For the Plot (All for Love #1)

Chapter 1

1

Josefine

“Fuck!” All the good words are taken. I toss my notepad and pen at my open laptop with such force it flips onto its back.

On the other side of the desk we share in our quaint Santa Monica apartment, Tyler removes his headphones. “You okay?” He sets my MacBook upright.

I drop my head to my arms and let out an incoherent grumble.

He rattles my wrist. “Look at me, Beck,” he says, using my childhood nickname. It’s short for Beckham—my last name. (And yes, when we started dating, he exhausted all the Bend It Like Beckham jokes.)

I lift my head but keep my chin propped on my arms. “Yes?” I sigh.

“You’re going to write this book.” He grins, his gray eyes shining. “You’re the most talented person I know. And I know talent.”

That he does. Tyler is a music producer who works mostly with electronic dance music artists.

“You really think so?” I ask, blowing out a long breath.

I’ve been writing a book for the past six months, but recently, my work has come to a standstill. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block, per se, but I can’t find coherent words to fill in the gaps in my plot. Like a dog chasing its tail, I go around and around in circles, but everything I write lately is utter shit. Maybe I should buy some of those disposable plastic poop bags, stuff my laptop inside, tie the baggie in a knot, and toss it over the Santa Monica Pier.

I’m working on a novel loosely based on my life. I considered writing a memoir, but I’m worried that if I do, my mom will sue me. It’s probably better this way anyway. It allows me to be more creative. Although I feel about as creative as a sponge right now.

“Yes. Now come here,” he commands.

I round the desk and climb onto his lap, relishing the way his tattooed arms engulf me. He’s toned, but not a big dude, and I love how my petite frame fits against him. His blond hair tickles my nose when I bury my face in the crook of his neck and inhale his signature honey and rosewood scent, courtesy of Tom Ford.

“You need a haircut.” I nip at his neck.

“Oh, do I now?” he murmurs into the messy brown knot planted on top of my head, giving my hip a playful pinch.

“No, not really.” I brush a hand across his chest. “I like it this way. More to pull on.” With a giggle, I bite his neck again.

“Josefine Beckham,” he quips. “Am I going to have to bend you over this desk?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

After an adequate night’s sleep, I’m feeling refreshed and motivated. I work from home most days, but staring at the same walls starts to feel like a prison after a while.

Even though Tyler could afford a nicer place in LA, I begged him to keep the Santa Monica apartment he’s owned since before I moved in. It’s just the two of us, and while we’re minimalistic, it does sometimes feel like we’re living in a hermit crab shell. But its location can’t be beat.

We’re steps away from the shore, and when I need a change of scenery, I pack my laptop bag and wander to my favorite coffee shop. I swear it’s the only one in all of Southern California without ridiculously overpriced lattes. Over time, it’s become a sort of unofficial communal workspace. I’m one of many patrons who set up shop there regularly.

Each of us is part of the writing world in some way, shape, or form—a discovery I made because of my growing curiosity. Writing a book has helped me see the world from other angles and encouraged me to open up and learn more about the people I encounter.

As a child, I was shy. I’d tiptoe around others, observing from afar—a wallflower of sorts. It’s taken years (and lots of therapy), but I no longer collect boob sweat like it’s going out of style when I talk to strangers.

These days, I approach social encounters as potential material for my book. My accountability partner, Brooks, and I have a saying: It’s for the plot . Car breaks down on the side of the road? It’s for the plot. Dealing with a total asshole in the middle of Whole Foods? Potential material for the plot. Babysitting Tyler’s goofy-ass clients who throw temper tantrums in the middle of nightclubs? You guessed it—it’s for the plot.

Any life event—whether it’s happening to me or around me—is up for grabs. The juicier, the better.

Most people working at the coffee shop prefer to be left alone with their nonprescription blue-light glasses, near-permanent hunched shoulders, AirPods, and double espressos. But picking their brains and chatting them up is what I live for.

Brooks is already waiting for me, and he’s got a smirk glued to his smug face. He’s wearing a baseball cap, which makes him look even more like his doppelg?nger, Penn Badgley, from You . Like he’s ready to lock someone in a glass cage at any moment.

Fantastic. We’ll never get anything done; people will be gawking and asking for “Penn’s” autograph all day.

“What?” I ask as I approach our usual table. Brooks & Beck may as well be carved into the wood. Technically, we can’t reserve tables, but we regulars have an unspoken agreement about not taking the seats others prefer—sort of like in middle school.

“Nothing.” Brooks does his best to sound bored, but his gnarly smile deceives him.

“Whatever,” I huff, collapsing into my seat. “Thanks for my lat— hey! What the hell is this?” Instead of the usual heart or leaf latte art, a foam penis floats on top of my honey lavender latte.

Brooks bursts out laughing, along with Raj, who’s standing behind the counter arranging croissants on a platter.

“You are no longer my favorite barista, Raj!” I shout over my shoulder, but when I turn back to Brooks, I’m snickering too.

“You said you had a shitty writing day yesterday. I figured you could use the laugh.”

“You’re evil.” I blow him a kiss.

Brooks and I have a good thing going. We met back when he was in songwriting. While he still occasionally writes songs, his focus is screenwriting—the script he’s been working on gives major Shondaland vibes. We meet at least once a week and spend our first few minutes together asking one another if what we wrote is worthy or utter shit. On days I don’t see Brooks, I send him screenshots of pages, usually accompanied by texts like: IS THIS STUPID? YES OR NO? He always gives it to me straight. He pushes me in ways I would never do myself. In return, I support him through his impostor syndrome.

“What are you working on today?” I ask as I snap a pic of the penis art (quite impressive, Raj). I text the image to Tyler, then silence my phone to avoid distractions.

“I’m going to comb through the text for grammar issues. I know, super boring, but I don’t want to look like an illiterate idiot when I send it out,” Brooks replies. “What about you? Is it a you day or a them day?”

There is a distinction between the two. While I am writing a book, I also freelance as a copy editor.

“It’s a them day.” I sigh. “Gotta pay the bills.” I once heard that to be a good writer, a person should also be a good reader. So while copy editing has polished my craft, I still find myself being sucked into an unhealthy ‘why is everyone getting published but me?’ vortex.

Also, it’s often said that a book that hasn’t been written can’t be published. Dammit.

It’s a constant battle, a tug-of-war, editing work for others versus writing my own. I’m forever indebted to people like Brooks who know exactly what to say to keep me both motivated and humble.

I place my laptop on the table just as Raj sets down a cranberry-orange scone, my favorite.

“A maple leaf for my favorite brown-eyed girl.” His smile lights up his whole face.

“A what?” I tilt my head up and blink at him.

“You know, to say I’m sorry for my offensive art.” He winks.

“Oh!” I slap a hand to my mouth to stifle a laugh, but I’m not quick enough. “I think you mean an olive branch.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Raj says, turning and heading to his spot behind the counter. “You try learning English as a second language.”

Loud enough for all to hear, I shout, “Thanks for my morning cock!”