Not in My Book

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

My mom used to say if I didn’t have anything nice to say, then it was best to say nothing at all. It was typical mom advice, but it became my gospel. It was basically one of the commandments of the South. You know, southern hospitality and all that.

I was almost certain Aiden Huntington’s mom had told him the opposite. If you don’t have anything nice to say, shout it from the rooftops! Repeat it until you instill in their mind just how worthless they are!

It would explain why Aiden felt the need to berate me. Every. Single. Class.

“Sensory details need a lot of work.” It was the first thing out of his mouth when it became his turn to offer up thoughts on my chapter. Most people started their comments with one or two nice things and ended with some gentle constructive criticism. But Aiden cut right to the chase and through the heart. He flipped through the pages, his mouth turned down in a frown, like my chapter personally offended him.

“And the dialogue. I mean, come on. If Rosalinda—”

“Rosie,” I interrupted. He lifted his eyes to mine, peering at me through his lashes, his brow raised slightly. “We’ve been over this. My name is Rosie.”

Our professor, Ida, cleared her throat from the front of the room, giving me a dark look. The first rule of workshop? Do not talk during workshop.

The writer was required to read their work out loud for the class, who came with prepared notes. And as the class discussed, the writer was to remain silent and take it all in.

I shrank back and begrudgingly nodded at Aiden to continue.

The semester had only started a few weeks ago, but this had quickly become our routine. When we read Aiden’s submissions, we all gave praise and critiques . Not insults—mere suggestions . We were always very kind and gently told him what was working and what wasn’t. The worst part was that most of the time, his pieces worked.

In return, he gave comments that were harsh, yes, but, sadly, helpful. Aiden had an annoying editorial eye that ended up making everyone around him a better writer. Except when it came to me. This was our second semester doing this dance—he’d done this last semester in our master fiction workshop, too. He hadn’t cared enough to dig into my work because he didn’t think the romance genre was worth his time and didn’t care to help me improve.

He continued for a few more minutes, saying what he always said about the pieces I submitted:

I get this is a romance, but does the love story really have to be the center of the plot?

Don’t these characters have something better to do than fall in love?

What does it even mean to darken your gaze?

I stole a glance at Jess, the only other romance writer in the class, from across the workshop table. She rolled her eyes in solidarity with me. As a full-time student, Jess was taking two more classes than I was, and I couldn’t even imagine how exhausted she must be. I was only part time, extending my MFA degree for years to be able to even afford NYU.

We’d initially bonded over our love for romance last year, and that bond only strengthened this year with Aiden’s blatant distaste for our genre. I’d spent all last semester complaining about him, but now that she’d witnessed his brutality toward me, which funnily enough she never experienced, she was extra sympathetic. Now, whenever I complained about Aiden, she would say, “It’s all the pent-up sexual frustration. He probably critiques the length of his partner’s moans in bed.”

“Above all else”—Aiden dropped the stack of papers onto the wooden desk between us, grimacing as if he couldn’t bear to look at them for a minute longer—“it falls flat. There’s almost no emotion in it. You’d think a romance would make you feel something, at the very least joy. It’s actually impressive that you haven’t been able to convey this.”

I sent a death glare to Aiden, but stuck to our golden rule and kept my mouth shut.

“Rosie, you’re free to respond to any of the comments if you’d like,” Ida said once Aiden had finished.

I went through the notes my classmates had given me. It was the third first chapter I’d submitted, hoping that something, anything would stick. We were in a selective two-semester novel intensive, which meant we had to submit the first half our novel at the end of this semester for our midterm and the full thing at the end of the course. This class was an elective, but it counted toward our course requirements, and it was designed to help those of us who were choosing to submit a novel as their final thesis.

We had until the end of the add/drop period to test out chapters if we weren’t certain about our plots, and I was struggling.

I had grown up determined to be a novelist. I’d decided I had to publish romance novels and make hopeless romantics around the world swoon—there was nothing else for me out there. Romance had shaped my world view, molding how I lived with optimism and hope. I wanted to give that to someone else. And this was my chance to finally push past the agonizing writer’s block and finish a manuscript.

“I’m trying to set up the tension between them. I want their romance to really explode by the end—”

A scoff cut me off. Aiden leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes. Ages ago, I’d thought Aiden was cute. Before I knew him, I would’ve been excited by the idea of sitting across from him. But after our workshop together last semester, the very sight of Aiden left a bad taste in my mouth. There were nine of us in the class, but the seats we’d sat in on our first day of workshop had seemed to become our permanent seats—otherwise I would’ve sat at the opposite end of the table far, far away from him.

“I’m sorry, Aiden. Was there something you’d like to say?” I narrowed my eyes at him, challenging him to speak.

His green eyes flashed at me the way they always did before we got into a fight. The sadist loved it when we argued almost as much as he loved torturing his characters with depressing backstories and tragic endings. He was the antithetical romance hero and every time he opened his mouth, he proved it.

Surprisingly, he said, “I’ve said what I wanted to.”

“No, go ahead. I insist .” I leaned forward across the table toward him. My hair fell in front of my shoulder, a smile creeping up my face. I was no masochist, but I couldn’t ever resist confrontation with Aiden. I wasn’t scared of him like everyone else was.

“Fine.” He straightened in his chair, pushing his sleeves up his forearms. The only thing more infuriating than Aiden’s phenomenal writing was the fact that he was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. He was historical romance cover hot. He had a strong jawline and perfectly combed hair that looked incredibly soft. His long-sleeved shirt stretched over his arm, tight enough I could see the swell of his bicep. I looked away, trying to convince myself that he was as ugly as his personality. “It’s a contemporary romance, right?”

“Right.”

“So, how much tension could there really be? We live in the age of instant gratification. The only tension nowadays is whether your thumb will swipe left or right.”

“I disagree,” Tyler spoke up. He was one of the only other voices of reason in class. Despite Tyler and me being good friends, he refused to take sides. The whole class had fully taken the side of Team Rosie or Team Devil, but Tyler fell squarely in the middle. I smirked at Aiden as Tyler spoke because having Tyler on your side meant you won in our unspoken competition. “I think a lot of people still meet organically, and when they do, there’s definitely some tension. My sister met her wife in a coffee shop. No Tinder or Hinge, just a pure meet cute.”

Aiden rolled his eyes at “meet cute.” The same way he did at “happily ever after” and “puppies” and “sunshine.”

“That doesn’t mean much to me.”

“Well, when I’m writing a book for disgruntled assholes in their late twenties, I’ll ask for your opinion,” I snapped, growing more irritated by the second.

“Great. And when I’m writing a book for lonely, old cat women, I’ll ask for yours.”

I jabbed a finger at him, flushed. “I told you that was an outdated stereotype for romance readers. A sexist one, too.”

“And I told you literary fiction isn’t for sad people.”

“I don’t think literary fiction is for sad people!” The class was watching our exchange like it was a tennis match, heads turning with each word. “I think whatever the hell you write is!”

“Okay, okay.” Ida stood up from her seat at the head of the table, glowering at us. From appearances, you wouldn’t expect her to be intimidating, but the first time Aiden and I fought, she proved how scary she could be. She had curly red hair that expanded around her head, and when she was mad like this, it looked like flames.

Aiden and I slumped back in our seats like five-year-olds, shooting daggers at each other. I crossed my arms over my chest, resisting the urge to stick my tongue out at him. Even though the semester had just started, there was lingering tension from last semester, and I knew the class could feel it, too. No matter what I said, he’d disagree with me, so I followed suit. I was sure there were more than a few stories floating around about us from our workshop last semester.

“Let’s remember to keep things civil in this room and make it a safe space to share our work.” Ida gave each of us a pointed look. “We all need to respect the content of everyone’s work, even if it’s not our preferred genre.”

She began to give me her thoughts on my chapter, and I tried my best to focus, but Aiden had riled me up. Once she finished and we moved onto someone else’s work, I shot a glare at Aiden from across the table willing him to vanish into thin air. He caught my eyes, and his lips curled in distaste before he turned his gaze toward Ida.

I dug my nails into my palm, vowing that one day, I would write a character named Aiden and give him the most excruciatingly painful death. Then again, the real Aiden might enjoy that too much.

“Don’t forget to finalize and outline your plot before add/drop because afterward, we’re going full steam ahead on drafting,” Ida said. “I know it’s intimidating, but we’re about to begin a marathon sprint to finish your novels. As always, come by my office hours if you’re stuck. I’ll see you all next time.”

“Rosie, you coming to drinks tonight?” Jess asked as I stacked all the pages of critiques I’d received today and placed them carefully into my tote bag.

Tyler, Logan, Jess, and I hung out regularly after class at a nearby bar, the Peculiar Pub. Jess and I had become fast friends during our first semester together, stressing over deadlines and writing frantically in caf é s across Greenwich Village. Tyler was Jess’s on campus crush. We’d spotted him a few times at the library and in the Writer’s House before he walked through the door of our workshop last spring. She barely held it together in that moment, and like a true friend I invited him and Logan out for drinks with us one day. The group kind of fell together after that.

“I can’t tonight,” I said apologetically. “I picked up another shift at the Hideout. But I’ll be there next time?” I glanced at Tyler from across the table and whispered to Jess, “Make your move tonight.”

Jess rolled her eyes. “As if. He isn’t interested.”

“I think he is,” I insisted. “But if you don’t want to tonight, I promise next time I’ll be your wing woman.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she said before heading out.

I glanced at my phone and winced. I’d have to race to Union Square to catch my train in time for my shift.

“I’ll see you at office hours tomorrow, Ida,” I called as I left the classroom.

She smiled kindly at me and said, “Bring your chapter and feedback with you.”

Our workshop was off Fifth Avenue in the Lillian Vernon Creative Writer’s House. You would never know from the outside that it was home to NYU’s Creative Writing program. It was a lovely townhouse with tiny classrooms, and I adored spending my time there. After every class, when I rushed across crowded Fifth Avenue to the train, I felt like a real New Yorker. Fall was just beginning in the city, and I took in every crunch of leaves beneath my feet and shade of brown against the concrete buildings.

The great thing about NYU was the city was your campus. But the bad thing about NYU was the city was your campus. I didn’t just have to fight the crowds of students, but busy New Yorkers as they went about their day and tourists who stopped every three steps to take a picture.

Throngs of people were pushing their way through the street, and I tried to keep up with them. When I had first moved here, I wasn’t used to the fast pace of New Yorkers. In Tennessee, we ambled. We smelled the roses as we took our sweet time. We moseyed and said hi to nearly every person we encountered. That was not the case here.

I pushed my legs faster to make it to the 6 train arriving in two minutes, going against all my Southern nature.

“What’s the rush, Rosalinda?”

I jumped at the sound of Aiden’s voice. He was nearly a foot taller than I was, but still found a way to creep up on me.

“I’m trying to find the nearest bathroom. Your cologne makes me want to puke,” I said sweetly. Some guy pushed between us, walking in the opposite direction, shoving my shoulder in the process. He nearly knocked me over, but Aiden placed a firm hand on the small of my back, steadying me.

“Just so you know, it’s Italian,” he said, raising his chin. He had pulled a black sweater on, and it made him look so fall and cozy. I quickly pushed the thought from my mind.

“Just so you know, that’s pretentious.”

We finally made it to Union Square and walked together down the stairs that sat at the edge of the park. My brows furrowed as we tapped our phones on the turnstiles. I took this train every Monday and Wednesday after class and not once had I seen Aiden here. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye as he walked down the stairs alongside me. Surely if he was going to murder me, he wouldn’t do it in public. Right?

He stood next to me on the platform, waiting for the train. I looked between him and the empty train tracks and took a step back behind one of the poles. Just in case.

We stood in silence, the low rumbles of nearby trains surrounding us. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I turned to him, suspicious.

“Are you stalking me?” I asked. I placed my hands on my hips, trying my best to look intimidating even though I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes.

He looked down at me briefly, amused. “Who’s to say you’re not stalking me ?”

“Do you even take the 6?” I asked suspiciously. “I’ve never seen you here after class.”

He spared me another glance. “No.”

“See? You’re stalking me.”

The train rushed past us, the wind from it causing my hair to fall in front of my face. Over the noise of the train, Aiden leaned down until he was eye level with me, smirking.

“This is the L.”

“Do you always have to be this annoying?” I drawled. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

She narrowed her eyes at me. If she got any angrier, I’d expect fumes to sprout from her ears.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. Maybe if she were taller, I’d be intimidated. But it was a little adorable.

“Do you always have to be such an asshole?”

I paused, pretending to consider the question. “Yes. I do.”

— Excerpt from Untitled by Rosie Maxwell and Aiden Huntington