Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Mina
“He’s never going to see it.”
I’m never going to work out this plotline either, which is fantastic since I’m already two weeks behind schedule with my manuscript.
“He might see it.” Joyce shrugs, giving me her divided attention as she continues drawing on her tablet. “I can’t believe you’re still freaking out about that. It’s been like . . . what? A month since you sent that message?”
A month since I texted him in the middle of the night, yes.
Two months since I discovered Leo’s existence and have thought of nothing else but him.
I glare at the wall of colorful, skull-shaped sticky notes and press the fluffy hot water bottle against my lower stomach. This romance book I’m writing has been the bane of my existence for the past three weeks—this whole year, even.
My self-loathing continues as I mindlessly rub the back of my bedazzled phone case—I’m lying to myself. It’s not mindless at all. Christ, look at me. I’m basically fighting the urge to get my fix. But what’s the point of resisting?
For old times’ sake—and because the sight of him calms my feral heart—I pull up the picture of Leo I recently saved.
It hurts just looking at him. He’s so attractive it should be illegal. The things I would do to have any kind of interaction with him. I could open the door for him and be the one to say thank you.
I can’t believe a man has me acting like this.
Leaning back in my office chair, I crane my neck toward Joyce. Her desk is on the opposite side of our living room, close to the TV. I can’t see the band posters above her desk from this angle, only the many plants that bracket her and add life to the otherwise eclectic décor.
I cross the room to shove my phone in front of Joyce’s face, so she’s forced to see Leo in all his glory; he’s glistened up with a sheen of sweat mid-workout—my favorite version of him.
Actually, I don’t think I could pick a favorite.
My best friend hums her approval under her breath, even though he’s not her type. I’ve shown her this very picture a minimum of ten times already. Still, she indulges me with a low, halfhearted whistle. “I see the appeal.”
She probably doesn’t. But there’s no denying that he won the genetic lottery.
His dark-brown hair is short on the sides, long and disheveled on top, and it somehow brings out the hard lines of his refined cheekbones and the rough edge of his jaw. His rare five o’clock shadow accentuates the sardonic curve of his lips.
An artist could spend a lifetime trying to capture his beauty, but they would forever fall short of encapsulating the god walking among men. Even I can’t dredge up the words to accurately describe just how pleasing he is on the eyes.
Hell, pleasing isn’t even a strong enough word.
He looks like the type of man who would burn the world to the ground to put a smile on his girl’s face or rip someone’s eyes out for looking at her the wrong way—all the swoon-worthy stuff that is frowned upon by society.
Leo is exactly like the love interest in the latest book I released—the one that flopped. Blake Olson, enforcer for the Mafia, six foot four, covered in tattoos, and knows all the ways a gun can be used for both pleasure and pain.
And I’m in love with those men. Both. Equally. They’re one and the same as far as I’m concerned.
Logically, I’m aware that Leo isn’t Blake. But my heart says differently. I feel as if I know Leo like the back of my hand. All his passions and hobbies, his favorite foods, the music he likes, everything that makes him tick.
Chewing my lip, I check the message I sent him in a moment of misplaced confidence. Nothing but a giant blue bubble stares back at me, just like every other time I’ve opened the thread.
No “read” receipt, no nothing.
“If he ever sees it, he’s going to think I’m a creep.” I sigh, shuffling back to my desk. I wince and clutch the hot water bottle against me when another cramp tears through my uterus—my monthly horror.
I glance up at the sticky notes, but my attention only lasts so long before I agonize over the message again. I don’t know why I care when, in reality, he’s a stranger. A completely unattainable stranger. One who doesn’t know I exist.
At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself to make me feel better because deep down, we aren’t strangers. We’ve already lived through a hundred lifetimes together. He just . . . he doesn’t know it. Yet. I need him to know I exist.
Somehow. I haven’t figured out the logistics yet.
After two months, his posts are still the first thing I see when I open my phone.
And maybe I shamelessly tap the Like button every time I come across one.
And I peruse all the comments, including whether he’s responded to any of them in other posts.
And I check if he has any new Story posts. And tags.
But it’s fine.
The only thing getting hurt is my feelings.
I just need someone else to obsess over.
Someone fictional, ideally. Or someone so incredibly famous and unattainable—more so than Leo—that maybe then I’ll get over this damn writer’s block so I can publish a half-decent book.
I’m screwed if I don’t because it’ll mean I have to go back to school to finish my degree.
Either way, doing the final edits of my last book, Knight’s Bane, was a breeze because it’s easier to envision a scene when I can imagine a real human acting it out.
Ergo, Leonard Duval, playing the part of Blake Olson.
He plays for the Detroit Serpents—an NHL team that left two hours ago for their first game in Boston. He’s twenty-five years old, has over forty tattoos, is six foot two, and weighs 209.3 pounds—as of two months ago, that is.
French Canadian on his father’s side. American on his mother’s.
Dad’s a businessman, mom’s an ex-lounge singer, sister’s a stylist for a few big-name celebrities, but it doesn’t look like he’s close with anyone but the sister.
Oh, and his aunt on his mom’s side goes to the Bahamas every three months to “reconnect with nature,” but leaves her husband behind to manage their construction business.
Then there’s who I assume is Leo’s best friend—some guy he went to school with and is now one of the trainers on the team.
If Leo thinks I’m a creep, he’d be absolutely correct.
He’s considered one of the NHL’s most eligible bachelors, and I’m a failing author who writes books under a fake name.
And I maybe, possibly, perhaps, definitely did make a social media account dedicated to him, but have been too chickenshit to post anything because that would feel like sharing Leo with other people, and I don’t like to share.
It’s a pity Knight’s Bane is already published.
Had I found Leo earlier, I would have written at double the speed since I’d be picturing him the whole time.
What would have made it even easier is if he’d actually spoken to me; then Blake’s character would have been flawless, completely fashioned off a real-life human.
Maybe then it wouldn’t have flopped.
And I wouldn’t have a document with a list of scholarships I could apply for if my last-chance book dies the second it hits the ground.
I glance warily at my whiteboard.
I’m so screwed.
Joyce snorts as if sensing my turmoil and tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear. “If you’re so embarrassed about the message, why don’t you just unsend it?”
How do I tell her that I tried doing just that forty-eight hours later when I was choked by regret but had no luck?
I’m too afraid to search up whether that means he’s seen the message and decided to ignore me, or if it’s a system glitch.
I think the blatant rejection hurts more than wondering if the man with four hundred thousand followers simply hasn’t seen my message.
“And if he replies, what do you want to happen?” Joyce readjusts her drawing gloves before taking a sip of water. “Ooh, maybe he could do some modeling so you can have a limited edition with him shirtless on it.” She grins.
I’ll admit it. I’m a jealous person. Over my dead body will that ever happen.
“I don’t want anything other than male validation, and maybe a new business connection.
” And a forest wedding. Kids at thirty. Maybe a house by the lake.
Oh, and the satisfaction that I’ve successfully chased and caught my prey.
And him. All of him. All his time and attention and love, and to experience a sexual awakening at his hands.
Joyce snorts. “You want to get laid.”
“That too. By him specifically.”
Leo and I live in the same city, so it wouldn’t be an impossibility for us to connect, if not for the fact that I’m not the type of person athletes would fall for—not because I’m not like other girls, but because on paper we’re nowhere near compatible.
Shit, I don’t even like sports. The last time I exercised would have been in high school PE.
I dislike partying, socializing, physical exertion—the list goes on.
I’m an introvert through and through, who loathes leaving the house.
I might be a romance author, but I’ve never experienced any real romance. My delusions have become my love interest.
“You could download a dating app again to solve that problem.”
I blanch. “I think I just threw up a little at that idea.”
Joyce chuckles, focusing on her work so that the only sound in the room is my writing playlist coming through the speakers.
I glare at the flurry of colorful sticky notes on the wall. Each piece of paper is a scene that’s meant to go in a particular act within the story. I’ve torn them up, rewritten and stuck them a hundred times over, and I’m not any closer to working this new book out.
I’ve written half of it, only to come to a grinding halt because something about the storyline doesn’t feel right. The characters have taken on a mind of their own, and the current plot structure doesn’t work for them.