2. Cowboy Wanted （Serious Inquiries Only）
Selene
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I stare at my Mac screen, my eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
The Duke wrapped his fingers around Lady Elara’s throat, the lace of her gown tearing beneath his grip…
No. Too melodramatic. Too over-the-top.
“A Pumpkin Spice Latte for Sloane!”
Ivy’s cheerful shout from behind the counter briefly drowns out the hum of the espresso machine and the background chatter of the shop.
I shift my gaze past the top of my laptop.
Ever since moving back to Elm Hollow, this little nook by the front window has become my sanctuary.
The Pumpkin Spice Café is the definition of cozy: warm-toned walls, the constant scent of cinnamon and roasted coffee beans in the air, and a smutty bookstore connected directly to the café.
A bookstore that, for the record, has dedicated an entire mortifyingly prominent display table to my novels.
Ivy, the owner, is the sweetest person on the planet.
The other day she even suggested hosting a book club in here, with none other than Sebastian Devereaux as the official narrator for the read-alouds.
And I have to admit, the idea has a certain dark appeal.
That man’s voice is so raspy, deep, and sexy that the women of Elm Hollow collectively lost their minds when, during Summer Lovin’—the summer reality show that set this little town on fire—people found out he reads my monster romances.
Tap. Tap.
Back to my Duke and Lady Elara.
The Duke growled, tightening his grip as he dragged her into the darkness…
I huff. I press and hold the Backspace key. The words vanish instantly, swallowed by the blinking cursor. The blank page mocks me, empty and sterile.
This is exactly why I came home. It’s been a chaotic few years: endless book tours, signings, flights, hotels, and crowded book conventions all over the country.
I’ve churned out one book after another, pushing myself to the limit to hold my spot on the bestseller lists, and now…
I feel drained. Empty. My well of dark ideas and kink desperately needs fresh inspiration.
I was hoping that returning to the slow, familiar pace of Elm Hollow would help me find my footing again.
But so far, the only result is a stubbornly blank page.
The sharp hiss of the milk steamer makes me jump.
Pop.
My phone, sitting face-up next to the keyboard, lights up.
Jessica: Did you see this?
Jessica: [Attachment: Digital Flyer - HAUNTED SPURS CASTING CALL]
I roll my eyes.
Me: Hard to miss. Do you have any idea what Elm Hollow is like? It’s practically the only thing people are talking about.
Jessica: Okay, then let’s cut to the chase: you need to apply.
I let out a heavy sigh and lock my phone, flipping it facedown on the table with a sharp thud.
Jessica. My agent. Also my former college roommate. Also the biggest, most persistent thorn in my side that karma ever saddled me with.
The phone buzzes against the wood. Once, twice, three times. I ignore it.
I reach for the ceramic saucer next to my laptop, pick up my pumpkin dark chocolate-chip muffin, and take a generous bite.
God…
I close my eyes as the moist, spiced batter melts on my tongue, cut by the rich, bitter depth of dark chocolate. It’s heavenly. Yeah, Ivy could absolutely, without a doubt, become my favorite person in Elm Hollow.
The phone buzzes again. I cave and wipe my fingers on a paper napkin.
Jessica: Don’t ignore me.
Me: I’m not ignoring you.
Jessica: You should be thrilled. A haunted house? That’s your natural habitat, Selene.
Me: I am. But did you read the fine print? “Strictly in pairs and with a cowboy.” I don’t have anyone to go on the show with. Let alone a cowboy.
Jessica: Well, find one! Who wouldn’t want a hot cowboy? Elm Hollow definitely isn’t short of them.
Me: Absolutely not.
Jessica: Here we go again. This is about your ex, isn’t it? You need to stop moping.
Me: Drop it. He is ancient history. Completely irrelevant. I don’t even remember his name.
Jessica: Wasn’t Aunt Tina a huge fan of yours? That woman worships the ground you walk on. She’ll lose her mind if she finds out you want to be on the show… I’m sure she’ll let you apply solo.
I chew my last bite of muffin, staring at the screen. I hate to admit it, but she’s right about Tina. She’s obsessed with my books. But that doesn’t change a thing.
Me: The idea isn’t bad, but… I’m not about to encourage Aunt Tina. I need peace and quiet to find my inspiration.
Jessica: And I need to pitch your next bestseller ASAP.
Jessica: No buts. Call her.
Jessica: Not up for debate.
I decide to ignore that last message. I pretend it doesn’t exist, putting my hands back on the keyboard.
Three seconds later, the screen lights up again, but this time accompanied by the continuous buzzing of an incoming call. Jessica.
“I can hear you groaning from here, and you haven’t even answered yet,” is the first thing she says the second I pick up and press the phone to my ear.
I roll my eyes. It’s not like she can see me.
Then, since the rush of petty rebellion feels weirdly… satisfying, I do it again in protest. I could keep this up all day.
“You’re listening to me, right?” she presses, her bossy, sharp voice piping through the speaker. “You absolutely have to do this. This is exactly the kind of experience you need.”
“Uh-huh, which is exactly what you just texted me,” I reply, tapping my nails against the wooden table. “You’re distracting me.”
“From what? You haven’t written a single damn word since you and Jim broke up…”
I choke back a noise of pure exasperation. “Drop it. I told you, that chapter is closed. Sealed. Buried and paved over.”
“Oh, yeah? And when was the last time you were with someone else? It’s been six months since…”
Okay, I can’t take her anymore. Someone once said that your agent shouldn’t be your best friend. Well, that someone was a fucking genius, and they were right.
“Two weeks ago,” I snap, spitting the words out before my brain can stop them.
There. At least now she’ll stop bringing up my idiot ex. Except… saying it out loud makes it real. And thinking about two weeks ago… God. The smell of leather, the fogged-up truck windows, those blue eyes locked on mine, the ruthless rhythm of his hips snapping against mine.
No. I can’t think about that.
“What?!” Jessica shrieks, hitting a pitch that forces me to pull the phone away from my ear. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re just saying that to shut me up so I stop worrying…”
She launches into a rant about how antisocial I’ve become and how she’d basically pictured me living out my days as a cloistered nun.
“No, it’s true,” I reply in the flattest, most bored tone I can manage.
“Selene Dusk! That is absolutely something you do not keep from me! Are you or are you not my best friend?”
“Actually, last time I checked, I was your client…”
“Fine!” she snaps, with the triumphant tone of someone who just called checkmate. “Then, as my client, I’m ordering you to sign up for this reality show to unblock your creativity.”
What the fu— I literally just walked right into that.
I take a resigned breath and grab the pumpkin muffin. I bring it to my mouth, sinking my teeth into the chocolate edge just to find a shred of comfort in this mess of tears and contract traps. At least I’ll have something good to eat…
The bell hanging on the glass door of the Pumpkin Spice Café jingles merrily.
I look up, the muffin frozen halfway between the saucer and my mouth.
Oh shit.
No. This can’t be real. It’s basically statistically impossible.
And yet, the doors have just swung shut behind a massive figure who takes up half the coffee shop. Broad shoulders packed into a tight T-shirt, faded jeans, heavy boots, and that dark Stetson pulled low over his brow… It’s the “new cowboy” I remember way too well to mistake.
My survival instinct completely overrides rational thought.
With the muffin shoved in my mouth and my phone still pressed to my ear, I do the only thing, the one logical move my short-circuiting brain can come up with.
I slide off my chair and duck under the table.
“Hey, what’s all that racket?” Jessica’s voice blasts through the phone.
“Shhh!” I hiss, pulling the muffin away from my mouth with my free hand.
“What?”
“I can’t talk right now,” I whisper.
“Oh hell no, you don’t get to hang up on me like that,” she yells, completely ignoring the fact there’s an emergency.
“Shhh!”
“What the hell is going on?!”
Dammit. I pull the phone away, frantically searching for the side volume button with my thumb. She’s too damn loud. Jessica’s voice is booming like a megaphone.
“I can’t talk right now,” I murmur into the mic, curling tighter around the table leg. “He just walked in…”
“Who?”
Trying to peek out, I lean a little too far forward. Thud.
“Ow!” I curse under my breath, banging my head hard against the wooden beam under the tabletop. The jolt makes me drop my pastry. The muffin falls and rolls across the floor. My pumpkin-chocolate paradise—gone.
I look down, cautiously stretching out a hand to retrieve it.
“Well, hey there.”
I freeze. The male voice—low, raspy, and laced with that damned, unmistakable amusement—is right beside me.
When I look up, a massive hand plants itself on the floorboards. Then the face of my one-night stand ducks under the table, invading my hiding spot. Those blue eyes lock onto mine, paired with a lopsided grin that makes my heart stop.
“Ahhhhhh!”
I scream. A high-pitched shriek, exactly like the pathetic heroine of a B-movie horror film who just got found by the monster.