Chapter 4 #2
“Stop! This isn’t helping,” Owen interjects. “Georgia, I promise that you’re safe with us.”
“Who are you?” I press tighter against the door.
“We told you.”
“ Oh yeah , you’re my fictional characters come to life.” An unhinged laugh falls out of me.
“Fictional characters?” Lord James’s protest is filled with disdain as if holding up a smelly sock. “I assure you, my lady, we are indeed real.”
“I don’t believe you!” As the words leave my mouth, there’s a nip of uncertainty.
The resemblance is uncanny. The boyishly sweet curve of Owen’s smile.
The seductive haughtiness of Lord James’s voice.
The primal sexuality that radiates from Lars.
Even their mannerisms. It’s not just things in my book but from inside me.
So much about the characters I create live off the page.
Little tics or parts of their backstory help me craft them but readers never see.
Things only me and the characters would know.
“Georgia, how can we help you feel safe?” Sincerity braids around every syllable of Owen’s question.
The fear coiled tight within me unspools just a bit. While still scared, something inside me recognizes these men. Not as perfect replicas but as…
“Prove it,” I breathe, not believing the request that falls from my lips.
“Prove what?”
“That you’re…well, you.”
There’s a beat of silence. I’m sure they are standing there, silently wondering how they can meet my request. For a moment, I wonder the same thing. How does someone prove not just who they are but they are real and not merely a vivid delusion?
Worrying my lower lip, I scan the room searching for an answer.
My vision snags on the bookshelf in the corner.
In the colorful spines of some of my favorite books sits a proof copy of each of my novels.
I’d kept them like a trophy celebrating each book’s publication.
At this moment the little trophies give me an idea.
“Lord James, what was the name of your first horse?”
In the first draft of The Duke’s Darling , Lord James tells Lady Cecily about his first horse.
The scene, while sweet, did nothing to help move the narrative along, so I cut it after my first round of self-edits.
Nobody saw it but me. I didn’t even save it for a special deleted scene bonus feature for my newsletter.
“Shakespeare,” he says.
I swallow thickly, not letting the correct answer smooth away the lingering doubt that this is real. “Owen, what was your favorite subject in school?”
After a short pause, he answers, “Chemistry. It’s just like baking.”
That’s only in my character analysis for Owen Baker. It’s based on something Hope always says, “Baking is chemistry, and cooking is mad science.” She’d provided consultation to add authenticity to my small-town baker. There’s no way anyone else would know that.
“Her scent is less scared. More confused.” Lars’s whisper is gravelly.
“Stop smelling me, Lars!” I huff an annoyed breath.
“Ladies do not enjoy being smelled,” Lord James tuts.
“Your mother had no complaints,” Lars snarks back.
Oh, Lars. I let out a strangled laugh. There’s no need to test Lars. Those violet eyes. The way he can smell every emotion. That gruff timbre. His sarcastic quips. Most authors make the werewolf alpha all broody grumpster, but I made mine a protective snarkster.
I rub at my temples. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.”
“Did Pretty Boy and Lord Fancy Trousers convince you?” Lars asks.
“I beg your pardon,” Lord James scoffs.
“ Aw , thanks for calling me pretty, man,” Owen says.
“You can’t smell it on me?” A disturbed laugh accompanies my words. Am I really sitting on my floor talking to fictional men? As authors, we talk about our characters speaking to us, but this… Does writer’s block cause delusions?
“You told me not to smell you anymore,” he grunts. “IF you’d like?—”
“Don’t smell me!” I shout, causing Wentworth to jump off the bed and lumber toward me. Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the door. “Why are you here? What do you want with me?”
“To help you,” Owen says, his sweet smile audible in his voice.
“With what?”
“To find your happy ending.”
“And ours, my lady,” Lord James adds.
I blink. “But you already had your happy endings. Lady Cecily. Selena. Ivy.”
Like any good romance, my books came with a happy ending but included a cherry on top in the epilogue.
Lord James and Lady Cecily welcome their first child.
Ivy proposes to Lars after a demon hunt.
Owen opens a second bakery with his now wife Selena, who’d left her corporate job to live in Sugarville. God, that really was a terrible book .
“Selena went back to the big city,” Owen says, befuddlement punctuates his statement.
Big city? Did I write that? I cringe, remembering the very clichéd Hallmarky plot points of that book.
“Lady Cecily is engaged to the Marquis,” Lord James adds.
My eyes widen. “And Ivy?”
“She’s halfway back to the vampire territory,” Lars says dismissively.
I shake my head. Somehow, each man is here just after their third act breakup.
Before the twist that unites them with their lady love.
Lord James’s realization that his vendetta against her father isn’t as great as his love for Lady Cecily.
Lars giving up his role as pact leader to join Ivy and the human/supernatural alliance to fight rogue demons.
Selena quitting her job for a simpler life with Owen.
Seriously, who let me write that book? Clearly, I was working out some inner misogyny there. I close my eyes.
The clichéd and un-feminist small-town romance aside, the certainty that this isn’t real is reduced to a mere wisp.
Each stroke of truth paints a picture that may appear surreal, but its reality seeps through me.
Not wanting to believe something doesn’t make it not real.
I know that better than anyone. Didn’t I sit on this very floor among packed boxes, wishing my breakup with Will wasn’t true?
Only to lie in my bed a month later, tearfully begging that the reason he’d ended things wasn’t real?
Opening my eyes, I meet Wentworth’s curious stare. Not a trace of hesitation or fear is evident in his dark pupils.
None of this makes sense. I may lose myself in a story from time-to-time, but not like this. Not where the pages of a book blur with the reality of my life.
Wentworth moves closer, his wet nose meeting mine. I inhale his oatmeal perfume and stroke my fingers along his silken coat. He’s real. He’s here. That means…
Nodding, I suck in a breath. “Okay, boy.” After counting to three, I stand up and turn. My hand grasps the doorknob, but I stop. “Just in case,” I whisper. I spin and pull Justice’s Arm out from beneath the bed.
Fingers gripped tightly around the bat, I inch the door open and come face-to-face with my three book boyfriends. Bewilderment twists their handsome features.
“What do you mean you’re here to help me get my happy ending?”