Chapter Two
River
"Your editor called to confirm your meeting next week," my assistant, Samantha Goines, says, her high-pitched voice crackling over the headset. "And your publisher reached out to confirm whether you're still working on the Cladian series again."
Dammit. I forgot I was supposed to meet Alice next week.
"Add Alice to my calendar," I mutter, stretching my legs in the cramped diner booth. "And tell them yes, for the thousandth time." I pause, glancing at Samantha on my laptop screen. "Unless they ask again, and then I'll burn this fucking manuscript."
"No, you won't," she says without even batting a lash. "You'd never burn a manuscript. But I'll let them know that you're still working on it. Please send me the latest version so I can file it with the others."
"I'll do that as soon as we hang up. Thanks. Anything else?"
"Yes. Your inbox. It's a nightmare, River."
"I'll get to it."
"When?"
"Eventually."
The frustration in her heavy sigh comes through loud and clear. "Today?"
"Definitely not. I'm writing."
Some days, I wonder why she puts up with me.
This is one of those days. I know I'm a pain in the ass.
But Samantha has been with me for the last five years, and she never complains…
much. She just handles everything that needs handling and doesn't bat a lash when I'm too buried in my next book to remember a goddamn thing I should remember—like the meeting with Alice.
"Fine. Tomorrow, then. I'm blocking time on your schedule."
"Jesus Christ, don't do that."
"Too late. Already done."
"But—"
I'm talking to dead air. She ends the video call before I can fully register my objection. I'm not entirely surprised. My inbox is a goddamn nightmare. I only go in there when forced…and, apparently, I'm being forced.
I mutter a curse and pull off the headset, glancing around the diner.
At a little after ten in the morning, the place has mostly cleared out.
Everyone has gotten breakfast and gone to work for the day, leaving only the usual suspects scattered at booths around the retro diner.
There's Audrey Goodson, mopping the black-and-white tile floor while her husband, Eli, watches out of the corner of his eye.
Daniel Stern, a local retiree, is buried in the local paper near the front door.
A couple of tourists tucked into a booth in the far corner near the jukebox, pore over a map, sharing a plate of fries.
Denver Jackson is on a stool in front of the windows, watching his girl's shop across the street like usual.
It's quiet, peaceful…exactly what I need to get some work done.
Except the words aren't flowing.
It's not burnout. It's not writer's block, either.
No, this is something worse. It's the aftereffects of meeting the sassy little ballbuster with the pretty blue eyes and smart mouth, Jasmine Knudsen.
It's been three damn days since she threatened war, and I haven't written a single fucking word since.
I blame her for that. It's not even her declaration of war that's bugging me.
It's everything else about her—the mischief in her smirk, the exact shade of her eyes, how goddamn soft she looked…
the way her round ass swayed when she stomped away from me.
Hell, even the way she called me out is doing it for me.
No one ever busts my balls the way she did.
It should have pissed me off. Instead, it has me hard enough to pound nails.
I've been hard for three fucking days straight.
It's impossible to write when all my mind wants to do is conjure up fantasies of her in my bed, going wild for me. And I'm guessing that isn't an option, considering that she didn't seem to like me much.
I'm not entirely surprised. I'm not a likable guy.
I'm just a motherfucker who knows how to write. And somewhere along the way, I realized that romance about women falling for aliens is what I wanted to write. Who the fuck wants to write about Joe Blow or John Doe when they have never been the most interesting characters in a novel?
It's women who fascinate me. They have deeply rich inner lives, thoughts, dreams, and goals. They're fucking smart, far smarter than most men. They're intuitive, innovative, passionate, beautiful. Crafting romantic adventures that center them and their desires is fascinating to me.
And right now, thanks to one beautiful, pain-in-the-ass bookworm, I can't even do that.
"Goddammit," I growl, scrubbing my hands down my face before I click to open my document. My gaze scans across the page, my fingers hovering over the keys, but the words won't come. The whole book just feels…off, and I don't know why.
The bell over the door jingles, but I ignore it, trying to force myself to focus. I manage to write two lines, only to immediately delete them and start all over.
"Of course you're at my favorite diner," a familiar, sultry voice grumbles, as a pair of sparkly red heels comes into view, clicking against the tile floor.
My entire body clenches in anticipation as I follow the shoes up, over a pair of shapely calves, onto a pair of thick shorts-clad thighs, and then higher.
Christ. She's thick and soft everywhere, like she was made to sink into.
Every inch of her is round and sweet. Except her face.
There's nothing sweet about that scowl and the fire in her eyes.
That's all devil and danger, and I love everything about it.
"Stalking is illegal, Jasmine," I remind her.
"So is being so arrogant that you think I'd come to my favorite diner just to annoy you," she sniffs before sliding into the booth across from me as if I invited her.
She immediately stretches across the table, her pink blouse gaping open just enough to reveal a hint of cleavage before she snatches a fry from the plate beside my laptop.
I bite back a groan when she pops it into her mouth, her eyes locked on my face. Never in recorded history has a motherfucker wanted to be a French fry before now.
"Have you reconsidered?" she asks, chewing thoughtfully.
Fucking you in front of all these witnesses? Happy to. Mind bending over, princess?
"No."
She swallows the fry, her lips pulled down into what can only be described as the world's sexiest pout. "Are you being stubborn just to irritate me, or are you actually just this annoyingly disagreeable?"
"Pot, meet kettle," I mutter, somehow amused and frustrated at the same goddamn time.
Has she never been told no before? Hell, probably not.
I'm guessing men fall all over themselves to do her bidding.
And fuck them for that, because I want to be the one doing it…
but not if groups of readers are involved.
Last time I went to an event, it was a fucking nightmare. I will not be repeating that experience. That's a hard limit for me.
"You think I'm disagreeable?" She laughs softly, batting strands of blonde hair out of her face. "Please."
"I have a few other adjectives in mind to describe you."
"Like what?"
Beautiful. Edible. Fuckable.
"Stubborn, irritating, annoyingly persistent."
"You do know what war means, right?" She leans forward like she has a secret to tell me. "It means no retreat or mercy until one side or the other capitulates or surrenders. And I never surrender, River."
I eye her for a moment, not sure if that's a threat or a promise. The way my cock jerks in response, I think he takes it as a promise. "And are you aware of what arrested means?" I finally ask.
"Is that the thing where a big, strong man in uniform puts cuffs on you without a safeword and holds you captive until you promise to behave?" She wiggles her brows. "If so, I might be familiar with the concept."
Jesus Christ.
I choke on laughter. "That's one hell of a way to describe an arrest."
She smirks, shrugging. "Am I wrong, though?"
"You speaking from experience, princess?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" She steals another fry from my plate before leaning back to look around.
Yes, actually. I really fucking would—both whether she wants to be cuffed and captive and if she's ever been to jail.
I might actually lose my goddamn mind fantasizing about her answer to the first. And will not be in the least surprised by her answer to the second.
Something tells me that Jasmine Knudsen is trouble all the time.
The woman could probably run hell and shame the devil.
Audrey notices her at the booth as she passes by with the mop and waves. "We're finishing up your order now, Jazz."
"Take your time." Jasmine grins at her. "I'm busy stalking River."
"Uh…" Audrey glances between her and me and then shakes her head like she wants nothing to do with whatever the fuck is going on at this booth.
I study Jasmine for a long moment, slipping my hand beneath the table to adjust my cock.
It doesn't help, not really. There will be no getting him to settle down again until I take him in hand and deal with that situation.
But I can't do that here and now, or I'll be the one being cuffed without a safeword and held captive by a big, strong man.
Frankly, it isn't nearly as fun as she made it sound.
"So…why do you hate readers so much?" she asks.
"What the fuck? Who said I hate readers?"
"You said meeting them was insanity."
"No, I said not meeting them made me sane," I correct.
"That doesn't mean I hate readers. It doesn't even mean there's a damn thing wrong with meeting readers.
I happen to have an infinite amount of respect for most readers.
But I value boundaries more than I value being a piece of meat at the market. "
She cocks her head to the side, studying me. "A piece of meat at the market, huh? Could you possibly be any more arrogant or self-important?" she asks, rolling her eyes. "It's honestly gross, River."
I close my laptop before sliding it off the table into my bag.
And then I pull out my wallet and toss a few bills onto the scarred tabletop before sliding out of the booth.
"You think that's what this is?" I finally say, glancing down at her.
"Maybe you should do a little research, princess, and then get back to me.
" I pause. "Actually, don't get back to me. My answer isn't going to change."
"Then I'm not going away," she calls softly.
I'm not sure why I stop. I know damn well that I shouldn't… but I do.
"You want me to attend your book club?"
"That's what I've been saying."
"Fine. Then let's make a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"Have dinner with me, and I'll consider it."
She blinks those long, sooty lashes at me, like a date is the last thing she expected me to offer.
Frankly, it's the last thing I expected to offer today, too.
It's been years since I last took anyone out.
But I know what I want. It's not speaking at whatever book club she runs.
It's her. If getting close to her means walking into my own personal hell again, fine.
I'll play, but we're playing by my rules.
"What?" she finally says.
"Go out with me, and I'll do Book Club for you."
"Hell no," she blurts, a little breathless and wide-eyed, like the thought alone is the worst possible thing she can think of.
"What's wrong, princess?" I step closer to the bench, crowding her just a bit. "Afraid you'll decide you actually like me?"
"What? No!"
"Liar." I shove my free hand into my pocket, just to resist the temptation of touching her, then smirk. "When you agree to go out with me, I'll agree to speak at your book club. But not until."
"I'm not going out with you."
"Then I'm not speaking at Book Club."
"This is blackmail or extortion or…something. Whatever it is, it's illegal."
"I know. Genius, isn't it?" I wink at her, then turn and stride away. "Stop stalking me, Jasmine."
"You're an ass, River."
I just laugh, because she isn't wrong. I am an ass. But we both know her voice isn't shaking because she's pissed I'm extorting her. It's shaking because I just caught her off guard with my date request, and she's mad as hell about it.
Maybe her little war declaration isn't such a bad thing, after all.