Passion in Portland 2016 Anthology

by Anthology

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I love you,” Allyea blurted. She could see he was taken aback. Heat rushed to her face. She hadn’t thought through her actions, but she’d had an overwhelming need to tell him. She hadn’t considered if it was too soon or if it may scare him. She backpedaled. “I’m sorry— “

  “No.”

  Lon’s strong tone startled her.

  He hopped out of bed and made his way towards her, a smile spreading across his face.

  With her heart racing, she looked up at him with a shy smile. When he placed his hand gently on her cheek, she nuzzled into it.

  “I love you Allyea. I always have. It just took me a long time to realize how true this was; how much more we’ve always been.” With that, Lon claimed her lips.

  Allyea relaxed in to the kiss that felt like home, like puzzle pieces fitting together. At that moment she knew exactly what he meant. They’d always been it for each other. Nothing would ever come between them. Their souls were meant for one another.

  The End

  About the Author

  A.K. Layton has always been one to play by her own set of rules. In her youth she enjoyed writing poetry as it gave her a creative outlet that had no restrictions. Now, after years of reading all types of romantic novels she decided that she wanted to write stories her way. She pushed ahead as only a natural born Taurus can, with sheer stubbornness and determination.

  She resides in Oregon with her husband and two children. When she isn't over committing herself for school functions, playdates, and volunteer activities she enjoys watching MMA fights, taking advantage of the beautiful Oregon Coast, and reading until the wee hours of the night.

  https://www.facebook.com/aklaytonwrites

  https://www.facebook.com/aklaytonromance

  http://amzn.to/1PKDIwW

  http://www.aklaytonromance.com/

  Mr. Wright Write Right – AJ Harmon

  When a cocky journalist interviews a young romance writer, the word fraud is used to describe her work. Tempers flare but can they deny the instant attraction?

  Since the moment I could write words I’ve written stories. My imagination has taken me to magical places and has held me captive for hours… days… even weeks on end. Truth be told, I never wanted to return to the real world. When it came time to choose a career there was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to share my stories with others, hoping they would love them just as much as I did. So I wrote and then I wrote some more and somehow I managed to find people who wanted to read them all. It is an exhilarating profession to be in and I love the world of romance, the genre I now write. This is my story of how I discovered the difference between fiction and reality.

  1.

  “I can’t believe I got in!” I screamed into the telephone tucked between my ear and my shoulder as I pulled dresses out of the closet and held them up in the mirror. “They actually invited me!!”

  “And why wouldn’t they?” Becky replied. “You’re an awesome writer and your stories are smoking hot. Of course they’d invited you.”

  My sister had always been my biggest, loudest fan and supporter. When we were little, I used to read her my hand-written stories and she’d lie in the bed completely captivated, hanging on my every word. Since I have turned writing stories into a profession, she is still enraptured with my stories, although they are no longer about fairies and talking dogs. No. Now they are lust-filled, sexy and steamy romance novels, with hunky men needing to be tamed, and strong women looking for the best sex of their life. And by the end of the book, I can guarantee both the heroine and the reader are more than satisfied.

  “I mean, I know that somebody must have cancelled for there to be a spot for me, but even still,” I continued as I gazed at the sexy red dress I held up. “I’m stoked I’m going. You’ll come with me, right?”

  “When is it?” Becky asked eagerly.

  “Six weeks from tomorrow. We’ve got time to book the hotel and stuff. Fortunately, it won’t cost me an arm and a leg to get there. It’s only a two-hour drive, so no sweat.”

  “I’ll have to double check the date with Ryan to make sure he doesn’t have anything scheduled. I’ll let you know after he gets home from work tonight.”

  “Okay. I’ll make the hotel reservation as soon as I get the group link. I can’t believe I got in!”

  I was hopeful Becky would be able to come with me, being my first author signing I needed the moral support. I had no idea what the hell I was doing so having her with me would help to ease the anxiety. I prayed that Ryan would be available to stay with Kimmy, their three-year-old daughter, because I didn’t know what I’d do if she couldn’t come with me.

  In many respects, the author community is much like middle school. There’s drama, and cliques, and some that have their books go screaming to the top of the best-seller lists, and then there are other books that never get out of detention. There are the popular authors and the snooty authors, but amongst it all, most of the people I have met have just been plain awesome. I say met, but it’d only been online. This signing would be the first time I got to meet other authors in person. It was pretty damn exciting! I had six weeks to get my act together and pretend I was a grown up and knew what I was doing. Fake it ‘til you make it!

  The great thing about being a writer of romance novels is that I can make my heroes as perfect as I want them to be. They can be just a little perfect, medium perfect, or drowning in perfection. But there is a downside to it as well, and that downside is something I don’t like people to know about. You see, my experience with men, in the intimate sense, is rather limited. It’s not that I haven’t had boyfriends or relationships – I have – just not to the extent that I write about in my stories. I believe in love and romance and happily-ever-afters – I just write about what I imagine it to be. And so far I was doing very well. I just had to make sure that everyone I met at the book signing remained clueless to my innocence.

  ~~~~~

  With my little sister at my side, we entered the grand ballroom and the chaos that was in full swing. Authors, dressed in everything from shorts and flip-flops to beaded dresses and diamonds, were hustling to get ready for the long line of anxious readers already waiting in the lobby. There was even a long line forming outside the hotel. I had two hours before the doors opened to the public to make my table look attractive enough to make readers want to stop and say hello. With Becky on my team it was doable. Other than writing, I don’t have a creative bone in my body. And, as expected, she did a perfect job of making my book display look awesome and my table delightful. This is just one of the many reasons I love her so damn much.

  With just a few minutes before the giant wooden double doors were opened, the event photographer arrived and snapped a couple of photos. I just hoped that my sweat-stained face wasn’t noticeable. Between hauling boxes of books around and the anxiety I was feeling, my red cheeks and shiny forehead were probably the focal point of any picture I was in. Oh well, it was time to greet the readers.

  As nervous as I was, as scared as I was, as much as I wanted to run back to the car and hide in the back seat, I was excited to meet someone, anyone, who had read one of my books. And only an hour in a woman appeared in front of me with her own paperback of my first book and asked me to sign it. I was so happy as she told me how much she loved it that I almost cried. I felt validated – my choice to write for a living was right – and I eagerly expounded on my newest book and convinced her to buy it. I was sure I wouldn’t sell even one book, but after that $10 bill was placed in my hand I knew that every bead of sweat had been worth it. I considered the signing a success.

  With only a few minutes remaining, I looked at the stack of books on my table. I’d sold more than I expected – a lot more, and my stack was less than half the original size. I was overcome with emotion as Becky gave me a quick squeeze of encouragement and congratulations.

  “Ahem,” a voice interrupted.

  I turned my head to see an
absolutely gorgeous man standing in front of my table, a camera hanging around his neck and a notebook and pen in his hand. He stood towering over me, making him well over six feet tall. His stare pinned me in place as I steadied myself by grabbing the edge of the table. He didn’t blink as his gaze raked over my body and I suddenly felt self-conscious of the low neckline of my dress. I felt my cheeks blush and I noted his appreciative smile, his lips turning upward.

  “I’m Jackson Wright, a journalist with the local newspaper, and I hoped you would be kind enough to spare me a minute or two to answer a couple of questions.”

  I glanced at Becky who nodded, a bright smile reassuring me that I’ve got this. I looked down the almost empty aisle to see just three or four readers making their last round of the tables, most of the women having already spent their budgeted allowance and now somewhere in the lobby or guest areas of the hotel comparing their purchases and swag haul with their friends. There was no reason why I should say no to Mr. Wright, but my heart was thumping loudly and my nerves were all but shot.

  I managed to nod and curl the corners of my lips in an attempt to smile. “Sure,” I agreed.

  “Great.” He flipped to a new page of his notebook and copied my name down from the banner that stood behind me. Gina Walters, Amazon best-selling author. “So tell me, when did you start writing?”

  “Before first grade,” I laughed. “I would scribble down shapes and numbers and then tell my baby sister the story I’d just written.”

  Mr. Wright was surprised, but chuckled softly as he wrote on the page. “And you’ve never stopped?”

  “Nope. The stories have changed, obviously, but I’m always writing.”

  “So, you haven’t always written… romance?”

  “Oh, no. That’s been a more recent development, but one that I’ve thoroughly enjoyed and plan on continuing.”

  He wrote some more in his notebook and then, without looking up, inquired if he could ask some more… personal questions.

  Personal questions? Like what? Like where did my story ideas come from? Was I in a relationship? How did I take my coffee? I shrugged and said okay, hoping he didn’t smell my fear and then I laced my fingers together to stop my hands from shaking.

  “Do you live here in Portland?”

  “No, just a couple of hours south in Eugene. I went to school at U of O and never left. But, I was born and raised in Portland so it will always be home.” I was babbling. It’s a bad habit I have when I’m nervous.

  “So what’s your degree in?” he asked without looking up from his notebook.

  “Well, I never actually graduated,” I admitted. “I wrote a story and then published it on Amazon and the rest, as they say, is history. I’ve been writing ever since and self-publishing. It’s been a real rollercoaster ride but I love it.” Damn it! Still babbling.

  “So you are making a living as a writer?” he asked incredulously, raising his big, bright eyes to mine.

  I should be offended at the tone of his voice and the expression on his face, but I’ve heard, and seen, it more times than I can count. It is amazing to me how many people don’t read and so they find the thought of someone making money at selling books impossible.

  “I am,” I replied, my back a little straighter, my chin a little higher. “It’s not like I own homes all over the world or anything, but I can pay my rent and travel when I need to. I’m my own boss. I set my own deadlines. I write when I want to and do something else when I don’t. My sister,” I said as I pointed to Becky standing proudly beside me, “is my biggest supporter and the first person who reads the first draft of any story. I love what I do and I am grateful that I am able to do it.”

  “Well, good for you,” he conceded.

  “Do you like what you do?” I asked.

  “I do. I love it,” he replied.

  “And you make a living?”

  “Yeah, or else I wouldn’t be doing it,” he scowled.

  “So why do you think it should be different for me? Why is it weird that enough of my books are sold every month that I can pay my bills and exist comfortably?” I challenged.

  “But you write romance novels?” he all but sneered, making my temper rise and my blood boil.

  “Yep, and damn proud of it,” I all but yelled. Becky grabbed my arm but I yanked it away and took a few steps around the table so I was standing just inches from him. He smelled heavenly, but I had to focus. “Do you know why so many women need to read romance novels? Because the men in their lives are dicks and can’t, or won’t, give them what they need… what they desire… what they deserve. So writers like me rescue them with a fantasy that keeps them warm at night while their partners are snoring logs and ignoring them. I give them a taste of what they wished they had, even if it is only a fantasy. And you know what? It saves their marriage.”

  “So what you’re saying is that they are voyeurs into your personal life?”

  “No! That’s not what I’m saying. I do not write about my personal life!”

  “So all the romance stuff you write about is… is… just made up? None of it is real? All of the seduction and lust is just a fairy tale… based on nothing?”

  “That’s not what I said!” I huffed.

  “It is,” he argued. “I find it hard to believe that nothing from your personal life comes through in your writing, unless you have nothing to offer,” he added.

  “I think I’m done,” I spat as I stormed back to the other side of the table and started pulling boxes out from underneath. “The signing is over and I need to get packed up. Goodbye, Mr. Wright.”

  I heard him mutter something unintelligible and saw him pick up one of my business cards from the front of the table. The next time I glanced up, he was nowhere in sight. I finally let out the breath I’d been holding.

  “The nerve,” I hissed. Becky just looked at me with an expression I hadn’t seen before, but she said nothing.

  ~~~~~

  That evening I sat at dinner with several of my author friends and we drank several bottles of wine as we ate grilled salmon and roasted vegetables. The conversation focused on the events of the day, mainly the signing. It took a while but eventually Mr. Jackson Wright’s name was mentioned and the squealing began.

  “Damn, he was hot!”

  “I’m adding him to my free weekend list.”

  “I gave him my phone number when he asked for my email address.”

  “I’ll give him an exposé he won’t soon forget.”

  I listened to the women go on and on about how sexy he was and I said nothing. He was sexy though. I love a man who can wear blue jeans and a blazer and make it look sexy, casual, and professional all in one. Add in the perfectly groomed stubble on his chin and my knees almost buckled when I looked up and saw him standing right in front of me. Plus, he had this head of thick hair that I just wanted to run my fingers through. But he’d pissed me off and I wouldn’t soon forgive his accusation. The problem, however, remained. I was embarrassingly naïve about the physical acts I wrote about. I didn’t copy other authors, but I’d read enough to be able to write the hot sex scenes in my book convincingly enough that I hadn’t been challenged… until today. And he hadn’t even read any of my books! It’s like he instinctively knew I was a giant fake and called me on it. Damn that Mr. Jackson Wright! Damn him! He’d taken a perfect experience and shit all over it.

  And I was still pissed the next morning as we loaded up the trunk of the car and drove home. How dare he?

  Becky said nothing about it. She talked all the way home of how much she’d missed Ryan and Kimmy and how excited she was to see them again.

  “We were gone for 24 hours,” I groaned, irritation laced my tone.

  “I know,” she sighed. “But I missed them.”

  And that made me even angrier. Not at Becky, but at myself. Not only had I barely experienced sex at a minimum, I hadn’t ever experienced the kind of love that Becky was feeling. In fact, I knew I’d never been in love, not p
roperly. All the men I could consider boyfriends, all three of them, had been nothing short of assholes in one respect or another. They certainly were not keepers, which was why I was still single. My hands gripped the steering wheel, turning my knuckles white, and we drove back to Eugene in silence.

  2.

  When my royalties were deposited in my account at the end of the month for my book sales, I printed out a copy of the page of my online bank balance and highlighted all of the deposits with my fat yellow highlighter. Then, with violent aggression, I stabbed a pin through the top of the page, tacking it to the cork board above my desk.

  “Screw him,” I muttered as I stared at the balance at the bottom of the page. “People love my stories. So what if I am a little… inexperienced? I can still tell a great story.”

  Earlier in the month, about two weeks before, an article had been published in the entertainment section of the newspaper, written by none other than J. Wright. It had been mostly positive about the Portland signing event and even had a couple of photos of some of the more well-known authors talking to some readers. He’d been very kind and flattering to them. But then, towards the end of the article, there was this paragraph:

  While readers were able to get up close and personal with some of the best authors in the romance industry, the event also catered to new and upcoming authors. Some of these newer writers are still trying to figure out what they’re doing. They manage to hypnotize their unsuspecting and unsophisticated readers with flashy book covers featuring mostly-naked, tattooed men. Unbelievable and physically impossible bedroom romps with very little substance make up the ridiculous plots. They are however, able to make a living as women clamor for more and more fairytale stories.