As usual, Alex Bauer wore his heart on his sleeve, so trying to sneak one by his roommate Juliette Frye would be fruitless. If there was such a thing as a poker face for literary rejection, he had the opposite. And he knew he couldn’t get anything past her. Juliette was like a human polygraph. His olive-green eyes could project a life force that was off the charts… or be deep pools of permanent hurt.
Which they were right now.
She studied his look as he came through the door and put his portfolio on the dining-room table. “Uh-oh. That bad, huh?”
He moved to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge. “Same old story. The market’s extremely tight for military thrillers. You’re a good writer, but… blah, blah, blah.”
“How many people did you meet with this time?”
“Four agents and three editors.” He opened the beer, took a long swig and plopped down in his leather reclining chair, stretching out his lean five-foot-ten frame. “I’ve actually run out of places to pitch the damn thing. Today was my last resort. So my book literally becomes the tree that fell in the forest.” He looked up at the ceiling as he ran his fingers through his thick black hair. Maybe I need to go back to reporting.”
The petite blonde got up, stood in front of him and folded her arms. “Alex Bauer, you stop that right now. Hey, look at me.” Her pale-blue eyes locked with his as he faced her. “Don’t start with that again. You hate what journalism has become and that’s why you spend one night a week teaching reporting ethics at the college. You want to be an author. You socked away enough money to give it ten years and you’ve only been at it for two.”
“Well—”
“And to be honest, the newsroom has gotten a helluva lot worse since you left. The bias is off the charts and I’m thinking of leaving myself. I actually got a feeler today from a PR firm for when my contract is up next year. Good offer, normal hours, great money. Low stress.”
“You’d be good at that.”
“And you’re a great writer. You have been since college.”
“Thank you, but that’s not translating into a sale. Geez, even the seminar was depressing. A bunch of has-been authors, who hadn’t sold anything in years, basically telling us how tough it is. Probably because they don’t want any new competition. I was hoping to be energized but came away even more discouraged.” He flipped the lever on the recliner and put his feet up. “Funny, the military thriller seminar was right after the romance talk and I happened to get there a few minutes early. Those women were having a blast.”
“Well, they usually aren’t writing stories with snipers and people dying. Don’t think terrorist sleeper cells and nuclear warfare are popular plot elements in a romance novel.”
“You’ve got a point. Anyway, I’m out in the hall waiting and the woman running the thing sees me peeking around the door. Real cute redhead. I mean, seriously cute. So she invites me in, but I mean, there’s not a single guy in the crowd so I duck back into the hall. But I can still hear her.”
“Wait a minute… did I just hear you say a ‘seriously cute redhead’ gave you an invitation and you went in the other direction?”
“I know. You would think my thing for redheads would have taken over, but I was scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Being one guy in a room with two hundred women.”
“I would think that would be every man’s wet dream. Author gets harem, film at eleven.”
“Funny. Anyway, then the cute redhead said something interesting. That military thrillers are dead and romance is the easiest genre to break into.”
“I would think so. Simple supply and demand. There are more romance books in the bookstore than any other genre.”
“Then she says if guys were smart they’d give it a shot. Writing romance, I mean. Pretty funny, huh?”
Juliette put her hands on her hips. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Why don’t you give it a shot?”
“Me? Write a romance novel? You mean chick lit? What the hell do I know about purses and shoes?”
“You’re a reporter, do some research. And not every romance novel is about shopping. Besides, for the past ten years you’ve been sharing this townhouse with a woman who has been the sister you never had. I know you’ve always thought of me as one of the guys, but I do possess the shoe chromosome. Seriously, Alex, you could do it. Remember that creative writing class we took in college and the assignment to write a short story for someone you love? And the one you wrote for your girlfriend about the engagement ring?”
“You mean Ring Girl? What about it?”
“Okay, full disclosure. I never told you this because I thought you’d be embarrassed, but she-who-must-not-be-named showed it to me. It was incredibly romantic and beyond sentimental. Along with being funny as hell. It made me laugh and cry at the same time. If our relationship wasn’t platonic I would have fallen in love with you after reading it. And she was blown away by it.”
“Yeah, she was so blown away she broke up with me after I gave it to her.”
“Because she thought you were getting too close and she was the girl in the story. That’s how much pure emotion it had, that’s how much it touched her. But you’re missing the point. You wrote a romantic short story. Why couldn’t you write a romantic novel? In fact, I’ll help you get started… why not flesh out that short story into a novel? It was such a terrific plot and the characters were so memorable I can tell you their names today. Lexi and Jamison.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “I cannot believe you remember that.”
“Like I said, it was a great story. So I want you to do it.”
“Seriously?”
“It was beyond clever, Alex. And since you never throw anything out I assume you still have it.”
“It’s on an old computer disc, but the story’s still in my head.”
“It’s still in my head, too, which should tell you something. Alex, I read that genre from time to time, and I’m telling you, what you wrote back in college combined with the romantic soul I know you are tells me you have it in you. You can do it. You spent years in newsrooms filled with women so you know more about us than you might think. I’ll help you add a little of the girly stuff. Take you shopping for shoes. I’ll even let you go through my purse to see what’s in there.”
His face tightened as his eyes filled with fear. “I’ll go shopping with you, but I’m not going in your purse.”
“What the hell are you afraid of?”
“I dunno, purses remind me of that movie Roman Holiday.”
She furrowed her brow. “Huh?”
“You know, that scene with the Mouth of Truth where you put your hand in it and if you’re a liar the statue will bite it off. And Gregory Peck sticks his hand in there and pulls it up into his sleeve so Audrey Hepburn would think the legend was true.”
She shook her head. “I assure you, there are no extremity-eating monsters in my purse.”
“It’s just one of those places where men dare not go.”
“Fine, I’ll dump it out on the table. But I want you to do this. Now put that damn military thriller away, get your ass in the chair and start writing.”
“Okay, but there’s one major flaw with your plan.”
“What’s that?”