Today I am excited to share the release of Romancing the Author by Julieann Dove. This is
the first book in the Cara series and includes fate dating & opposites attract. It's a funny,
low-heat romance that will leave you begging for the next installment. Check it out, grab your
copy, and be sure to enter the giveaway!
Cara Shoemaker, divorced romance novelist, just received a text from her daughter that she
was getting married…in two weeks. The wedding would be in California and her ex-husband
and hottie girlfriend would be in attendance. As if that wasn’t enough reason to crawl
underneath her bed and remain there, the text ended by saying she wanted her mom’s
boyfriend there for the occasion, too.
Dalton McCormick, male Adonis, and everything her lousy ex-husband was not. Cara made
up his existence so her daughter wouldn’t worry about her. For the last year, they had done
everything Cara wanted…traveled to Italy, antiqued in sleepy towns, and woke up late on
Sunday mornings. He was the perfect guy, on paper.
Cara’s best friend, Janey, arranged for an actor friend to accompany Cara to the wedding
and check all the boxes that solidified them as the couple she described them as being. The only
problem was when Dominick Balteros showed up, nothing about him resembled the nice guy,
Dalton. In fact, Cara wondered if she and Dominick would even survive the plane trip to
California. He was outspoken, laid back, devilishly charming, and had the ability to undo years
of Cara’s demure composure. It was going to be a weekend no one expected or would soon
forget.
Chapter One
Once Upon a Text
Jasper’s breath caught as he looked at Jeanne for what he knew would be the last
time. Her wet lips were parted and by the rising of her breasts up and down, he figured she was
receptive to a farewell roll on that bed they’d shared for the last week. But this time would be
different. This time he’d make her cry out for more. He would take her to the point of no return
and stop short of the crescendo moment. Stop short because tonight it would all end. And
when she was lying there, gripping the sheet, he would look her in the eye and—
Cara drummed her fingers on the table and took a deep breath. Crescendo moment?
A man stopping short? Not likely. “Grrr…” She stared at the screen through her twenty-
dollar pharmacy glasses. It was one thing to write romance and quite another to write the semi-
smut scenes. It would be easier for her to train cats how to swim. Luckily, when the story
moved in the direction of a little bedroom action, Cara’s friend Janey stepped in with her
expertise and wrote all the dirty details that still made Cara blush.
This would be one of those times. Her new book was due to her editor in two months. She’d
outlined all the plot points, settings, and dialogue, but somehow she lacked in the tawdry areas.
Perhaps it had something to do with all the sex she wasn’t having. Or hadn’t had in the what
was it? Two years? Maybe more if she counted that last year of her marriage. But who was
bitter and counting, anyway?
She picked up her phone and dialed Janey’s number. She glanced at the clock; it was 10:30.
Too late to call, probably. She most likely was at the restaurant with her husband, Ross. Helping
him close up. They were such a super couple. They got married about six months after Cara and
Jim. Cara was actually the one who put them together. Ross was in her economics class in
college and they discovered their shared hatred of economics when they got each other’s
returned homework paper by accident. She was elated when her best friend and best guy
friend struck up a relationship that kept both of them near and dear to her.
“I have five minutes till Ross comes looking for me. What’s up?” Janey said, after the phone
stopped ringing on Cara’s end.
“Another word for crescendo moment,” Cara asked.
“As in…give me more. Are you writing musical scores now? That’s different.”
“Funny. As in, you’ve got to write this scene for me. I’m drowning over here. You know I
don’t do bedroom scenes. And I’ve been forced to ever since you’ve started that new play. It’s
not pretty.”
Janey worked on Off-Off-Broadway productions. She either wrote the scripts, directed, or
did both. She was great at what she did, and Cara knew one day someone would discover her
talents and give her a chance at something bigger. Maybe a place where she didn’t have to step
in and help change stage props during the performance.
“We read off-script tonight, so we’re in the home stretch. I should have some free time
soon.”
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“That’s what you’ve been saying. My agent needs this finished.”
“So finish it. But what’s a crescendo moment?”
“Forget it. It’s the moment I stop writing tonight, I guess.”
“Cara, just google some hot, sexy scenes. They’ll give you inspiration.”
“No, they’ll give me pop-up ads for lingerie, Hims medicine for erectile dysfunction, and
call-sex lines. No thank you. I’ll just wait patiently until you can haul your butt over here and
empty your potty mouth into my computer keyboard. I don’t even want to know about what
goes on with you
and Ross to get this inspiration to write this stuff.”
“Trust me, it’s all very G-rated.”
At this point in her humdrum life, G-rated sounded better than No Rating For This Yet.
Which was what her life was: Not Rated Yet.
“Okay, okay. Go before Ross comes looking for you. And don’t forget to take off the hat this
time.”
Janey smoked. Like a chimney. And Ross hated it. She said she quit like seven months ago.
Again. But the patch, the gum, and the hypnotist only made her crave it more. She was going to
try stopping again, once her new play was in wardrobe stage.
“Okay. Hey, I know what you can do while you wait for me.”
Cara’s ears perked. “What?”
“Get some stupid paint on those kitchen cabinets so we don’t have to eat on our laps the
next time we come over.”
“Funny. I’ll get right on it.”
She hung up the phone, closed her computer, and stared at all the open shelves that once
were hidden by doors. The same doors that were now stacked on the dining room table. And
had been for the last six months. In Cara fashion, she watched a YouTube one night about
giving life back to your kitchen. She figured considering there was little chance to get life back
to her own, at least her kitchen deserved a second chance at it. So she bought all the supplies
and got to the labor part right away with a drill she found in the garage. The first cabinet door
took thirty minutes, but the rest took no time to finally have all of them down. By the time the
paint, the sander, and the clear coat stuff that really made the difference arrived, Cara was sort
of on to something else. Basket weaving.
Of course, the woman wearing one on her head giving the demonstration would make it
look easy. Next to the table with all the doors was one enormous sized square of straw, sent
from the farm of the woman’s family. One hundred dollars for a completed basket that would
cost upward of six hundred if you bought it finished from her. But who would have any fun with
a finished basket?
There was one upside to being abandoned, divorced, and seriously deprived of human
contact—there was no one to judge her. A bale of hay, a fleet of doors, and who knew what
next week would bring. And it didn’t matter. Cara was doing her thang. Like Stella, who finally
got her groove back. This was like the prequel, when Stella was maybe in the phase where, like
Cara, she took joy in ordering from Instacart. And waiting on the sofa to see him drive up, like it
was a date showing up to take her out. Only to hand her a bag of Oreo cookies, milk, and
cucumbers and run off the porch as if he were delivering parts of a bomb. The milk and cookies
were selfexplanatory, somewhat of essential nutrients. The cucumbers were for the peskywater bags that collected under her eyes from drinking the milk probably. Her doctor was very
vague about her lactose symptoms, so Cara took it to be a suggestive allergy. Until further
tested.
She pushed her computer off her lap and grabbed for the remote on the ottoman. It was
almost time for her beloved police dramas. Something that didn’t deal with romance, thwarted
feelings, and insane desires. All of which her readers would be disenchanted to find out she had
no intimate knowledge of. Except the thwarted feelings. She was certainly full of those. Seen
her fair share throughout life. It stemmed from her mother. Actually, it was her dad who was
thwarted. It must be a generational karma thing. Her mother thwarted her dad, and the
daughter gets thwarted by the son-in-law. Yep, karma was definitely a dirty bird.
Before she was able to push the button on the remote, her phone dinged on the end table.
She grabbed for it to make sure it wasn’t anyone in trouble. After all, it was almost 11:00. At her
age, the only dinging that came this late hour was something likely to entail hospitalization or
incarceration.
One swipe, and her daughter’s name and picture showed up. Cara’s face lit. It’d been a few
days since they spoke. Exams were going on and although she wanted her daughter to do her
best, she also wanted to chat about anything and everything with her. Brie was her only lifeline,
other than Janey and Ross—and whoever drew the short straw at the Instacart group.
She grabbed the glasses she’d just set down and put them on to read what her darling girl
wrote. Exams must be finished. Finally they could FaceTime again. Then, it was a strong
possibility—if she didn’t get the intern job at the embassy—she would return home. Cara’s
heart pounded with excitement over the possibility of having her girl stateside again.
Mom, I’m texting instead of calling because I want to give you time to process it. Ezra
and I are getting married. He proposed and I said yes! His family talked us into doing the
ceremony at their vineyard in California! They want to meet you and dad and realize this is a
great way to do it. Don’t worry, they’re putting together all the arrangements and paying for
everything. Can you believe it? I know I said I didn’t ever want to get married, well, you
know…I’m still salty about yours and dad’s choice to divorce, but they’re soo nice. And Ezra
pointed out that they’re still together, so we could end up like them. You’re going to love them.
Ezra and I fly into Monterey next week, so the plan is to have it the following week. I know it’s
short notice, but dad and Lulu said they can make it. I hope the same is true for you and Dalton.
I know he’s a pilot, but hopefully he can get some time off. I wished I was able to meet him at
Christmas. Tell him there’s no getting out of this one! I want to meet the guy who makes you
happy. I love you Mom. I can’t wait to have my family and loved ones with me on my magical
day!
I’ll call you tomorrow once this news has settled with you.
Cara waited until the last period to finally blink, but her jaw remained slack. Her eyes
burned from re-reading each line. Then double-checking to see whether this in fact was from
her daughter. The one she raised from wee-high. The one who pinky-promised her they’d
always live together. No matter what. Or at the very least, have adjoining houses. The
dormitory in England frowned upon Cara staying past five days after the parents’ weekend. And
the roommates were beginning to complain to Brie that she snored. Which she emphatically
It’d been a tough two years without her girl but Cara knew this was what Brie always
dreamed of, and she wasn’t going to be the person to stand in her way. Like her own mother,
who clearly stood in the way of all things Cara wanted. Stood tall…on stilts…with outstretched
arms. Bodyblocking tons of things she wanted. But that wasn’t Cara. No, indeed. And it killed
like a fresh knife wound every time she passed her daughter’s room on her way to bed.
Okay, again. Read it again, her mind instructed her brain. This time, she read it
slower. Like, having just learned English-slow. Married? Was she kidding? Oh, she
knew why this was text form and not a call form. Suddenly, she jumped up from the sofa and
began to march around the room. Like a mad person. A stupid piece of straw jabbed her foot,
and she went down like one of those inflatable things you bop and it immediately goes flat.
Until it pops back up. Cara didn’t. She lay there, holding her foot, crying like a child. Her
daughter was leaving her. She could barely face it.
What, was she crazy?
Cara stood up again. Damned her stinging foot and that basket-wearing woman who clearly
couldn’t teach a monkey to find fleas. It wasn’t her fault those pieces of straw wouldn’t bend.
And it wasn’t her fault that her mother got dementia and she had to be her caregiver. And it
wasn’t her fault that her husband left her. And it wasn’t her fault… She stopped the marching
band of things coming to her mind, trying best to console her soul, while her body was sending
clots for her throbbing, wounded foot.
Maybe all of it was her fault. Okay, so not her mom. Clearly, she couldn’t pass dementia on
to her mom like the flu or common cold. And who else would have cared for her? She was an
only child, and her dad certainly couldn’t. Her mom stopped being his responsibility the
moment she told him to eff-off. Turned out her strange mood swings through the years
might’ve been contributed by the strokes that showed up in her CAT scans. There was a colony
of them. Cara wondered how far back they went. Middle school when she picked out horrible
clothes for her? High school when she demanded to go on every date with her? Probably
not.
Obviously, Cara’s daughter was being coerced into writing this message. She scanned the
words again. Could someone be putting her up to this? Already having her dad on board?
She told him first? Cara folded over like a chair, grabbing her stomach most dramatically.
Really, Brie? Or should she ask, et tu Brutus? Could the fact of her
getting married be ever so gravely received, than to put it alongside of, “I told your nemesis and
his childlike whore first. They will be there waiting to see you. And laugh because you still have
no one.” She was going to be sick.
It wasn’t the good fortune of every dumped wife to have your cheating ex-husband to ride
off with a YouTube rockstar, who flaunted their happiness across the internet. But Cara had hit
the jackpot with Lulu. She cooked, danced, made twisting stupid little sticks into wreaths for
centerpieces look easy. Try straw, Lulu. It’s not so easy. And then all the temptation
to stalk them. And take pictures of the screen with her phone so she could magnify things she
couldn’t discern with her little readers that she knew very well was not the strength they used
to be.
Cara took a deep breath and dialed Janey again. Yeah, she knew hearing a ding this late
hour was no good. And Janey would soon discover the same experience.
“Okay, woman.
“No, it’s not that.”
“Lord, what is it?”
Cara read her the message. Word for word. And waited for the particles of the bomb to
settle. Kind of like Brie’s instructions told her to let happen.
She did say let it settle, right?
“Oh. My. Gosh. You’re going to be a mother-in-law!” she screamed.
“That’s what you got from that?” “Yeah. Oh.”
It must’ve sunk in.
“Honey, you like Ezra. He’s such an amazing guy. You said so yourself when he was here for
Christmas. He was a darling to Brie.” Janey had skin in the game, seeing as Brie was her
godchild.
“That’s before he did this. Now he’s a big, fat jerk. A big, dumb jerk. Who thinks he’s going
to just take away my girl. Take her away. Did you get that? I’ll never see her. What is she
thinking? I mean, really. She’s not finished with college. We haven’t gone backpacking yet. You
know she promised me she would.”
“Yes, and I’m sure she’ll have time for you later. She’s getting married, Cara. She’s not
taking a shuttle to Mars and converting to alien.”
“Marriage means just that.”
“Honey, read that last part again.”
Cara took the phone away from her ear and found the text again. She repeated the last
part. Then she tilted her head. Maybe the whole “I’m leaving you” part overshadowed the “I
want to meet Dalton” part. Cara sighed.
Dalton, Dalton, Dalton. Her little fictitious, almost perfect boyfriend. Dark hair, dark
eyes…bedroom eyes, actually. When she imagined him in her head and wrote about their
frolicking to her daughter, she always imagined strong arms, chiseled jaw, and like a magic lamp
that you could rub and get your wishes come true, he knew all the right things to get Cara
through Brie’s education. His entire creation was based on necessity and suggestion from
Janey.
Turned out a person can live through hell, wake up the next day, shower in gasoline, and
have someone toss you some lit matches. At least that’s what Cara remembered about leaving
her daughter in a foreign country for four years of college and returning home and having her
husband ask for a divorce. She made the mistake of calling her daughter, like drunk dialing a
friend, to cry about it. It was the dysfunctional relationship she had with her own mother, and
dealing with the divorce of her parents. Brie returned home and refused to return to school
until she knew her mother would be okay. Janey took full responsibility for the situation, made
Cara wave goodbye to her daughter, and then worked on a plan to get everyone through
it.
The whole ordeal of Jim leaving her was worse than anything she could ever conjure up in
her author-ran mind. In the beginning, or as Cara affectionately referred to it, “moments after
the hit-and-run” stage, Cara mostly spent her time balled up in a corner, refusing anything but
chocolate and bottled water. Her self-wallowing eventually turned to hate, and she designed
targets with Jim’s face on them. She laid them in the sink and spit her toothpaste on them.
Then came the anger. All those years together and for what? This type of thinking led to her
packing up his clothes, the ones he told his attorney to tell her attorney that he wanted back. Seriously, I will promise—”
The coveted football jerseys, some signed. She drove them to the homeless shelter and let the
men take their pick. When she saw the guys panhandling at the intersections wearing them,
she’d honk her horn and wave. She almost took a picture to send to her ex but felt it might
incriminate her, so she kept that secret to herself.
Eventually, all her anger circled back to grief, and when it did, Janey came up with a solution
to give Brie the feeling that her mom was safe, happy, and secure. Because Janey knew that
one day she would be. Until that day, she needed something for Brie to know things were okay
back home so she could focus on her education. That something became someone—Dalton, to
be exact. A man who cooked, to let Brie know her mother was eating. A man who doted on
Cara’s well-being…he even had a security system installed for when he wasn’t able to be there
with her. Details were orchestrated to the smallest degree. Janey and Cara gave him an
occupation of pilot, so he was never home when Brie came to visit. Life, or pretend life, was set
and in motion.
“Oh my gosh, Dalton. She wants to meet Dalton.”
“It’s okay. How long have you two been dating again?”
“Um, like…” She tried to make calculations in her hysterical brain. It was like juggling cups of
water. “Over a year?”
“You’ve done some great writing, I guess. I’d forgotten about that Italian hottie. Well,
actually we did have him gone this past Christmas, right? Oh my gosh, do you remember I
brought over Ross’s jacket so Brie
could find a man’s coat in the closet and not get suspicious?”
“Yeah. We’ve been quite good with keeping the little figment of our imagination living and
breathing. I’m afraid it has come home to bite us now.”
“Just break up with him. Like, say it’s been over and you didn’t mention it because you
didn’t want to talk about it. When did you last bring him up to her?”
She thought back on when it was. Oh, last weekend. Before her exams. “Dalton and I
will be cheering you on from here, Brie! He’s such an amazing guy. You’d love him. Before I go, I
just wanted to tell you we went antiquing last weekend and I found you that Strawberry
Shortcake doll you lost when you were in the first grade. Can you believe it?”
It was actually an eBay auction she won and the seller mailed it from Nebraska. What could
she say? Making up stories was in her DNA. And when her daughter ever sounded worried for
her mother, Dalton would rear his head and assure her it was okay. Of course, when Brie
graduated, Dalton would turn into dust. She wasn’t quite sure how he’d depart, but she’d make
it easy. Maybe he’d drink water from another country and suffer a bacterial thing. Of course
she’d be sad, but who could stop bacteria or argue it? It happens. To good people. To Dalton.
And then she and Brie could travel the world. But then this.
“He’s alive and well, and I mention him a lot, unfortunately.”
“Well, hey. I know this is like the most monumental news, but Ross is now honking the
horn. I’ve got to go spray myself with Pam cooking spray or something and get going out there.
Come to the restaurant for lunch tomorrow, around noon. Don’t text her back until we talk. But
this is good, honey. Ezra is a good guy. And it doesn’t mean you’re losing Brie. I promise. Now
kisses and goodnight.”
She clicked off the phone, threw it on the sofa and got ready for the tears. Because she was
like that. She’d let her thoughts keep her hostage and play out scenes of a Brie montage untilthere was no more tissues and scabs on her nostrils. One more thing in life that’d eluded her.
Her mother, her lousy husband, her joy, and now her daughter. What was left to
take?
Hold on a sec…did she really say salty about her mom and dad’s “choice” to divorce? Who
had a choice? For that fact, who was able to see a bullet train barreling at you
when you were blindfolded with little answers like “honey, really, I’m okay.” She asked Jim if
everything was fine a lot when he failed to come home for dinner or elected to work Saturdays
at his dental practice. As if having to go during the week wasn’t bad enough, but scheduling to
have drills in your mouth on a Saturday was ever popular?
She walked her butt up to her room and picked up the picture of Brie from her nightstand.
It was of her making a silly face at her sixth birthday party. She stroked the wooden edge and
smiled. She hoped the fate of her daughter’s marriage didn’t bear any resemblance to her own.
None of them tended to come with warning labels such as, “May contain years of loneliness,
bickering, and second-guessing any or all of your life’s decisions about where to spend your
vacation.”
She was sure their final family trip to Disney was the stake to the heart of her limping
marriage. They waited until Brie was old enough to enjoy it. Sixteen was not the recommended
year, by the way. She spent all her time avoiding family pictures, rolling her eyes when her
mom whipped out the itinerary, and walking three feet from her parents. Jim blamed Cara for
emptying their savings and making them wear color-coordinating outfits every day. Did
anyone really keep score in the park?
Two things Cara felt certain about before Disney, and sixteen years before even then… Jim
was her true love, and that she was nothing like her mom. Turned out she was wrong, on both
accounts. True loves didn’t leave you standing in the pouring rain in front of the Disney castle,
shouting “Are you happy now?” when their daughter screamed she wanted to go home. And if
she thought about it long enough and stared into the mirror for longer than to get a brush
through her hair, she could see how she was aging like her mom. Forget the slipups of sayings
her mother used, like “It’ll all come out in the wash.” It was those dark circles that no makeup
concealer could hide, and the fact she still bought baskets to organize things, even if it was a
basket to hold her other ones.
Cara opened her drawer and got out the picture that never saw light after Jim left. It was
the three of them at the pumpkin patch. A strange man wearing a large hat with a corn ear on it
took it and charged ten dollars at the exit door for it. She looked closer at it. Jim’s arm was
actually around Cara’s waist. Little Brie was between their legs, smiling for the camera.
It wasn’t a total nineteen years of disgust and misfortune. Cara and Jim’s marriage was
blissful in the beginning. Sort of like a newborn baby: cooing, smiling, laughing, and making you
want to celebrate everything. They were babes in love. Then came the terrible two’s, if you will:
the unplanned pregnancy. Then the unforeseen care of her mother when she got Alzheimer’s
and had to move in with them. Which naturally led to the rebellious teen era of their marriage
of late nights at the office for Jim to avoid the home scene. And then, of course, that pesky
affair of Jim’s rounded off everything before it came to a close. Now that they were all grown
up, Cara was left alone, writing about the life she wanted and Jim was living it, according to the
documented YouTube channel of his gorgeous girlfriend. How was it that the divorce rewarded
denied.
him with fun and sexy Lulu, and she was rewarded with bitter resentment and a made-up man
who was never going to materialize?
Cara leaned over and grabbed a miniature Hershey bar with nuts from the bedstand. She
unwrapped it without guilt. Each crunch of the surprise nut made her eyes close with ecstasy. If
only her readers knew when she was describing how the sultry neck of her protagonist tasted,
she was crunching on a Symphony bar. Cara looked around her empty bedroom. The toile
curtains against the perfect shade of white on the walls. The Renoir painting underneath the
soft light of the little sconce above it. This was her sanctuary. The air conditioner turned on, and
the sheer curtain began to sway. Now all she needed was Dalton—her imagined perfect
man—exiting her bathroom, wearing a cotton towel around his waist, toothbrush hanging from
his mouth, and grinning that way she knew she should’ve not just eaten that bar of candy.
Dominick glanced at the notification on his phone from his editor and winced. It was seven
o’clock; he’d just been on a stakeout in the lot across from the Plaza for twelve hours, waiting
to take a picture of the heiress, Rochelle Bancroft, to exit the hotel with bad boy Tommy Page.
Dominick hadn’t slept, his stomach was still turbulent eating from the hot dog stand that he
knew gave him food poisoning, and worst of all, he never got the picture or the confirmation
they’d been together that night. Not even his snitch who worked on the inside could help him
on this one. And it was his big break. The story that would take him from paparazzi to hopefully
some type of reporting-in-front-of-the-camera action, although with this publication, the most
promotion he’d get was writing articles. Which was better than this, but still not his dream
job.
He turned the knob to his apartment door and pushed it with his arm. There seemed to be
something blocking it. He pushed harder, stepped inside, and heard some faint noises coming
from the bedroom. Nicole’s suitcase toppled over, making the five pairs of shoes that sat on top
of it fall to the ground.
“Whoa,” he said, looking around at her belongings. “Babe, what’s going on?”
Nicole came from the room, carrying her cat. His fluffy white fur draped her shoulder like a
scarf. He hissed at Dominick when he caught sight of him.
Dominick hissed back.
“Would you not?” Nicole asked, as though she were talking to a child.
She slid him into his pet carrier and turned to face Dominick. “This is not working,
Dom.”
He stood there, looking at the warehouse of things blocking his entryway: small bags, larger
bags, Tom-Tom the hated cat. And was that his new coffee maker?
“What are you doing? This is crazy.”
“Jason is going to be here to get me.”
“Jason? Jason Tremper? The man I can’t stand? Who steals leads from me? That we, both
you and I, talk crap about? That Jason?”
Dominick, Nicole, and Jason worked for The 4-1-1, a celebrity tell-all venue. It
consisted of Gerry Tolbert, the editor in chief, and thirty or so writers. The underlings, such as
Dominick and Jason, had to earn their steps up the ladder to investigative writer. Nicole was
already there. She dabbled in underlings every chance she got. Dominick, being new to
The 4-1-1, hadn’t realized that yet. But he was getting his first look that night.
“Jason is moving up to writer. I can’t take all the nights alone, Dom. You’re never going to
find anything meatier than Paula Abdul leaving her studio in a hooded jacket. Jason doesn’t
have to stay out all night. And there’s parties. You know, where you don’t hide out in bushes.
He’s been invited to the one at the Monticello. There’s going to be some notables there. I’ll
probably get a lead.”
She stood there, all four foot eleven, frosted blonde hair, and caked makeup that his
mother would never approve of. That was why he never took her to Queens to meet her. That,
and he and Nicole had only been dating for about a month. On their third date, Nicole met him
at the door with what looked like more than an overnight bag and something meowing in a
crate. She said her roommate was trying to poison Tom-Tom. Now he could see why. Since
then, most of the time he’d spent on stakeouts. One thing was for sure—he wouldn’t miss that
jungle cat that knew only one octave.
“This isn’t cool, you know. Jason has had it out for me. He stole that story that got him into
the writers’ room. You know that.”
“I know that you said that. But, Dom, you’re the one covered in leaves, and what is this?”
She pulled something flat and brown from his sleeve. “I’ve got to go. We can still talk at work,
you know. I had fun. This was fun.”
“Yeah, it was something.” He opened the door, and she looked like she was waiting for him
to actually help her. He bent over and heard Jason’s footsteps getting nearer. He stopped and
backed up while the two gathered all they could and nodded in his direction before leaving the
scene.
Dominick shut the door, kicked off his shoes he’d been wearing for a day and a half, and fell
into the couch. He leaned forward to grab something he’d sat on. It was a cat toy. He flung it
across the room and stared at the wall. It wasn’t as though what he was feeling was heartbreak.
He knew Nicole’s type: use ’em and lose ’em. He knew it because he spoke the same language.
Although he was usually the one packing up the bag to make a clean getaway.
He wasn’t always that way. Once upon a time, he did trip and fall in love. His speedbump
was named Elizabeth. And the injury he incurred from it forced him to write a new set of rules
for the playbook of love. He’d set expectations to never level up from the mentality of
disposable flings. That way he’d never get hurt again. Every now and then, the wounds from
that one would act up and bring back sad memories. Kind of like a trick knee injury when the
weather changed.
He pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket.
Meet me at Freddy’s tomorrow. Eleven thirty sharp.
It was from Gerry, his editor. Had he heard about Nicole already? He warned Dominick not
to get involved with her. But that’s the thing; he didn’t. She moved in on his life like a looming
hurricane, making its way to the land of all the new employees. Hurricane Nicole had littered
his sink with makeup, cotton balls, and left her underwear on the side of the tub. One morning,
she moaned from the bed for him to take her stuff to the laundry with his—she was running
low on sweatpants. He didn’t get her; she always dressed as though she were coming or going
to work out, but he’d yet to see her do more than lift her wine glass at night and ask for
refills.
She did come with her bouts of destruction, but he had to admit, it was nice having
somebody in the place. Even if she turned out to be more like an annoying sister than a lover.
Infact, they didn’t sleep together one time. He was always gone or she was always passed out
from wine when he did get home. In the scheme of things, it had to end like this. Although the
added bonus of Jason one-upping him to the writers’ room actually hurt more than Nicole
bailing on him.
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