just people. That’s when trouble starts. I know actors on Broadway who have that problem too. They get all wrapped up in how fabulous they are.”
“I would hate to see that happen to you,” I murmur, watching him.
“I don’t think that’ll happen to me. I need good friends in my corner though, reminding me I’m plain old Rafe whenever I start getting a big head.”
“Then, I guess you don’t want to hear that I’ve based the hero of my current book on you, huh?”
He drops his fork into the container and turns to me. “What? No way.”
“I mean, he has a different name—it’s Ryder right now, though that might change—but otherwise, he’s a lot like you.”
“You’re kidding! It's not like anybody else would know, but that’s still the coolest thing!” He sits back against the cushions with a goofy grin. “The hero in a romance novel. That’s not the kind of thing that happens every day.”
“I was afraid you’d think it was corny.”
“Not even a little bit. Come here.” He pulls me to him, and before I know it, I’m straddling his lap. “Anybody who’d think that was corny is missing something in their brain. I think it’s cool. And you know I have to read it when you’re finished.”
“Of course. I’d hope you would.”
His hands slide up and down my arms as his voice drops to barely a whisper. “Will your characters have a happy ending?”
“That’s the whole idea,” I whisper back with a grin. “A happily ever after is guaranteed. I wish life were that simple, don’t you?”
“It can be.”
He’s now tracing my spine, and, oh boy, I want to purr like a cat and arch my back. I don’t know how it’s possible that such a simple touch can make me feel this way, but again, here we are, and I’m about two seconds away from grinding against his legs like a dog in heat.
“I can tell you what would make me happy right now.”
“What would that be?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I have an idea.
His hands press flat against my back as he pulls me in until our torsos are flush. I’m breathless all of a sudden, lost in his eyes and the heat between us. I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody as good and decent as him and with such a good head on his shoulders.
And he’s opened me up to an entirely new way of thinking about my work too. I’m excited about it for the first time in a long time, and I owe that to him.
“What do you think?” His smile is knowing, teasing, and I practically melt under it.
“I thought you wanted to take things slow.” It’s a struggle to speak, I swear, with his hands now cupping my butt the way they are.
“I do. But that was an entire five days ago, too, and I know you so much better now.” He moves in to inhale the scent of my hair and skin, making me close my eyes as his lips skim my jaw.
“Don’t tell me you can’t control yourself around me. I can’t believe that’s true.”
“Why not?” He pulls back a little, searching my face with those two pools of ice blue. “Don’t you know how devastating attractive you are?”
“No.” I giggle. “Not even close.”
“Oh, Kitty, Kitty.” He shakes his head with a soft growl. “You have no idea then. You could make a monk reconsider his vows.”
I mean, what am I even supposed to do besides wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him harder than I’ve ever kissed anybody in my entire life? What would any sane, red-blooded person do in a situation like this?
Just when I’m sure this is about to head for the bedroom, a knock at the door bursts the perfect little lust bubble we’ve built around ourselves.
And I know who it has to be.
“Damn it,” I whisper, sagging in Rafe’s arms. My sweater is halfway up, and his hands are underneath. For Pete’s sake, could I get a break just this once?
“Who is it?” he rasps in my ear.
“My neighbor. He’s the only person who would knock.”
Especially since my best friend isn’t talking to me. The thought of Hayley is like a bucket of ice water being poured over my head, which kills any hope of the mood sparking to life again.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper before climbing off his lap, straightening my clothes and hair on my way
to the door. “I’m coming!” I call out.
Matt is waiting, Phoebe beside him, when I open the door. He instantly sizes me up and then looks over my shoulder. “Oh. I’m interrupting something.”
“You could say that.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “I told you I was going out tonight.”
“I forgot.”
“It’s been, like, eight hours.”
“I know that. What do you want me to say? I’m not used to you going out.” He glances down at the dog, who looks up at him. “And you said you’d watch her if I had to leave for the night.”
“You could have your girlfriend over every once in a while, you know. Just saying.”
“How do you know I don’t?” he counters with a raised eyebrow.
“Has your technique suddenly lessened? Or is she just really quiet?”
He snickers. “Okay, fine. I’m running late as it is. Would you mind?”
“What’s this all about?” Rafe joins us, standing behind me.
I can practically feel the tension.
This is tiresome. And not the first time I’ve been through it. Every guy I’ve dated who meets Matt automatically assumes he’s a threat. Even Rafe, it seems, and here I thought he might actually be above that sort of behavior.
Men will be men, I guess. I wonder if Matt would take the same philosophical stance as earlier today when he told me guys would hit each other to get rid of bad blood and then be friends after.
Something tells me he wouldn’t.
“I’m dog-sitting for the night. Right, sweetheart?” I pat my knees, and she comes to me, tail wagging. “We’re gal pals. This is Phoebe.”
“Matt.” Matt extends his hand. “Neighbor.”
“Rafe.” He doesn’t bother explaining who he is.
I don’t even know what he’d say if he tried. Guy who was just about to get it on with Kitty? I mean, it’s sort of long, and it might make for an even more uncomfortable situation.
“Well, thanks for the help. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” Matt gives Rafe a chin jerk, that universal man signal, before strolling down the hall.
Rafe doesn’t bother trying to silence his grumbling as Phoebe darts for the coffee table, where our forgotten salads are too good for her to ignore. I scurry after her to shoo her away from the food and she plops down beside me. “I’d better get going. Bill said he’d email me the sides for my audition. I can’t wait to get started.”
“Sides?”
“Yea, they’re small sections of the script for me to practice my part.”
“Oh, I see. Do you really have to go right now? Phoebe won’t be a bother.”
“Yeah, I think it’s best."
“I’m sorry. Do you not like dogs?” I ask with a sinking heart while Phoebe practically beats me to death with her wagging tail.
“No, that’s not it. I like dogs. She’s sweet.” Rafe grabs his coat and walks to the door.
He’s definitely in a mood now. I decide to let him go without making an issue of it.
“Okay, goodnight then,” I say as Phoebe and I see him out the door and watch him walk down then stairs before closing it.
“If your dad thinks I won’t make an issue of this, he has another thing coming,” I huff and stomp off to my bedroom with Phoebe in tow. From now on, a text or a note slipped under the door will have to suffice. I can always check on Phoebe and bring her over when I’m done doing whatever it is I’m doing.
Though something tells me he deliberately brought her over when he did, the jerk.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As I walk into the café, it occurs to me that this is the third time in less than two weeks that I’ve walked into a situation without any idea of what I’m getting myself into.
The first two times, I was walking into a night of performances.
Now, I’m walking into this writing group, and my knees are knocking like it’s my first day out in public. Ever.
My first impression: I spent too much time on my clothes, hair, and makeup. One guy is wearing loud, mismatched socks. There’s a woman wearing a woven poncho that looks like it’s made primarily of cat fur.
Not a great start.
Still, I take a seat at the edge of the cluster of chairs and smile at the people around me. There are fifteen in all, and each person is holding at least a few pages in their hands. I guess they expect to either exchange pieces or read them aloud.
I didn’t bring anything, mostly because I didn’t want to insert myself into a group when I’m only just showing up for the first time.
And let’s face it. Until I know what these folks are all about, I’m not going to show them my work. It’s a personal thing. Sure, the entire world might read what I have to say once it’s edited and polished up and what have you, but that’s different.
For one thing, I wouldn’t be sitting in front of them while they did it. Slowly curling up on myself and wishing I could melt into the floor.
“Welcome, everybody.” Leanne, the group’s leader and the woman I chatted with online after reaching out, stands in the center of the clustered chairs. We’re in the back of the café, away from the regular customers. She keeps her voice low but loud enough for us to hear. “Thanks to all of you for taking the time to be here this week. We have a newcomer this evening, as you might have noticed by now. And it’s a real treat to have her here too. Miss Kitty Valentine.”
All eyes immediately turn to me, and I could just about die. I give them a little wave and remind myself this is why I don’t do public gatherings. My skin is itchy, I’m sweating, and I don’t know what to do with my hands.
“Kitty, as you might or might not know, is a published author whose first book was an instant best seller.” Leanne beams like she personally discovered me. “I’m sure she’d love to share some tricks of the trade at the end of our session tonight.”
Um, no. No, thank you. I did not sign up for that. Leanne and I need to have a little talk.
But there’s no time for that before she starts inviting people to step up and read their work. I sure do wish they’d stop looking at me. All of a sudden, it feels like they’re auditioning for me. Like I’m going to offer critiques.
Being put on the spot is not what I came here for.
At least the writing itself is good. One by one, they get up and read really beautiful prose. The sort of prose that, in some cases, I wish I were writing. Lush, lyrical. One of the women talks about the simple act of eating a peach, and I swear, I can almost taste it by the time she’s done.
In other words, some of these people are putting me to shame. I’m glad I didn’t bring my work with me. They’d laugh me out of the café.
And once each piece is finished, a handful of people give their impressions, their notes. They discuss metaphors and symbols, themes and archetypes. It’s stimulating, I’ll say that much. I could sit here all night and listen.
But dang it. I’m in way over my head, aren’t I? These are real, serious writers who have MFAs and who’ve traveled the world just to sit where Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Tolstoy once sat, who’ve dedicated their lives to shaping new worlds using words.
Whereas I’ve written about fluffy romance and steamy sex.
Talk about a dichotomy here.
“Now, if Kitty would like to say anything, I’m sure we’d all be thrilled to hear it.” Leanne waves me up, smiling from ear to ear in a tense sort of way that might actually be a grimace now that I’m standing a little closer and I have a better look at her. She doesn’t want me to turn her down after she ran her mouth before asking me if it was okay.
Which, in case I haven’t already made it clear, it’s not.
I tuck my hair behind my ears and twist my hands in front of me because, once again, I have no idea what to do with them. I’m not prepared for this. “Uh, hi,” I offer when I reach her side. “I’m Kitty, as Leanne told you. I have several published books on the market and am in the process of writing my next book right now. I have to admit, I’
m at a loss for what I could tell you tonight aside from offering my appreciation of your work. Truly, you’ve all inspired me to keep going and level up.”
I see a few bobbing heads, but for the most part, the group looks expectant—verging on disappointed. Like I was going to offer the keys to the kingdom. Darn this Leanne person, who I notice scurried off for a cup of tea the moment she was able to get free.
“Who’s your publisher?” one of the men asks.
“Flagship.” This earns me a few approving nods and murmurs. “I’ve been with them since the beginning. And don’t get me wrong. Things haven’t always been smooth sailing. One thing I’ve learned in the last year is how to be flexible and course correct when the time comes for it.”
“Can you elaborate?” the poncho lady asks.
“Well, when there are changes in the market and the public knows what they like, your publisher might come to you and ask that you modify your writing a little. As a writer, you might react defensively. Your work is meaningful to you, so you can’t imagine going about it any other way. But it’s important to maintain a sense of distance too.”
“What does that mean? How would you suggest we go about that?” Poncho insists. For a writer, she’s not great at understanding words.
“It’s easier said than done,” I admit. “I got good and drunk the day my editor told me I had to alter my approach.”
A few people choke on their laughter, and I realize that maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Too late now.
“I got over it though,” I add once the laughter quiets. “I had to. If you’re anything like me, this is all you can imagine yourself doing for the rest of your life. It’s all you want. But our work has to sell in order to make a profit for the publisher and for us, which means it has to appeal to what the public wants.”
“What are you writing now, after your publisher asked you to change course?”
“I write romance.”
Silence.
Dead silence.
Profound. The silence is profound.
“A romance writer?” Poncho snorts.
Leanne wanders over with her tea. “Yes, Kitty Valentine is a best-selling romance author, of course.”