Fake Dating the Silver Fox (The Holidates #41)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Graham

Get outside and enjoy the weather, they said. Take time to smell the roses.

Getting out of my dark, dank office was supposed to help my writer’s block, but so far all it has done is make me overwhelmed and over caffeinated.

I’m on my fourth cup of locally grown coffee, staring at an empty screen.

The cursor taunts me, blinking on and off like a reminder of my failure. Noises from the busy sidewalk amplify in my quiet mind as I try desperately to squeeze a single word out.

Something is wrong. The words, which had been flowing like a fountain a few days ago, have dried up.

My latest novel, a thriller about a stalker and a single mom that is due in three weeks, is not going to write itself, but the words won’t come. I focus on the blank screen, willing ideas to fill in the white space.

Tears spring to my eyes with the effort, and my jaw aches from clenching my teeth. I remember to breathe, remember my mantra, remember my obligation to my fans….

Still no words. I can’t form a thought, much less a chapter.

Slamming my laptop shut, I reach for my coffee. After a long sip of piping hot goodness, which is way better than what they serve at 824 Dogwood Hills Lane, otherwise known as home, I am fortified.

I need to go old school. Back in the early days, I only wrote with a pen and paper.

My editor transcribed my work for me, and it was the perfect situation. When the pandemic hit, and it was nearly impossible to meet in person and hand off work, she convinced me to buy a laptop.

“It’s time to join the twenty-first century,” she’d said.

And she was right. There was a freedom in typing that I loved. I can delete as much as I want, and there’s something soothing about the busy clatter of keys on a keyboard.

For years, I’ve enjoyed my laptop, but at heart, I’m a notebook kind of guy. Luckily, I never go anywhere without one.

I stash my laptop in my bag and pull out my trusty spiral notebook and fountain pen. Poised for greatness, my pen hovers over the blank page.

And I freeze.

The first word must be perfect. Nothing less will do for G. Devlin, acclaimed author nominated for the National Book Award for a psychological thriller .

I snort to myself, doodling a cartoonish character in the margin.

More like, G. Devlin , permanently single man in his mid-forties with no prospects of a date for the most important night of his life.

As I take another indulgent sip of coffee, lost in self-effacing criticism, a blur of movement on the sidewalk jolts me from my thoughts. Voices raise over the chaos, and the crowd jostles to allow room for a small, furry dog.

Poor mutt is as homely a thing as I’ve ever seen. He’s toy-sized, with a long body, short legs, and ears that hang down to the ground. His hair is wild and curly, golden as a lion’s mane, and his whip of a tail is too short for his body.

He dashes along the sidewalk, parting the crowd and heading straight for me. His tongue lolls out of his mouth as he spots me, and his amber eyes fill with excitement. Bounding toward me, trailing his leash behind him, he arrives with alarming speed and zips behind my chair.

His leash wraps around my chair legs, and just like that, he’s trapped himself. He gives a sharp yank to break free, and with the sudden tug, my coffee sloshes over the rim of the mug, spilling all over the blank pages of my notebook.

“Oh no! Cupid! Get back here!”

The frantic voice belongs to a woman. I barely register her face before she’s crouched in front of my chair, reaching between my legs.

Her t-shirt rides up, revealing a black lace thong peeking out from her low-rise jeans. The unexpected sight of her sexy underwear combined with her shapely ass waving in the air sends a jolt of awareness through my overstimulated nerves.

I’ve been so busy writing; I haven’t had a date in months. And I haven’t had sex in a lot longer.

The thought of taking this well-formed woman to my bed has my blood rushing straight to my crotch. I hope to all the gods in the universe she doesn’t look up and notice the bulge in my pants.

She reaches under my chair, her shoulders brushing my knees wider apart.

Good Lord, how much more can I take?

I must have uttered a caveman like grunt, because the woman freezes, then abruptly backs out from between my legs with a surprised look on her face.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. That face!

She’s Helen of Troy! Lady Godiva! Daisy Buchanan!

My breath quickens and my blood rushes through my veins. The words that had been so elusive for days suddenly pour through my mind.

That heart-shaped face staring up at me, lips open in surprise, could launch a thousand pens. Those lake blue eyes, wide with curiosity, spark inspiration deep in my core.

“I’m so sorry.” She slowly backs out between my legs, gathering the dog to her chest.

“It’s okay.” I snatch my notebook from the table and swipe away the spilled coffee.

She darts a glance at the notebook. “I hope that wasn’t anything important.”

I frown at my ruined doodle. “Just an entire morning of work,” I say with a wry smile. “No big deal.”

Guilt flashes across her face. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll buy you another coffee.”

“I’m kidding. It’s nothing.” Not yet.

“Cupid is sorry, too.” She gets to her feet, clutching the little dog to her chest.

“Cupid?”

She beams at the pint-sized dog. “It fits him, don’t you think?”

The dog is one of the ugliest mutts I’ve ever seen, but tucked up against her breasts increases his attractiveness by miles.

“He’s pretty cute.”

She sets him down, and he goes straight for me, tugging on his leash. “Well, that’s new.”

“What?”

“Cupid doesn’t like anyone,” she says.

“Is it okay to pet him?” I don’t know much about dogs, but he looks like he’d be receptive to a scratch behind his ears.

“He doesn’t bite.” She frowns down at him. “Except that one time.”

“He looks ferocious.” I grin up at her as I reach down to pet him.

Her eyes dance with amusement. “He’s a menace to society.”

He licks my hand, and I laugh as the tiny tongue tickles my skin. I miss having a pet, but with my schedule, it just won’t work.

“He never does that! He really likes you.”

I meet her gaze and something clicks in my brain. Dried up juices stir to life. I know exactly what I need to write. This story needs a goofy dog. It will bring lightness to the heavy themes of stalking and kidnapping.

I grab my backpack, shoving my stuff inside. I’ve got to get this down before I lose it. I’ve got to get home, back to my dark writing cave where no one will witness my frantic typing.

Scrambling away from the table, I nearly knock the woman over. She stumbles, and I manage to catch her.

“Sorry.” I lean in and spontaneously kiss her cheek, then realize what I’ve done and jerk back. “Sorry!”

She laughs, her eyes twinkling. “Cupid is really working his magic.”

My heart thuds in my chest. Is she flirting with me?

I wouldn’t think a woman like her would be interested in a man like me. She’s young, early thirties at most, and so gorgeous she could have any man.

If had more courage, I would ask her on a date, or at least ask her name.

But, my insecurities rule, and my desire to get the words down before they vanish propels me into action. “I’ve got to go.”

She calls after me to wait, but I dash into the crowd, Embarrassment combined with determination gives me wings. I push through the pedestrians and hurl myself toward home.

I can’t risk losing this story. Not even for the most beautiful woman in the world.