9. Amanda

CHAPTER 9

Amanda

P henelope walked into the clearing, the early morning fog dusting the tops of the yellow and pink leaved Galadrial trees, making it appear as though she was walking through a candy-colored dream. She wanted to get a head start collecting the peacock crickets from their flowery nesting places before the sun rose too high in the lavender sky, and the crew was on their way yet again.

Even though it was early and the land around her was still, she heard a rustling and the faint lapping of water from the thicket. She drew her bow, the wings on her back poised to spread at any moment. She crept forward, silent as a dolemouse.

There, through the branches, she saw a figure that made her entire body grow still. It was Luthwen, wading into the water, completely nude.

It was a jaw-dropping sight. His sinewy muscles and tanned skin gleamed above the surface like raw honey, the planes of his taut back rising from his firm buttocks. His hair seemed longer when wet, the color of copper, clinging to his shoulders as he surveyed the calm pond in front of him.

Phenelope swallowed hard, feeling a myriad feelings course through her. She had never thought of Luthwen that way and never once entertained the idea of him liking her. After all, she was part bird, and life was far too painful and serious to have physical relations, let alone to ever fall in love with someone else. But now, observing him in secret, she found her nerves sparkled with need, and the urge to strip herself naked to her feathers and join him in the water was nearly overwhelming.

But she couldn't.

She wouldn't.

She'd learned her lesson before.

I stare at the words on my computer screen, reading them over and over again, trying to get back into the flow of things, trying to figure out where to go next. But I can't. It's the most curious and frustrating case of writer's block ever.

Actually, the last time I'd written anything was when I fixed up the last few paragraphs of The Heart Thief before we handed it in the other day. Ever since then, my mind has been stuck, like slogging through mud. It's not even that the weather is gorgeous and the summer is laid out ahead of me like a warm, pristine blanket or that I'm distracted by life. It's not that at all. It's that the will to finish the story as I had planned it has whittled down to nothing.

When I was writing the novella with Blake, the words couldn't come fast enough, even though the easiest parts seemed to come with Phenelope and Luthwen's interaction. Just being in the habit of writing, of creating, spilled out into my other work. But now when I think about my next scenes and where I have to go after, it's like I'm dragging my feet. I can only write with a gun to my head.

The worst part is, the only time I do feel like writing a bit more is when I entertain the thought of turning the novel into a romance, or at least upping the sexual and romantic nature of the book. But I'm fighting it because Phenelope should be fighting it. We both have to stay strong. Luthwen may be handsome and brawny and oozing with sex appeal, but that doesn't mean Phenelope should sacrifice the mission by sleeping with him.

"How is it going?" Ana asks.

I look up over my computer to see her standing in the doorway, smiling warily at me. She knows, oh she knows , that the worst thing to say to a struggling writer is, "How is it going?" or "Get any writing done?" Bitch, if I've got writing done, you can fucking bet you'll know about it.

But I don't have the strength to get mad. I sigh, pushing myself back from the computer, and rub my forehead, trying to loosen the tension. "It sucks," I mumble. "I'm just staring at the screen, and when I'm not staring at the screen I'm staring at the walls and when I'm not staring at the walls I'm having a nap."

"Want to be my guinea pig again?" She waves a green lipstick at me. "I could use the help. I'm supposed to do space and fantasy makeup. You know, the nerd stuff you like."

That does sound more interesting than normal, and I know this time she'll probably nail it since her day-to-day makeup usually borders on the side of 80s futuristic prom queen, but I can't be bothered with doing anything. Even going for a run is a struggle. I fear my writer's block is slowly leading to life block. And then what?

"How about you do it to yourself and I'll watch," I tell her.

"Sounds kinky," she says.

"I'm pretty sure everything sounds kinky to you." Actually, everything has been sounding kinky to me lately, hence the pervy peeping Tom scene in my book.

Phenelope, you are a pervert , I think to myself.

Still, I get up and follow Ana out into the kitchen. I've totally resigned myself to the fact that makeup has permanently taken over the table. I often drink my coffee around mascara tubes and color correctors. The other day I found cream eyeshadow in my protein shake.

Luckily this is Ana's last couple of weeks of school, even though it means she's trying to practice on me as much as she can. I had Rio over the other day and watched Ana transform her into a pretty convincing drag queen, though I'm pretty sure that wasn't her intention.

Even though it's only three in the afternoon, I go and get a bottle of local pinot gris out of the fridge. Fuck it all—a prescription for the daily blahs.

I've just poured us both a glass—thank god for day drinking roommates—when my phone rings.

Thinking it's either my mother or a telemarketer, I fish it out of my pocket and glance at it.

It's Blake.

I have to admit I'm surprised to see him calling.

Surprised, and, well…I'll just ignore that little flip my heart did.

"Hey," I say as I answer, sounding more chipper than I mean to.

Ana watches me with a slow raise of her scarily arched eyebrow.

"Hey, Big Red," he says smoothly. "Catch you at a bad time?"

I stare down at the glass of wine. "Not really. Was about to get my day drink on."

"What a coincidence, so was I." There's a lengthy pause and I find myself sucking in my breath, not sure what he's going to say next.

"Did you want to join me?" he asks. "Beautiful day, a slow period at Spinnakers. We could grab a couple of shrubs on the patio. "

"Last time you sampled my shrub you nearly spit it out on the waitress as she passed by."

"You know my luck with waitresses."

"And hostesses and classmates and most females. Yes, I do."

But beneath all the casual banter, I know I have to say no to him. The fact that we're both done working together and he still wants to hang out is nothing but bad news. I mean, what can we possibly offer each other anymore?

"Are you also saying yes to the pub?"

I can see Ana nodding anxiously at me.

"No," I tell him, and she groans loudly in disappointment. "I'm busy."

"Washing your hair?"

"Yeah," I tell him. "And not hanging out with you."

"You're kind of mean, you know that?"

"You've told me."

"Did I tell you I like that?"

"You have."

"And yet you keep doing it."

I sigh, even though I'm trying not to smile. "Anyway, I don't think it's a good idea. There's no reason for us to hang out anymore."

There's a pause. Am I being too harsh? Maybe.

I open my mouth to backtrack but he says, "But I have a reason."

"And what is that?"

"A proposition."

"Yeah, those never end well."

"This might. It might end with us being rich."

Now he has my attention. "What are you talking about?"

"Let me pick you up. I can be there in a half hour."

"But what is this about? I'm not going unless I know. My roommate had a bad dust-up with a Nigerian drug lord last month and I'm not about to follow in her footsteps."

"Tell him the chicken parmigiana was good," she whispers, gesturing to the phone.

"I hate to burst your bubble, peach, but you know I'm not a Nigerian drug lord. However, I do have a solution for that overactive imagination of yours."

"If I come, will you promise to never call me peach again?"

"No," he says, "but that's only because I'm nothing but honest."

"I'm still not sure that's true."

"Trust me."

"Not helping."

"See you in thirty minutes."

And he quickly hangs up before I can protest again.

"Is he coming here?" Ana asks excitedly. I'm not surprised to see her wine has been gulped down.

"No, we're going to Spinnakers again," I tell her, quickly marching into my bedroom to find myself something suitable to wear. I know my Lululemon pants and "Bazinga!" tank top should suffice, but I'm strangely compelled to make myself look better.

Ana follows me. "A date?" she asks with cautious optimism.

"No," I tell her, adding a glare. "Not a date. I don't date guys like Blake, and he doesn't date girls like me. We've been over this."

"Not even if he's your fuckboy?"

I pause, rifling through my closet, and give her a look. "Where did you learn the term fuckboy?"

"Your friend, Rio," she says. "She talks a lot. I learned a lot."

I turn away from her and whip off my tank top, sliding on a mustard-colored flutter sleeve blouse that I know looks banging with my hair. Speaking of hair, I pull my elastic out and attempt to fluff it around my shoulders.

"It's so pretty. You should wear it like that," she says, coming up behind me and petting my head like I'm an exotic bird.

"On second thought, no," I tell her. I remember what he said to me about my hair. He would know it was for him. I pull it back into a loose topknot, slip on white capris and rose gold sandals, and I'm almost ready to go.

Oh, this part is going to be awkward.

I slowly turn around to see Ana staring at me, hopeful as all hell.

"I could just give you a light makeup. A dusting."

I manage a smile and nod. "Okay," I tell her, hoping I don't sound as scared as I feel. I mean, she's come a long way. Just because she was totally pumped to make me look like Groot a few minutes ago doesn't mean I'm going to walk out of here looking like I belong in a Marvel film.

I sit down at the kitchen table, and she spends a good three minutes just staring at her makeup and then my face. Back and forth. I've never seen her look so determined before—I don't think the "natural look" is even in her vocabulary.

Then she gets to work. I drink the wine.

She's still finishing my face with blush when there's a knock at the door and I'm having severe déjà vu from the last time Blake came over. But luckily she kept her Krazy Glued eyelashes at bay, and when she hands me the mirror, lo and behold I actually look pretty foxy. The peach eyeshadow and winged eyeliner really make my blue eyes pop, and the blush blends naturally with my lightly freckled skin.

"Do you like it?" she asks, hands clasped by her chest, face already cringing at my potential reply.

"I love it," I tell her. And it's not a lie.

I give her a quick, albeit awkward, hug—maybe the first hug I've ever given her—and I quickly grab my purse and head out the door.

Blake is waiting in the garden that takes up the whole backyard of the house, one that the landlords have been toiling over ever since the first shoots started sprouting in March. Though they say we have free use of the yard and the quaint iron table and chair set situated among the lilacs, Ana and I are often intruding on their gardening whenever we use it. Ah, the joys of not having your own place.

"What are you doing?" I ask him, shielding my eyes to the sun while I bring out my sunglasses.

He looks up from a well-groomed patch of bluebells and grins at me, those dimples deepening in his cheeks.

With a ray of golden sunshine hitting him just so, he looks good. Really good. I know it's only been three days since I saw him last but I don't know. Maybe something has changed in those last few days. I'm noticing muscles I've never noticed before (which I know have always been there), the way he holds himself, the glint in his eyes when he's looking at me.

Fuck. Don't pull a Phenelope. If she can't have Luthwen, you definitely cannot have Blake.

"Honeybees," he says, gesturing to the bluebells. "I've been watching them."

"Okay. Why?"

He walks over to me, hands jammed in his pockets. "Because they're fascinating. Ever learn about them? Study them?"

Do I unleash more of my nerdiness or not? "When I was younger I knew a lot more. I'd read the National Geographics my dad had in the basement. There had to be a thousand copies. I read them all. I'm sure a few of them were about bees."

"Impressive," he comments, stopping a foot away from me. He cocks his head, studying me. "You look rather pretty today. Is that all for me?"

I roll my eyes and turn away before he can see me blushing. Fucking fair skin and overactive blood vessels. "You wish."

"Perhaps," he says with a quick grin as we stroll to the gate and he opens it for me.

"So why the bee fascination?" I ask him as we walk side by side. I don't know what it is, but in the last couple of minutes it feels like the dynamic between us has changed. Maybe it's because for once we aren't bound by anything. We're just together because we want to be.

No, I remind myself. It's because he's promised to woo you with something secretive and you want to find out what it is.

"My manuscript," he says as we reach the car. "To build a believable alien race I had to study the colony structure and instincts of the honeybee. They're bloody fascinating, actually. There's a whole world around us that we don't even get a glimpse of, all happening right under our noses."

"I bet you wouldn't say that about Fluffy," I point out, getting in the passenger seat. I'm taken aback by how clean it is. No pile of random shit to move into the backseat. Just last week he had a camping stove in here. I wonder if all this consideration is for me, but unlike him, I would never say anything.

"Fluffy is a monster from the bowels of hell," he says as he buckles himself in. "But believe me, he's made his way into the novel. Just picture him a hundred times the size."

Blake rarely mentioned his work-in-progress when we worked together. I didn't even know the genre. So to hear him talk about an alien race, I have to figure he's writing sci-fi.

Beneath his strong, lean build, big hands, cocky smile and gorgeous head of hair, it turns out that Blake Crawford is a closet nerd. A month ago I would have gone running to Rio with this information, but now I sit on it gleefully, knowing for all our differences, he's an awful lot like me.

"So I'm guessing you're writing science fiction," I tell him. Mr. Mean roars to a start and we speed off down the street, turning the heads of pedestrians as we go. I raise my chin, pretending I'm actually cool.

He leans in to look me over. "Sci-fi horror," he says matter-of-factly, his face inches from mine.

I instinctively suck in my breath, even though I ate lunch ages ago, and if anything I should smell like wine. I wait for him to go on.

"It's called Blood Aurora ," he says eventually, turning his eyes back to the road. "And I feel like I've been writing it since I was a wee one."

"How much have you written?"

"Maybe seventy percent. Not a lot."

I can't help but laugh at that. "Are you kidding me? Not a lot? I've been struggling at the halfway point with my book for ages now, and no matter what I do, I can't move past it. I'm stuck. It's driving me fucking crazy."

"Then maybe it's good that you agreed to come with me."

"Why, so I can drink my face off and forget that I have a book I need to finish?"

"Peach, I'd love to see you drink your face off. You're cute when you've had a few."

I shoot him daggers over that fucking peach nickname. At this point I'd rather be Tits McGee.

He only smiles. "Sorry. Bad habit."

Blake was right about Spinnakers not being too busy. We manage to snag a seat on the upstairs patio, both of us getting the Scottish ale from the brew pub, and I sit back, watching him curiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Before it does though, I take a moment to drink in the scene and just …

Pretend.

It's what I'm good at.

I'm looking at Blake sitting across from me, paying attention to every little thing about him: the hairs on his sinewy arms catching the light, the way his thin shirt clings to his broad shoulders and ropey biceps, the thick slope of his neck leading up to his sharp jawline, the way his lips twist to the left, as if he's about to tell you a secret he shouldn't, his eyes that glitter with a million untold jokes. I feel like I'm sitting across from someone who is one hundred percent alive and ready to take on the world. For all his faults—and he has many—there's something almost enigmatic about him, something that makes you want to learn more. Something that makes you want to learn from him.

I finally, finally, understand why all those girls were throwing themselves at him. Because they believe he can make them better, just by being around him.

And so for this second I can pretend that I am here on a date with Blake, that we aren't both here because of some other opportunity, and that what we share is genuine and true.

It's all a lie. And it's so sad that I'm even pretending. But at least I'm not thinking about Alan. At least I'm for once not thinking it was all a mistake. At least I'm hopeful for the future because I know now that there is more for me—guys or otherwise. Especially everything otherwise .

After we get our beers, he raises his pint to me and looks me dead in the eye in such a way that reaches deep inside, disrupting something dormant.

"Here's to The Heart Thief ," he says, even though we toasted over it the day we finished. "And to new endeavors. To the future."

I purse my lips for a beat before clinking my glass against his, the thick white foam spilling over the edge. "Cheers."

"Seven years of bad sex," Blake says before taking a sip .

"What?" I say, trying to wipe the side of my glass with a napkin. "I looked you in the eye."

"No, it's seven years of bad sex if you spill," he explains. "But don't worry, I can always bring you out of it."

As always, super inappropriate. God, I hope I'm not starting to like it. Regardless, I take a swig of beer, staring at him, unamused. "So, what is this new endeavor you're proposing? We write short stories for a living?"

I'm completely joking, but he tilts his head and displays his palms, like I'm totally right.

"What are you saying?" I prompt him.

"I had an idea a few days ago," he says, clearing his throat and putting on his extra-serious face which involves a furrowed brow and piercing stare, like he should be roaming the moors yelling for Catherine. "I did a lot of research before I decided to talk to you about it. Painful research. I think I may have spared you some of it. But I think we can make this work. I know we can. I just need you on board."

"Blake, I have no idea what you're talking about."

He licks his lips for a moment. "Okay. Okay, but listen to me before you make a snap judgement. Hear me out, hear all of it. Got it?"

The movie Friends with Benefits is flashing through my mind. He's not suggesting we have some sort of fuckboy/fuckgirl arrangement between us, is he?

I don't even let myself think about it.

"Okay…"

"We work well together. Writing with you has not only been inspiring to my own work, but it's actually been a lot of fun. Who would have thought, right? Me, life of the party, and you, girl who sits in the corner and makes snarky comments about people."

"Blake," I warn him, making the signal for him to hurry up .

"Anyway, you can't deny we write well together. And that somehow we work well together too."

"Most of the time."

"Most of the time," he concedes. "But what if I told you there was a way for the both of us to keep writing and make a hell of a lot of money."

"I hate to break it to you, but The Heart Thief was a project. No one is going to pay for a novella about an affair, especially not one that so reeks of Creative Writing class. I know enough about the market to know that."

He sits back in his chair, trying to move his face away from the ray of sun shooting through the patio. "Tell me what else you know about the market, then."

I exhale noisily and start flipping my coaster around. "Oh boy. Okay, well I've been subscribing to Writer's Digest for a few years, and I read Publisher's Weekly. I know what sells and what doesn't."

"And what do you know about the indie market?"

I'm surprised to hear him bring that up. I wouldn't think it would be on his radar, especially running a bookstore and all. "The indie market is all cheap romance and erotica."

"Below you," he says, more of a statement than a question.

"It just doesn't interest me," I tell him, trying not to sound like a snob. "I know what I want to write, and unfortunately high fantasy doesn't do well in self-publishing, so I have my sights on getting an agent and a publishing deal one day."

"But what if you could make more money than that publishing deal and you could make it today ?" He presses his finger into the table for emphasis. "What if you and I write together? Under a pen name."

Though my first instinct is to just say no, I have to ask. "What would we write?"

"Erotic romance," he says without missing a beat .

I stare at him, face askew, not sure I heard him right. "Um…"

"Listen," he says. "The writers who are doing it are making a ton of money."

"They're also sell-outs."

"So? Maybe they have bills to pay, mouths to feed. You think it's so bad to want to make money? Greed is good, Amanda. Greed is good."

"That phrase doesn't really work with a British accent."

"And we wouldn't be selling out, per se. We can write well, but we're both beginners, really. It would be good practice, a way to get a foot in the door. We write what sells, what the masses want, need, crave, and then when we have their attention, then we can publish what we really want."

"Right," I say caustically. "Like the Fifty Shades readers are going to purchase my fantasy afterward."

"They might. Let's say three percent pick it up out of curiosity, or maybe there are open-minded readers who like a bit of smut to get off to, a fun way to pass the time, while they also read memoirs and history books and fantasy and who else knows what. You don't know. People have different tastes and like a range of different things, and having those three percent because of our smut is better than having zero, don't you think?"

He has a point but he doesn't need to know that. "You really think a publisher will want my book after I've written erotica? There's a stigma, in case you haven't noticed. Just ask your dad."

His eyes shoot to the ceiling. "Believe me, I know about the stigma. That's why we write under a pen name. Hell, look at everyone in the Top 100 on Amazon. I bet every dirty book is either ghostwritten, written by a duo, or maybe even an established author looking to game the system. No one is who they say they are. There are no rules here. We can do whatever we want. Put out a book a month, split the profits. By the end of the year, we'll be rolling in it."

"But what's in it for me?" I say.

He gives me a puzzled look. "Well, the money I just mentioned." He pauses, nods slowly. "Right. You don't need the money."

"It's not that I don't," I tell him quickly. "But I'm still in school and I have a student loan and my parents to support me until I graduate. I need money…I just don't need it badly enough to write erotica with you."

"You make it sound like a horrible idea," he says.

"It is a horrible idea," I tell him, letting a laugh slip. "Look, Blake…I agree that we work well together, but I just don't think this is the logical next step."

"But don't you want success?" he says, his voice lower as he leans across the table. "Don't you want to prove to people that writing can make money? Don't you want to feel like you've proved them all wrong?"

I rub my lips together, unable to look away from his eyes that won't stop piercing into me. "Not by writing erotica," I say softly. "I want that on my own terms."

His eyes briefly drop to my mouth. "This will be on your own terms, and everything you've ever wanted will be that much easier to get. Just…tell me you'll consider it."

I break away from his stare and busy myself with a drink. I hate that there is some part of me that is considering it and for all the wrong reasons. I'm considering it partly because if I don't say yes to this, I won't have an excuse to see him all the time, or even see him at all. I don't want to be with Blake, but I at least want to be around him.

"Let's just try it," he goes on. "One book. Same length as The Heart Thief . We'll come up with a pen name, a cover, and we'll write the fuck out of it. The premise needs to be ridiculous but the writing doesn't have to be. It's practice. "

"For a career in the adult entertainment industry?" I say, my eyes focused on his hands as they grip his beer.

"For both our writing careers. We have nothing to lose right now. Nothing at all. And I'll front the money for the cover designer, the editor, the formatter, for Facebook ads."

Holy hell. He really has done his research.

He says, "Honestly, we just need to write the dirtiest, sexiest short story ever and I promise you if you want to quit after that we can, but I bet you won't want to."

"You're awfully confident," I muse.

He flashes me that grin. "Of course I am. Because I'm right. Do this with me."

I fold my arms across my chest and sit up straighter. "Why do you want me to do this with you? You could do it yourself and not split the profits. It sounds like you already know exactly what you need to do."

The waitress comes by at that moment and asks if we want more drinks. Blake orders more for us before I can say anything.

"It's on me," he tells me.

"Not necessary," I remind him. "Now, tell me. Why me?"

He chews on his lip, his eyes lazily raking over me. I would give anything to know exactly what he's thinking, what he sees.

"You can keep a secret," he says after what seems like forever. "You're ambitious. You're talented. And, well, I need your heart."

I blink at him, trying to process it all. "You need…my heart."

"You can't have the sex without the love."

I burst out laughing. "Oh man, what planet are you from, and what have you done with the real Blake Crawford?"

"I'm not saying it's true in real life, but I've done my research, and when it comes to romance novels, it's needed. No matter how dirty or nasty it gets, if it's a stepbrother screwing his stepsister," I wrinkle my nose at that, "or a teacher fingerbanging his student during class, there has to be love or it doesn't work. If you don't deliver the happily ever after, it doesn't matter how many holes she gets filled or how many orgasms she has."

"And you're saying you need me to write the romantic cheesy shit?"

"Fuck knows I can't do it."

"Well, I can't do it either!"

"Have you tried?"

"No," I tell him, my mind briefly flitting to thoughts of Luthwen and Phenelope. "And like I said, I have no interest in it."

"So fake interest," he says as the waitress brings our drinks. He gives her a quick wink, she smiles slyly at him, and it does something vile inside me. Is he hitting on her in front of me?

And, jeez, when did I think that was a problem?

His eyes dart over to me and he frowns. "Something wrong?"

I shake my head. "No. I mean, other than your proposition. You of all people should know how hard it is to write something you actually care about. I can't imagine how painful it would be to write about something you don't like."

"Funny," he muses to himself, looking away. "Thought you would have been up for a challenge."

"Writing with you was a challenge," I point out.

"Until it wasn't."

I inhale deeply, holding my breath in my lungs, trying to get some clarity. I don't want to commit to this idea that's really nothing more than a harebrained scheme, but at the same time…

"You don't have to say anything right now," he says. He brings out his phone and taps something out. My phone immediately beeps.

I frown and bring it out of my purse. He just sent me an email. "What's this?"

"I made you an official proposal. A business plan. About time I put those classes to use."

Jeez. He really is serious. Even with the hopeful gleam in his eyes, I don't think I've ever seen him so serious before, even when he was grappling with plot problems in The Heart Thief.

"I can't believe you made a business plan about writing smut," I tell him, putting my phone away and planning to look it over later.

He shrugs, squinting at the sun that has shifted again. "I'm serious about making money and potentially changing my life for good. What can I say?" Now he's shielding his eyes with his hand.

"Here," I tell him, bringing my cat eye glasses out of my purse. "They're prescription but they'll at least help with the sun."

He grins his thanks, and as he takes them from me, for a split second, our fingers brush together. But unlike the few times it's happened before, I can swear it's deliberate. His finger practically strokes mine, and his eyes pin me down. Fire travels up my arm, right into the thick of me.

I really should stop drinking around him. And, really, my reaction means I shouldn't write with him either.

He slips my sunglasses on and his mouth drops open. "Bloody hell, woman, are you blind as a bat?"

"No," I say defensively, even though the sight of him in my glasses is pretty ridiculous. "I'm nearsighted and only by a little bit." He doesn't have to know by how much. "That means?—"

"I know what nearsighted means," he says. He takes the glasses off, blinking hard as he slides them back on the table. "I think I might be cross-eyed now."

"I'm sure you'll survive."

"You're going to have to write most of the book then."

I sigh. "Just…let me read over the proposal and I'll let you know."

"It would be better if you read it now."

"Why?"

He wags his brows. "Because I'm a lot more persuasive in person."

He's right, which is exactly why I need to be away from him to make a sound decision. Writing self-published erotica with Blake can only lead to one thing and I'm too afraid to find out what it is.

Blake is still staring at me, waiting for an answer. The drinks are getting to my head, making it easier to just give in, but I have to stay strong.

"I'll let you know tomorrow," I tell him firmly.

"You promise you'll read the whole thing and keep an open mind?"

"I promise."

"Okay…" He puts his hands behind his head, showing off his wide chest, the thickness of his biceps, and of course I'm staring at him like I've never seen a man before. He knows what he's doing. What an asshole.

"Get a good look?" he asks smugly, all damn dimples.

"Whatever," I dismiss him, averting my eyes and keeping them locked to my beer. Seems like I do a lot of staring at my drink when I'm around him.

"What should our pen name be?" he asks.

I shake my head. "You really are full of yourself, aren't you?"

"I refuse to accept that you might turn me down."

"And I refuse to accept that no woman has before. "

"Oh, I've been turned down before."

"By who?"

His lips quirk. "You," he says pointedly.

I stare at him for a moment, my mind racing. "When did you proposition me?"

"I don't have to proposition you to know how you'd react."

"Oh yeah?" I ask, raising my brow haughtily. "And how would I react?"

"You'd kick me in the balls. You told me that once."

He sounds so sincere that I have to laugh. "I was just letting you know I could defend myself in case you wanted to take advantage of me."

"Amanda," he says, his eyes going soft. "I doubt anyone could take advantage of you."

"Too smart?"

"That and scary."

"I'll take both of those as compliments."

"Did I mention you're insanely talented and I need you desperately?"

A thrill runs through me at that thought and I don't even bother to ignore it this time.

"Seymour Butts," I say.

He stares at me blankly as I sip my beer. Eventually he spits out, "What?"

"Seymour Butts," I repeat, straight-faced. "Our pen name."

" Simpsons reference," he says with a knowing nod. "Well-played." He leans in, eyes dancing. "Does this mean you're accepting?"

"It just means I want to hear all our pen name options before I even think about it. How about?—"

"Amanda Hugandkiss," he fills in.

I grin at him. "How did you know I was going to say that?"

"I think I know you pretty well, Miss Hugandkiss. What about Big Red?"

I roll my eyes. "No."

"Red but spelled read, like I read a book."

"Then people will call us Big Read."

He shrugs. "So picky. Okay, what about Patty Peaches?"

I burst out laughing. "You are terrible at this." I tap my fingers on the table, thinking. "Susie Dicksuck?"

Now he's laughing, head back, eyes shut. "That's brilliant! Please, please can we be Susie Dicksuck?"

I giggle. "We'll put it in the maybe pile."

And so we spend the next few hours going over potential pen names. By the time he drops me off at my place, my ribs hurt from laughing and we're acting like the biggest pair of dorks. I think our maturity level has dropped to reserve levels, which is totally new for me, but I'm liking it.

"So," Blake lists off as I unbuckle my seatbelt, "we've whittled it down to Susie Dicksuck, I.M. Hornay, T. Aint Licker, P. Ennis and Mike Hunt."

"I swear to god there was a teacher at my high school teacher called Mike Hunt," I tell him.

"And there was one at my high school called Dick Titball."

We burst out laughing again, tears running down my face.

I fumble for the handle. "Okay, I have to go to sleep."

I step out of the car as he says, "Amanda."

I stoop to look at him, leaning against the open door.

"Promise you'll really consider it," he says looking up at me, his voice gravelly. "I think it will be fun. I think it could change everything."

I promise him I will, and when I'm lying in my bed later, drifting off to sleep, I wish I made him promise that everything will change.