Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
"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?"