Holly McTierney snorted in laughter as she reread the passage one more time. This time, she was careful to swallow her hazelnut flavored coffee first. The stuff had burned like a bitch when it came out her nose.

A five-minute orgasm, achieved in an elevator, for God’s sake? Five minutes?

Max, her big Siberian mix, looked up at her with those freaky black-rimmed eyes, one brown and one pale blue, from his super-sized fluffy doggie bed over by the radiator.

Holly drew in a deep breath and wiped the tears from her eyes, dog-earing the page and setting the paperback down onto the round, black walnut table that fit so perfectly in the bow-windowed breakfast nook.

Where did authors come up with this stuff? Talk about your urban fantasy! It took her three times that long to achieve satisfaction, and that was using Vinny, her triple-threat Vibonator with port and starboard attachments. As if a man could actually manage something like that with nothing but his penis!

The really sad part was, this particular piece of sci-fi was on the bestseller’s list of erotic fiction, while her latest collection of drafts was still sitting on the editor’s desk somewhere.

A five-minute orgasm, she thought to herself as she chuckled. As if.

It shouldn’t have been as funny as it was, especially since Holly was a bona fide published author of romantic fiction herself. But even she had to draw the line somewhere. Soul mates, love at first sight, bad boy alpha males with hearts of gold—yeah, she had tapped those tropey wells with the best of them, but this? Dr. Who was more believable.

After rinsing out her mug at the double-basin, stainless-steel sink, she put it into the stylish drying rack atop her custom granite countertop. Holly’s kitchen was her Valhalla, the center of her universe, and as such, it claimed top priority when she had a few extra funds after bills, gas, and groceries. So what if the rest of the tiny cottage looked like shit? She spent most of her time in here, anyway. And once she sold a few more books, she would be able to fix the rest up, too.

If she sold more books. An author was only as good as her sale numbers, and staying afloat in a saturated market was getting harder every day. That was one of the reasons she supplemented her meager income with occasional literary quickies on the side.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like writing freelance for a couple of popular romance magazines; she did. Those short stories paid the essential bills and put food on the table, even if there wasn’t a whole lot left over for other things. However, it was selling her books that gave her the biggest sense of satisfaction. Each completed piece was like a much-loved child, and seeing one go out into the world and be successful was every parent’s dream.

She hadn’t struck it rich—yet. Getting a book out there took time and money. Cover art, editing, advertising—none of that stuff was free. There were plenty of times when she’d had to resort to mac-in-a-box, and Max had to make do with the cheaper, store brand dog food during particularly lean weeks. Overall, though, they were doing okay.

It would all be worth it someday, she hoped. With hundreds of thousands of new books flooding the market every year, becoming the next Katie MacAlister or Alexandra Ivy wasn’t going to be easy.

Holly sighed. That was enough lollygagging. Time to bite the first bullet. Forty-five minutes of morning exercises to boost her metabolism. It was a necessary evil so she didn’t feel quite as guilty about spending the next several hours on her ass, drinking coffee with way too much cream—a staple for aspiring authors everywhere—and pounding out another desperate attempt at literary success. There just wasn’t a whole lot of physical effort involved in crafting a fantasy. If writing burned calories like Zumba, she would be a waif-thin supermodel.

Max yawned as she reached down to pet him before heading toward the guest room, where she had set up her makeshift fitness room. The equipment had been acquired courtesy of local garage sales; pieces that, after a few initial uses, had become dust-gathering, space-consuming, ergonomic clothes racks. God bless those lacking the willpower to stick to their New Year’s resolutions!

This room was next on her list to fix up. The old hardwood floors, which were badly in need of a sanding and refinishing, were bare except for the couple of interlocking flex flooring squares she had picked up on sale to preserve her aging joints. The dingy, yellowed walls screamed for some patching compound and a fresh coat of paint.

In her mind, she pictured gleaming white walls, motivational posters, some big mirrors, and maybe a small, mounted flat-screen in the corner. Having an inviting, attractive space to work out might make it easier to exercise. Maybe.

Abs first. She docked her iPhone and let the heart-pounding heavy metal soak into her skin as she kneeled on the circular torture device and swung her ass left and right to the beat. Then it was a twenty-minute walk and jog on the treadmill to get her heart rate up. The chaser was fifteen minutes of strength/cardio circuits of thirty to sixty seconds each—push-ups, jumping jacks, squats, butt-kicks, planks, mountain climbers, wall sits, and calf-raises.

Holly hated all of it with a red-hot burning passion, but she forced herself to do it, anyway. She absolutely refused to go up to the next jean size. Big butts might work for some high-profile celebrities, but Holly doubted she would experience similar results.

Sweaty and annoyed that she hadn’t been blessed with a tall, lithe figure, she chugged sixteen ounces of eau de tap, plopped her five-foot-two, chubby butt down, and got to work.