The Dead Romantics (6)

And anyway, I was here now, writing for a romance author I’d only ever met once, and I was about to screw that up, too, if I couldn’t finish the damn book. I knew the characters—Amelia, a smart-talking barista with dreams of being a music journalist, and Jackson, a stability-shirking guitarist disgraced from the limelight—trapped together on vacation on a small Scottish isle when their Airbnb host accidentally double-books the property. The isle is magical, and the romance is as electrifying as the storms that roll in from the Atlantic. But then she finds out that he lied to her about his past, and she lied to him, because while the booking was indeed happenstance, she decided to use it to try to win over an editor at Rolling Stone.

And I guessed the plot hit too close to home. How could two people reconcile and trust each other when they fell in love with the lies the other person told them?

Where did you go from there?

Last time I tried to write that scene—the reconciliation one, the one where they face each other in a cold Scottish storm and pour their hearts out to try and repair their damage—lightning struck Jackson dead.

Which would’ve been great if I ghostwrote revenge fantasies. Which I didn’t.

I began to nose through the used J. D. Robb section when my phone started to vibrate in my satchel. I dug it out, praying it wasn’t Ann Nichols’s agent, Molly.

It wasn’t.

“Great timing,” I said, answering the phone. “I have a situation.”

My brother laughed. “I take it your meeting didn’t go well?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I told you that you should’ve led with an orchid and not a succulent.”

“I don’t think it was the plant, Carver.”

My brother snorted. “Fine, fine—so what’s the situation? Was he hot?”

I pulled out a book that did not belong in political thriller—Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston—and decided to walk it back to the romance section where it did, in fact, belong. “Okay, we have two situations.”

“Oh Lord, he’s that hot?”

“You know that book I let you borrow? The one by Sally Thorne? The Hating Game?”

“Tall, stoic yet quirky, has a bedroom wall painted to match her eyes?”

“That’s it! Though his eyes are brown. Like chocolate brown.”

“Godiva?”

“No, more like melty Hershey’s Kisses on like the worst day of your period.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, and when I introduced myself, I said my name—twice.”

“You didn’t.”

I groaned. “I did! And then he didn’t give me another extension on my novel. I have to finish it. And it has to have a happy ending.”

He guffawed. “He said that?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know if that turns me on more or less . . .”

“Carver!”

“What?! I like a man who knows what he wants!”

I wanted to strangle him through the phone. Carver was the middle of the Day siblings and the only one who knew I ghostwrote—and I made him swear to secrecy or I’d print all of his embarrassing middle-grade fanfic starring Hugh Jackman in the town paper. Friendly sibling blackmail and all that. He just didn’t know whom I ghostwrote for. Not that he didn’t constantly guess.

I made my way into the romance section, half-naked men glowering down at me from their shelves, and slipped the book into the M section.

Carver asked, “So, I hate to be that person, but what’re you going to do about that manuscript?”

“I don’t know,” I replied truthfully. The titles on the shelves all seemed to run together.

“Maybe it’s time to branch out again?” he suggested. “Obviously, this writing gig isn’t working for you anymore, and you’re too brilliant to be hiding behind Nora Roberts.”

“I don’t ghostwrite for Nora.”

“You wouldn’t tell me if you did,” he pointed out.

“But it’s not Nora.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“It’s really not.”

“Nicholas Sparks? Jude Deveraux? Christina Lauren? Ann Nichols?—”

“Is Dad around?” I interrupted, my gaze falling to the Ns. Nichols. I ran my fingers along the spine of The Forest of Dreams.

I could hear Carver frowning in his voice. “How did you know I was at the funeral home?”

“You only ever call me when you’re bored at the funeral home. Not enough work at the tech firm today?”

“Wanted to leave early. Dad’s wrapping up a meeting with a client,” he added, which meant he was talking with the bereaved about funeral arrangements, caskets, and pricing.

“Have you talked to him yet?”

“About the chest pains? No.”

I made a disapproving noise. “Mom says he keeps refusing to go see Dr. Martin.”

“You know Dad. He’ll make the time eventually.”

“Do you think Alice could pressure him?”

Alice was really good at getting Dad to do things he didn’t want to do. She was the youngest of us, and she had Dad tied around her pinkie so tightly, just the mere thought of upsetting her would drive him to pull down the moon if he had to. She was also the one who decided to stay in the family business. She was the only one who wanted to.