My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(52)

“Hit me up, Steven,” I say. One table over, the college gals chat with each other, seemingly uninterested in this book dissection.

“Now, I did a simulation on whether it’s possible to reach all those locations in ten minutes, like in chapter twenty-two.” Steven breaks out his phone and shows me a map of places in my book, then spends several minutes telling me that it’s not possible to pull off the chase scene from my story on a Vespa.

He’s engaging enough to distract me from Jackie’s far-fetched idea. “That’s all plausible, Steven. But the thing is,” I say, pulling the ace from my sleeve, “his Vespa was souped up.”

I’m about to tell him where to find the mention of the tricked-out vehicle when the redheaded college gal—Uma is her name—pipes up with, “It says so in chapter fourteen, paragraph four. That’s how he pulls it off.”

Damn. She has a steel memory and bionic ears. “Uma’s right,” I say.

Steven’s eyes flicker with you’re kidding me. “No way!”

“Yessss,” Uma says, then since she’s done correcting him as he reader-splains to me, she returns to her conversation with her friends, whipping her gaze back to them.

I clap Steven’s shoulder. “Yes. Check it out. It’s a quick mention but it’s there.”

Scrambling, he flicks through the book on his phone, and when he discovers the little detail, he whistles appreciatively.

Then, because we’ve talked about me enough, I ask him what he does for a living.

“I’m a lawyer, but I want to be a writer,” Steven says, a little sheepishly. “That probably sounds ridiculous.”

“Not in the least,” I say, then I pull my chair closer. “Have you started your first book?”

“I finished it, actually. It’s, well, it’s a thriller. That’s probably obvious,” he says, and it’s funny to see this side of him—the nervous and worried side. He’s been such a lawyer all along, fast and sharp with questions.

Now he sounds like a writer.

“Let’s just say I’m not surprised,” I say.

“It’s edited too. I hired a professional editor. I’d like to try to find an agent or self-publish it. It’s just…” He stops, winces, scrubs a hand across his chin. “The reviews. How do you deal with them?”

That’s his worry? He came to the right guy. With a laugh, I say, “Badly, most of the time.”

His shoulders seem to lose some of their tension. “Really? You seem so…impervious.”

Glad my facade works. But there are times when I need to let it down. This seems like one of those times. “Some days I have the thick skin of a rhino. Other days, I’m cellophane,” I admit with a shrug.

“Yeah?” He sounds relieved. “That’s good to know. Well, that it’s hard for someone like you.”

I flash back to a comment Hazel made during dinner at Menu, that I was obsessed with reviews. That stung, but only because it was true. Also because that obsession was messing with my mind. “It is, but I’m trying to get better. I used to care about them too much—the good and the bad. The bad ones sent me into a tailspin, but I let the good ones go to my head. I had to get a better handle on all of it.”

“How do you do that now?”

“My favorite way is to just ignore the bad ones. As for the good ones, well, I like praise. We all do. But my agent made me a deal. He shares a handful of good ones, along with a promise to send me a bottle of the best single malt for my birthday if I don’t Google myself anymore.”

Steven laughs. “Does that work?”

“I’ve abstained from review searching for three weeks. Never underestimate the power of scotch.”

He sighs, seeming relieved, then winds himself up again. “I’d be too worried that I got something wrong in the story. Some detail.”

Everything about this guy added up. I thought I could write his character bio easily—assertive dude who likes to find flaws, take copious pictures as evidence of said mistakes, and then dissect those errors alone with his wife before she says enough already, just shut up and fuck me.

But he’s got a vulnerable underbelly. I suppose we all do.

“Look, you’ll make mistakes. You won’t make everyone happy. But everything you write is a choice. Think about why you want to make that choice, and then when you put your book out there, let it go. Anyone who creates something has to do that—a singer, an actor, a dancer, a poet. Hell, athletes have to deal with this all the time,” I say, thinking of Carter. He has to deal with reporters and sports analysts Monday morning, analyzing him week in, week out. “It’s part of the job. You learn to listen to the people you trust, and you try to filter out the rest. Or put your head in the sand—the ostrich strategy works too.”

Steven nods, taking that in. Maybe that’s enough for him, because we shift topics and talk about the best and worst parts of the law until we arrive in Barcelona.

The chat with him keeps Jackie’s questions about Ten Park Avenue on the back burner.

For now at least.



Today is my day to shine. Barcelona is my place and Gaudí is my companion. You can’t write about the Spanish city without knowing the architect whose work defines it.