Ayla

“Hi, Ayla, you have a minute?” My agent, Rosalie, sounds chipper this morning, which makes me nervous. Every time she’s ever delivered bad news, she’s begun the call with an overly upbeat tone.

“Yeah. What’s up?” I shut the lid of my laptop. It’s time for a break anyway. I just sat here and cranked out five thousand words like it was nothing. Guess I’m feeling inspired today…

“I heard back from Cutler and Bagby, and they want to make an offer!” She’s all but squealing on the other end.

“Oh, my god.”

“I know,” she says. Cutler and Bagby are one of the biggest publishing houses in the world, and everyone knows they’re star makers. “Okay, so they want two books. They’re offering a low six-figure advance, but we can negotiate that if you want. So they want Hard Hearted, and then they want you to do a standalone spin off based on a secondary character. I highly suggest you get started on that second book immediately.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ll email you their offer and you can tell me what you think. We’ll counter. They’re notorious for making lowball offers and negotiating higher.”

“Awesome, yeah. Let’s go for it.” I swear there’s sunshine radiating from the top of my head right now, and I’m smiling so big it hurts.

“Congrats, sweetie. You deserve this,” she says. “I’ve got to head into a meeting, but I’ll have my assistant email you in a few.”

Rosalie ends the call, and I sit in stunned silence, letting it sink in. I’ve been rejected dozens upon dozens of times before, and I certainly expected a “no” from one of the most prolific publishing houses ever to exist.

My body is electric, energy humming from every extremity. I send a mass text to everyone… Rhett, Viv, Bostyn, my mom, and a few other writerly friends, and within seconds, I’m flooded with congratulatory messages.

I let myself gloat and revel, unable to wipe the smile on my face, and after an hour or so, I force myself to sit down and work. This second book isn’t going to write itself. Closing out of my current project, I open up a blank Word document. I have no idea where to start or what I’m going to write about.

The best friend in Hard Hearted was loosely based on myself, and now I’m tasked with making her fall in love and giving her a happily ever after.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

I’m staring at a blank screen for God knows how long when my phone buzzes with a text.

Rhett: WANNA CELEBRATE?

Me: NO TIME TO CELEBRATE. GOT TO WRITE BOOK TWO!

Rhett: LOCKE IS OUT FOR THE DAY. COME OVER.

Me: WORKING…

Rhett: WHY DO YOU FIGHT ME? YOU KNOW I’M GOING TO WIN. ALWAYS DO.

Me: COCKY MUCH?

Rhett: CAN YOU SPARE ME THE SMART ASS TEXTS AND JUST COME THE FUCK OVER IMMEDIATELY SO YOU CAN SIT ON MY FACE? YOU KNOW YOU NEED A CELEBRATORY ORGASM.

Me: POETIC.

Rhett: CUM OVER. NOW.

Me: I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE.

Rhett: ENOUGH WITH THE CUTE SHIT. SHUT DOWN YOUR COMPUTER AND COME OVER. WE’VE GOT THE PLACE TO OURSELVES FOR AT LEAST THREE HOURS. I’M CONFIDENT I CAN GIVE YOU AT LEAST FIVE CELEBRATORY ORGASMS IN THAT AMOUNT OF TIME.

Me: FIVE? THAT’S RATHER AMBITIOUS, DON’T YOU THINK?

He doesn’t respond. Maybe I’ve frustrated him. I’m not intentionally playing hard to get, it’s just that I need to start this novel. And now his silence is concerning. He’s probably using some kind of reverse psychology on me where the chaser becomes the chasee, and it’s kind of working.

I love it when he wants me so badly he begs and tries to bribe me with orgasms.

And I know an hour from now I’m going to be sitting here with wet panties and a throbbing core desperate for the featherlike, feverish strokes of his brilliantly talented tongue.

I call him, and he answers immediately.

“You win,” I say.

“Always do,” he says. “See you in an hour.”