Caroline bursts into my room, waking me as if from the dead. I don't know what time it is, but the sun is shining through the windows and New York is full of bustle and activity below.

“I can’t find my striped, crew neck, long sleeve shirt,” Caroline says, helping herself through my closet. “Taylor and I are going to the zoo.”

It takes me a good minute to remember who the hell Taylor is. Through the thick fog of the huge hangover, which makes my blood feel like molasses coursing through my veins, it finally hits me. Taylor is the guy she met on Aiden’s yacht. He’s the one who bought her at the auction.

“What is he doing here?” I ask. My mouth is parched and I cough in the middle of the question. When I sit up in bed, my body feels broken. Every inch of it aches and I wince in pain. My body is in full regretful mode from my drinking last night.

“Ah, of course, here it is!” Caroline yells. Her peppiness and natural zest for life is particularly annoying to me at this moment. The other thing that really aggravates me is the fact that she can party all night, drink way more than she should, and subsist on only a few hours of sleep without much effort. I, on the other hand, need a full eight hours or more just to not feel like a zombie most of the day.

“Honestly, I don't know how you sleep so much,” Caroline comments, as if she’s able to hear my thoughts.

She stands in front of my floor-length mirror and places the shirt against her shoulders. She’s dressed in an elegant silk bathrobe with faux fur trim, which makes her look like a movie star from the 1950s. I’m not sure what she’s wearing underneath, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it were one of her elegant, lacy nightgowns. Following her lead, I got myself one of those when we first moved in together so that I could feel like more of a grown up, but it never felt right. I never could sleep in it straight through the night because of its tiny spaghetti straps and the lace that made me itch as I tossed and turned. So, I reverted to wearing old t-shirts and mismatched pajama pants.

“I’ve been looking for this shirt forever,” she says, taking off her bathrobe and nightgown and pulling it over her bare breasts. Caroline isn’t exactly the type of girl to burn her bra, but she’s also not one who’s shy about going out with her nipples hanging out. And why should she be? She has large breasts with perky little nipples that always stand up straight on their own and seem impervious to gravity.

“I’m sorry about that,” I mumble. “I honestly can’t remember the last time I even wore it.”

“Oh, man, you are hungover,” Caroline announces the most obvious thing in the world. I nod. If I had any more energy, I would ask her to pull the curtains closed and leave me to suffer alone in my dark room. Unfortunately, I don't even have the strength to do that.

Caroline walks over to my desk and picks up the empty bottle of wine.

“Wow, you had yourself a little party last night, didn’t you?” she asks. I nod. My laptop is still open on the table and the pages of notes are laying around all over the place.

“Is this your new book?”

I nod. She knows that I’m working on a romance novel, but not really much else about it.

“I actually finished it last night,” I say. “And got the cover done. And sent it to a proofreader.”

“Oh, wow, that’s awesome. This is the fastest you’ve ever written anything, right?”

Caroline is well aware of the fact that it used to take me weeks to squeeze out a 2,000 word short story.

“Yeah, I actually managed to write fifty five thousand words in about fifteen days,” I say proudly. “I don't really know how, but they just came out of me. It was like I was possessed and someone else was doing all the hard work for me.”

“Is that what they call a muse?” Caroline asks. “History is full of stories about writers and their muses and the great lengths they go to just to hold onto their muses. I mean, the Greeks were practically obsessed with them.”

I never really thought of it that way before, but she’s right. Of course, I know about muses. I even did a paper on them my sophomore year. The muses are inspirational goddesses of literature, science, and arts in Greek mythology. They are considered the main source of knowledge that comes from poetry, songs, and myths and they were later adopted by Roman culture from the Greeks. Ancient authors would invoke a muse when writing epic histories and poetry and ask for inspiration and help from the muses. Ancient texts are famous for how much credit they are given by their creators and they are attributed in Homer’s The Odyssey, Virgil’s the Aeneid, and Dante’s Inferno. They even come into play in later literature including those by Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Milton. In modern times, the concept of the muse typically refers to a real person who inspires the writer, musician, or artist to create her work.

“So, what’s this book about?” Caroline asks, sitting down at my desk and turning on my laptop. She doesn’t hide the fact that she’s a big snoop and I don't really mind it.

“Wow, I love the cover,” she says, looking at the image in Photoshop that I created last night. “Auctioned Off. An alpha billionaire romance by Ella Montgomery.”

Hearing the title of my book being read out loud sends shivers through my body. I watch her click over to the Pages document and read the blurb at the top.

“Oh my God, Ellie!” Caroline screeches. “This is about the yacht. And Aiden.”

“Yes, I know.” I shrug.

“Is it like, exactly what happened?”

“Yep, pretty much. I think that’s why I was able to write it so quickly. Because it was pretty much true. I just wrote down everything that happened the first time I was there.”

“Oh my God! Can I read it? Of course, I can read it, right? You’re going to post it on Amazon,” she says. Without even waiting for me to reply, she sends the document to her email.

“Yes, it’s fine,” I agree, even though my permission is clearly not needed.

But in truth, I do want her to read it. She would be my first real reader. And, given what I know about Caroline, I know that she won't be a very harsh critic. Even though she has an Ivy League education, she isn’t one to put her nose up at popular culture. She loves Supernatural, Vampire Diaries, and Pretty Little Liars, and has a somewhat unhealthy relationship with teen melodramas. Plus, she actually reads romance novels. She read Fifty Shades of Grey even before it was published by the big name publisher and became mommy porn across America. And she will definitely not be turned off by the explicit nature of my book either. Her philosophy is that the more hot sex that a book has, the better it is.

Suddenly, an unfamiliar, sickening feeling throws my body into a cold sweat. My hands start to shake and my stomach starts to rumble. Before I even know what’s going on, I run to the bathroom. I barely have enough time to open the lid before an avalanche of vomit comes pouring out of my mouth.

I continue to throw up and shake until I empty every last bit of my stomach contents. It takes me a few moments to realize that Caroline is standing next to me on the tile floor, holding my hair out of my face. I’ve been in this position with her a number of times and it makes me feel good that she’s here for me now.

“Okay, I’m really excited that you finished your book and all,” Caroline says, “and the fact that Aiden Black is your muse, but don’t you think it’s funny that you’re starting off your new career with your head in the toilet?”

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and force a smile. She helps me onto my feet and I brush my teeth harder and with more toothpaste than I ever have before.

“You think Aiden is my muse?” I ask.

“Of course!” Caroline says. “How else would you be able to get all that writing done so quickly?”

I mull that over for a moment. Yes, I guess she’s right. He is my inspiration for all of this. Without him and my experience on the yacht, I wouldn’t have much to write about at all. Plus, to tell the truth, I’m kind of a prude. I don't like talking about sex, let alone sharing my sex life with the world. And yet, Auctioned Off is practically all sex. Unapologetic, hot, explicit, and dirty. But also loving. Because that’s what Aiden and I have.

***

I get out of bed slowly, trying rather unsuccessfully to steady myself on my feet. The whole room spins all around me.

“I swear to God. I will never drink again,” I mumble, leaning against a chair to make sure that I don't fall down.

“Oh, c’mon.” Caroline laughs. “There’s no need to be so rash. Besides, as a writer, you’ll be in great company as a drunk.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know, all of these great men writers everyone always talks about from history. They were major drunks!”

My mind wanders back to my English major courses, but not a single name pops into my head.

Caroline helps me out. “Hemingway? Faulkner? Jack London?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Famous drunks.”

“Almost as famous for drinking as they were for writing,” she says.

“Oh, yeah,” I add. “Wasn’t it Hemingway who said that you should always write drunk and edit sober?”

“Sounds about right.” Caroline laughs. “Well, listen, I'm going to leave you here to recover a bit. Because I have a breakfast date with Taylor.”

“You do?”

“Yep!”

“Did he sleep over here?” I ask.

She nods and jumps up a little bit with excitement.

“Talk about burying the lead. So, what was it like?”

“Really fun,” she says. “Really great. I like him, Ellie. A lot.”

By the expression on her face, I can immediately tell that there’s isn’t an ounce of a lie in that statement.

“Well, say hi to him for me,” I say.

“You don't want to come out and do the honors yourself?”

I shrug. “I feel like crap,” I sigh. “Maybe another time.”