Pucking Her Brother's Best Friends

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Molly

“This reads like an alien trying to understand human mating rituals,” Lynn said, flipping through my manuscript.

My throat tightened. I knew this meeting was going to be bad, but this was worse than any of the scenarios that had been running through my mind all morning.

My editor let the last page float down on its own, like she didn’t want to touch it a single second longer than necessary.

My head was swimming, trying to understand the analogy. “An alien?”

She squared her jaw and sucked her teeth. “Yes. Like some Martian came to our planet, peeped in some poor, unsuspecting couple’s window and tried to make sense of what he was seeing.”

Oh, no. It was so much worse than I realized. “Got it—”

“And he failed horribly,” she added, super unhelpfully.

“Got it,” I repeated, grinding my teeth.

I should have never taken this assignment.

For five years, I’d ghostwritten Rose E.

Rhymes’s signature dark thrillers, helping build her reputation for shocking twists and complex murders.

But romance? That was as far from my comfort zone as possible.

Give me a serial killer to track down any day over trying to understand why anyone would trust their heart to another person.

“Romance needs to be flowy.” Her hand glided through the air. “It should be beautiful. It needs to suck you in and leave you ragged when it’s over.”

“That sounds miserable,” I muttered, my eyes burning as I struggled to keep them open. I’d spent all night going over the manuscript even though I’d already submitted it to her. A lot of good that had done.

“Miserable?” She scowled, deep elevens forming between her brows. “Bad breakup?”

I sat up, unsure of how to proceed. If she thought my bitterness was from a breakup, I could work with that. It was better than her thinking I was the strange Martian trying to comprehend human copulation procedures.

Okay, maybe I did sound like an alien.

I didn’t say anything, and she nodded knowingly. “I suspected as much.”

Leaning forward, I crossed my legs and tented my fingers on my knee, trying to look casual. Like I was a real person who had been tasked with writing a romance book while going through a terrible breakup.

Okay, I could hear how that sounded a little alien-like, too.

Still, I needed to sell this and figure out why my manuscript had flopped so spectacularly. And I had to do it without Lynn realizing I was a romantic-less troll who had barely picked up a stack of coffee cups scattered across the coffee table before rushing out this morning.

If I hadn’t taken the time to straighten up, my best friend and roommate, Juliet, would have killed me when she got home from her hospital shift and saw the mess.

She was always trying to get me to drink more water and take better care of myself.

I’d miss that when she moved in with Romeo, even if I acted like her mothering drove me crazy.

She was a Juliet marrying her literal Romeo.

To say she didn’t understand my life was the understatement of forever.

Despite the vast differences in our love lives—and nearly every other aspect of our lives—she stood by me through middle school bullying, awkward teen years, and our friendship was still going strong through my trollish adulthood.

“What clued you in that—” I swallowed hard, hating the lie. But it was better than bringing Marcus Kent into this and admitting to Lynn that I’d never been in a relationship, much less kissed, because of something that happened a lifetime ago.

“That you went through a nasty breakup?” she asked, relieving me of the burden of an outright lie.

She grabbed the stack of pages and flipped through them, handing me sheet after sheet.

“These scenes clued me in. Like your main character didn’t trust that the male lead would show up for her.

And then here—” She thumbed to another page, sliding it across her desk.

“He should have shown up for her, but he didn’t. ”

I scanned the pages. It all sounded pretty darn believable to me. No one showed up for people. It wasn’t like the movies where someone messed up a little and then stood outside with a boombox, groveling for forgiveness. I made the lead guy handsome. Didn’t that count for something?

“And—” She flopped the stack of pages down, setting all but one to the side before handing me the last page. “They don’t end up together.”

“Yeah, he didn’t show up for her. Why would they end up together?”

I thought that part of the story had been set up pretty dang well.

I was used to writing thrillers. The story followed a normal progression before revealing things at the end, and usually the heroine barely survived.

I thought Lynn would be happy I kept the same sequence of events, the same tension, and the same relief at the end when my female lead didn’t die.

That had been impressive, considering all of their interactions had made me want to die.

She frowned, those elevens deepening into dark fissures. “He needed to show up for her, Molly. Time and time again, the main character could question whether he would while she worked through her beliefs, but he needed to show up. And then they needed to end up together. But they didn’t.”

“Was the story itself at least satisfying?”

She chuckled, straightening up the papers. “If there had been a dead body thrown in the mix and some weapons surfacing on the weird date they went on in act two, then maybe it would have been a good thriller. As a romance, though? No. Readers want a happily ever after.”

“In every book?”

“Every single romance book.” She leaned back in her chair, mirroring my look of nonchalance, but hers was real. “If not, it might technically be a love story, but it doesn’t belong in the romance genre.”

“Could we spin it like that?” A shaky hope rattled to life at the prospect of my words not going to waste. “Would Rose be open to selling a love story?”

Lynn tilted her head, clicking her tongue sympathetically. “That’s assuming the main characters showed any signs of being in love. What we have here is—” Those dang elevens got even deeper. I wasn’t sure if I should offer to pay for a weekend retreat. “A story lacking any proper direction.”

No proper direction. That was exactly how my life felt. Of course, my work would follow the same path.

I slumped and her face softened. “Molly, Rose loves your work. You’ve been her main ghostwriter for nearly five years.

Don’t get discouraged. Just rework a few things, tweak it so your male lead isn’t such a bumbling fool, and give your main character more oomph.

The bones are good. We just need to add the right meat. ”

“That sounds like a gross analogy for a romance book,” I said, shuddering.

“Maybe Rose should stick to thrillers.” It would make my life easier.

I was good at writing thrillers. My words had put Rose E.

Rhymes at the top of several bestseller lists over the years.

We worked great together. I couldn’t understand why she would want to make such a big shift.

Lynn chuckled and stacked the manuscript before handing it to me.

“Read some romance novels, watch some movies, and come back in a month with those changes. Fortunately, Rose has given us a wide timeline for this assignment. She needs to get all her rebranding in order before launching herself as a romance author, which means more time to smooth this out.”

I would not be watching any romance movies, but I could check out some books.

Romance movies were ruined for me a long time ago. I pushed those thoughts aside. No good would come of dumping any of that onto Lynn.

Hugging the stack of pages to my chest, I got to my feet, my knees shaky.

This was the first time I was walking out of Lynn’s office without compensation.

Just a project that had been rejected. My arms prickled with defeat, but I clutched harder to the manuscript and thanked her.

For what, I wasn’t exactly sure, but I needed to get out of there.

Walking the stark white halls of the publishing office, my vision clouded, and I leaned against the wall, trying to get the pounding in my forehead to subside.

The cool, solid brickwork almost brought me back to myself, but all I wanted was to hide somewhere.

Too bad I couldn’t blink and teleport myself home.

A home that wouldn’t be mine soon.

I had needed today’s check to guarantee I could keep the apartment until I found a new roommate.

If I couldn’t deliver a manuscript that fit what Rose was looking for, I could lose my contract with her.

And if I lost my contract, I would lose my apartment for sure.

Was a month enough time to learn what I needed to learn?

Could I find another job? One that was this good?

My pulse raced, and I tried to take a breath, but my throat wouldn’t cooperate with me.

A woman walked out of an office ahead of me, her brows furrowing as he came closer. I was causing a lot of wrinkles in my quest to write a romance novel. Great. I tried for another breath, but my throat only allowed enough air to keep me alive. Nothing more.

“Can I help you with something?” Her eyes flicked to the load of papers in my arms. “Looking for someone’s office?”

I shook my head, my throat tight. “Just leaving. I was trying to find the bathroom?” I knew where it was, but the thought of awkward small talk made me want to die.

Her face lit up, happy that I hadn’t asked for anything more from her. “Keep going down this hall, turn right, and it’s in a little alcove before you get to the stairs.”

“Excellent,” I breathed, throat closing more.

I just needed to splash some water on my face and get home.