I don’t know what love is anymore.” I flop across Victoria’s stiff-as-a-board couch and drape my arm over my eyes.

“No shoes on my settee, please. How many times do I have to remind you?” Victoria, one of my best friends, huffs, while setting a tray of tea on the coffee table in front of me.

“This isn’t the time for your fine china and delicate finger sandwiches.” I turn on the couch and prop my head up. Jamming my finger into the settee with force, I say, “This is the time for vodka! This is the time we crack open that expensive bottle you have and do all the shots. No, not shots. Just hook me up with a funnel and start pouring straight down my gullet.” I open my mouth, tip my head back, and point down my throat.

Victoria sits across from me and starts making a cup of tea, using teeny tiny tongs to pick up the sugar cubes. “One lump or two?”

“Did you not hear me? Vodka, Victoria. I need all the vodka.”

“Inebriation is not a solution to your problem, Rylee.” She plops two cubes into the cup and then pours tea on top. She’s always served tea this way. She says the less splash the better. She holds the cup out to me and waits for me to pick it up.

“Alcohol won’t solve my problem but at least I’ll be less stressed.”

“Until you start violating my toilet with last night’s dinner.” Victoria shakes her head, her nose turned up in the air. “I refuse to be a part of your drunken debauchery once again.”

I reluctantly take the tea and sit up, keeping my shoes away from the fifty-year-old velvety fabric. “I puke once in your house and you’re going to hold that against me?”

“Puke is such a vile word.” She shakes her head, an absolute distaste in her mouth from repeating me. “And not only did you get sick in my house, but it was before that, when you were dancing around in my petticoat without permission.”

Can you tell Victoria is stuck in the 1800s? My dearest friend is an author, just like me, but instead of writing raunchy, give-it-to-me-big-dick-daddy sex, she delights readers with non-fiction historical memoirs. I’ve read a few, talk about detail and research, this girl has it down pat. But after every book I read, I always ask, where’s the sex, where’s the romance? I know, I know, not every book is about love, but Benjamin Franklin most definitely poked his dick around—that’s no secret—so it wouldn’t hurt to write in some good old-fashioned bifocal banging. Am I right?

That’s just my opinion.

Victoria thinks otherwise.

“Well, if you weren’t so stingy with your petticoats then maybe I wouldn’t have to dance in them without your permission.” Taking a sip of my tea, I continue, “That’s beside the point. We need to focus on the real problem, here.”

Victoria’s front door swings open and Zoey, the third leg to our tripod, waltzes in wearing her designer sunglasses, hair a complete disaster, and carrying two bags on each arm. “I’m here. I’m here and I brought all the things.” She slams the door shut with her foot and flops on the settee next to me, her bags spilling across the floor. “I have booze, onion dip, Lay’s chips, Hot Pockets, and Post-it Notes in a variety of colors.” She rubs her hands together and looks between Victoria and myself. “Let’s plot, ladies.”

“I made finger sandwiches,” Victoria points out. “Cucumber and tuna, so we don’t need those microwaveable meat pockets.”

“There is always a need for a Hot Pocket, especially when our friend is out of ideas.” Zoey rips her sunglasses off her face and turns toward me, her face stern and serious. “How bad is it? Are we talking a little blip in the road or are we talking”—she swallows hard—“the big WB?”

Lips pressed together, eyes shut, I let out a long breath. “Total and complete WB.”

The room stills, the air around us heavy as Zoey barely whispers, “Writer’s block.”

The word hangs there between us, the heaviness so incredibly foreboding none of us really know how to respond.

Zoey, or Z. Platt, is a children’s author. She has a very popular series about Dilly the Dinosaur and the trouble he gets into. She’s published with Penguin and cranks out five books a year while being mom of the year to her six children—yes, six—and before you ask, she does the illustrations as well. They are so beyond cute. So in a nutshell, she is freaking talented.

So being that Victoria and Zoey are both authors, they get it. They understand the weight of my words. They’ve been there before and when it happens, we rally behind each other. Despite our different writing genres, we always rally.

Victoria eyes her sandwiches, her face twisting with concern. “I’m not sure cucumber sandwiches on pumpernickel bread is going to help in this situation.”

“I told you!” I flop my body back on the couch, careful not to spill my delicious tea. “You guys, I have no idea what I’m going to do. My publisher needs eighty thousand words from me in four weeks and I have nothing, literally nothing. No ideas, no characters, no plot, not even one idea of a hot sex scene.”

Victoria and Zoey both gasp.

“I know, like I said, I don’t know what love is anymore.” I flop my non-tea holding hand across the settee.

“We can fix this; we got this.” Waving at the tea and sandwiches, Zoey says, “Vic, clear this shit off the table, warm up those pockets, and bring some shot glasses. We have some plotting to do.”

* * *

I need a trope. I can’t just write about the Wright Brothers.”

“Why not? They’re attractive in their own way.” Victoria tips a bottle of vodka, pouring out more shots. This would be round five.

“Attractive in their own way, what does that even mean?”

Victoria shrugs. “Mustaches.”

“Mustaches are NOT book-boyfriend material. Mustaches belong to the creepy boss the heroine has to deal with, or the wise old grandpa who tells the hero to follow his heart and get the girl, not the guy who’s supposed to plow his rock-hard cock into the tightest canal he’s ever experienced. Can you even imagine what a mustache would be like on a thirty-year-old?” I shake my head, envisioning it in my head. “There she is, the heroine, lying on the bed, completely naked, legs spread, breasts heaving, nipples hard, waiting for the man she’s been dreaming of to finally take her up against the headboard, and in walks Zane, or Blaine, or Blake, whatever you want to call him, sporting a chunk of hair above his upper lip and nothing else, looking like the epitome of an eighties porn star. A thirty-year-old in today’s society with a mustache saying: ‘I’m going to eat your pussy so hard you’re going to come all over my tongue,’ doesn’t really scream sexy to me. It screams . . . sexual predator.” Thirty-year-olds and mustaches, just no, even if your name is Zac Efron. NO. Shave it, man. Shave it off.

“Mustaches are dignified,” Victoria says.

“For older men.”

Victoria huffs her disapproval.

“How about we drop the facial hair talk for now, table that, and come back to it later and think about an actual plot.” Zoey holds a pen in her hand and a pile of Post-it Notes, ready to write down our ideas. The only thing we’ve written down and stuck to the wall is one Post-it Note that says, “Sex.” Yup, since it’s a romance novel, that’s a given, but it made us feel good putting one thing on the wall.

“What about a stepbrother romance? My friend was raving about one the other day,” Zoey says, looking excited about her contribution.

“Already did one. Remember Tag and Brittany?”

“Oh yeah, Tag fucked Brittany so hard on that log in the campground. That was hot.”

“What about a librarian?” Victoria asks, making a good suggestion.

“Yeah, a librarian,” Zoey cheers and snags a shot glass. “To librarians, those smart bitches and their books. God bless them.” Talking to her shot glass, she says, “And down the hatch you go.”

Getting into it now, Victoria adds, “Yes, she can be a librarian who falls in love with a traveling salesman who comes into town on a whim selling musical instruments.”

“Should I name him Professor Hill?” I deadpan.

Nodding her head vigorously, Zoey says, “Oh great name. Hot. Professor Hill, do me on those books. Come on my pages, Professor Hill. I want to be fucked on words, right on these inked-up pages. I can see it so vividly.” Zoey’s eyes look wild as she licks her lips.

“Zoey.” I interrupt her fantasies to lay down the bad news. “Victoria just described the plot for The Music Man.”

“Wha—” Zoey throws her arms in the air out of pure frustration. “Victoria, for Christ’s sake, that’s the third time tonight. For the love of God, use your imagination.”

Victoria shrugs and takes a shot, only her second. “I write non-fiction, so sue me.”

“First it’s Gone With the Wind, then it was Casablanca, now The Music Man.” Zoey points her finger at Victoria. “I’m disappointed in you.”

“It’s not her fault. Don’t turn on each other,” I wave my arms around, as if I’m breaking up a fight. Sighing, I lean back and bring my shot glass to my mouth where I lick the vodka, as if I’m a cat lapping up milk. “This is pointless,” I say over my licks. “I’m all dried up, a shriveled vagina with zero ideas.”

“No, no, no, don’t say that. Let’s go over the tropes again,” Zoey says, slapping my leg. “Something might spark.”

“We’ve been through them five times already. There is nothing.”

“Small town, uh, brother’s little sister, roommates, my boss is my baby daddy.”

I shake my head, even though my boss is my baby daddy does do something for my imagination, but just as quickly as the idea ignites, it fizzles out.

Downing my shot, I place it on the coffee table and hang my head low. “This is pointless. I should just email my publisher now and tell them there is no way I can fulfill my contract.”

“No.” Zoey slaps the settee, which awakens Victoria, her eyes sharpening from the abuse to her precious furniture. “We are not giving up, and what you need is a refresher of what love is.”

“If you tell me I should set up a Tinder account, I’m going to punch you.”

“I would never suggest that.”

“You did last week when you said I was becoming a hermit.”

“Well, for fuck’s sake, Rylee. It’s summer and you’re wearing scarves inside your house with socks on your hands. A little Tinder action wouldn’t kill you.”

In my defense, I like it cold in my house, plus wearing socks on my hands feels nice, especially when I’m exfoliating and doing a deep conditioning on my hands. My fingers are the money makers. I have to treat them with respect, make sure they’re well oiled and ready to type all the words. Now if only my brain would kick it into high gear.

“I’m not doing Tinder.” I put my foot down. Tinder is not the solution.

“Well good, because that wasn’t my idea anyway.” Zoey bites into a Hot Pocket and talks with her mouth full. “What you need is to be in an environment of love where you can feel romance. I know you, Rylee, and the minute you’re put in a new situation, you start observing every little thing from the way a man casually presses his hand on the lower back of the girl he’s with, to the look a woman gives her man when they’re at dinner, a look that’s full of promises.”

She’s right. I’m an observer, a borderline voyeur at times, but it’s for the good of the books. That’s what I tell myself when I have my binoculars propped against my face, watching my neighbors from my window.

“Okay, so what’s your suggestion?”

Zoey sits up, mischief in her eyes. This is going to be good. “Next week, Art and I are going to Key West for a wedding. My cousin is getting married to her college sweetheart. They are the sweetest couple you will ever meet. Tiffany and Del, seriously, their love is so cute. And I think you should crash it.”

“Oh that’s very improper,” Victoria says, her lip curling from the idea.

“Yeah, I’m really not into that. I don’t know them, so that would be awkward.”

“That’s why it’s called crashing a wedding. I didn’t tell you to ask them for an invite.”

“Ehh, still a no from me.” I cross my arms and mull over the idea.

“Think about it.” When Zoey gets in this mode, there is no stopping her. “You fly to Key West for a few days, write off the trip as a business expense, and enjoy the sun while soaking up the romance. And who knows, maybe a little change of scenery and being in the presence of true love will help you come up with the most epic story ever.”

“It is an idea,” Victoria says, “but crashing someone’s wedding is rude.”

“The wedding is at The Hemingway House,” Zoey adds, a hand on her hip and a look of arrogance on her face.

Annnnnd she just dropped a bomb on Victoria. “Earnest . . . Hemingway?” There is a shake in her voice.

Zoey nods, smarmy written all over her. “The one and only.”

“Like the place where he wrote his novels?” I ask, feeling a little more intrigued.

“Yup. So think about it. Wedding, romance, beaches, Key lime pie, and Ernest’s ghost hovering over you, whispering into your ear every idea your little heart can desire. I can’t think of a more perfect place to get your writing groove back. Can you?”

I hate that she’s made it almost impossible for me to say no to this idea. I’m not one to crash someone’s wedding, not one at all since it’s a special day full of close family and friends, but . . . romance and Hemingway vibes. I mean . . . what romance author would say no to that?

“I’m only going if Victoria goes,” I blurt.

“Why are you dragging me into this?”

“Two seconds ago you were just salivating over the idea of being at Ernest Hemingway’s house.”

“Yes, I was because that would be an amazing place to not only visit but to get married in.” She brushes a piece of lint off her chinos. “But that doesn’t mean I’m about to crash the most important day of someone’s life. I’ll pass.”

“Ridiculous,” Zoey mutters as she gets up and walks toward the bathroom.

Victoria continues to pick lint off her pants, her turtleneck looking a little too tight around her neck right about now.

“Victoria . . .”

“I’m not going.”

“Come on. I need this.”

“Then go by yourself. I don’t need to go with you. You’re a big girl.”

Sighing, I say, “You and I both know if I go with Zoey and Art, they’re going to end up doing some couples thing like they always do, leaving me behind. I need a partner in crime, someone to help me stare at people.”

“As appealing as that sounds, I’ll pass.”

“Victoriaaaaaaa,” I whine, trying to think—aha! I’ve got it. “If you go with me to this wedding, I’ll go with you to that historical ball thing you wanted to go to at the end of the month.”

Lifting an eyebrow in my direction, Victoria asks, “You’ll go to the Historical League’s Annual Summer Solstice Ball?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll wear a traditional dress from the 1800s.”

“A replica of sorts.” I swallow hard, starting to realize what I’m signing up for.

“You’ll wear a traditional dress from the 1800s with gigot sleeves and everything?”

Goddamn you, gigot sleeves.

Forcefully smiling, I nod. “Yup. Bring on the gigots.”

“Fine.” Victoria tilts her chin to the side. “I’ll go to your wedding, but I will tour The Hemingway House on my own. I don’t need you rushing me through it. And I require my own room, as I refuse to share with you.”

“Because I make fun of your sound machine?”

“Yes, I would rather sleep in peace than listen to your moaning about my machine all night.”

So many jokes, so many sexual things.

“I didn’t want to share a room with you anyway,” I answer just to save face. Can’t let Victoria think she holds all the cards in this deal, even though she does.

“Sure you didn’t.” Victoria starts gathering the plates and shot glasses when Zoey walks in clapping her hands.

“Did you girls figure it out?”

“We’re going,” I answer, hope blossoming inside me, hope for a possible book idea to finally come to mind.

“You’re going?” Zoey’s voice gets louder.

I match her enthusiasm, really starting to feel excited about my decision. Standing and throwing my arms in the air, I cheer a little too loudly, “We’re crashing a wedding!”