“Is that when you came up with Max Montero?”
“Yeah, I suppose it was,” he said, as if realizing it himself. “I had this imaginary friend as a kid. I guess it’s not uncommon, but my friend wasn’t exactly normal. He drank hard liquor, swore, and had some crazy adventures. Eventually, he developed into Max Montero.”
“I’ve always wondered how writers come up with their ideas.”
“I can only speak for my own methods. You know why people like Max? Well, besides present company?”
“Tell me.”
“He appeals to everyone. Men enjoy the action-adventure components and his badass personality. Women appreciate a man who’s both a voracious lover and a lovable jerk.”
“You really think women like that?” she asked, genuinely curious. After all, it was exactly what she disliked about the character.
“Women are compassionate and kind. They have this innate need to fix broken when they see it. And Max Montero is all kinds of broken.”
Shyla had a feeling Nick Dorsey was “all kinds of broken” too, but she kept the thought to herself. “I see.”
“Anyway, you’ll be happy to know Max Montero is done with his kickass life and panty-dropping adventures.”
“What? You killed him off?” she gasped.
“No, he has a strong fan base, and readers would hate me if anything untoward happened to him. He’s simply going away.”
“Why would you stop if the books are successful?”
“It appears my imaginary friend has abandoned me.”
Shyla blinked her eyes in confusion.
“He used to talk to me. Shit, that makes me sound crazy.”
“You have writer’s block?”
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt?”
His laugh held little joy. “No, it just feels empty, frustrating, listless…unproductive…lazy. I guess those are the right adjectives.”
“Maybe you just need some inspiration,” she offered, part statement and question.
“A muse would be welcome.” He lifted a brow suggestively.
Shyla inhaled a deep breath, attempting to recover her composure before he managed to crumple it once more. “Where would you ever find one?”
“You seem like a qualified candidate.”
She stood and started backing toward the doorway. “I should go.”
He stood, but remained rooted in the spot, shoving his hands in pocket. “Did I make you uncomfortable?”
“Not at all. It…it’s late. Thank you for this,” she said, holding up the book. “I can’t wait to start it. And thank you for tonight.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“It is…or at least it was to me.”
He helped her with her coat. She took swift steps toward the door, clutching the book against her chest, hoping it would mask the harsh sounds of her beating heart.
“Shyla,” he called, leaning against the doorjamb, just as she was once again on the outside of his home. Perhaps the side she belonged on.
She pivoted toward him.
His lips turned up in a tight smile as he dragged a hand across his thick hair. “If I ordered a sandwich tomorrow, would you deliver it?”
There was something endearing in the way he’d asked. Her answer came automatically without any forethought. “Of course, I’m your delivery girl.”
“Would you stay and eat with me?” The hope in his voice surprised her.
“If you wish.”
“Do you wish?”
She did wish, more than she had wished for anything in a very long time. “I would like that very much.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow night then.” He took out his wallet and handed her another bill.
“You already paid me.”
“It’s later than usual. Take a cab back to the campus tonight.”
“I don’t have far to go.”
“It’s not the distance I’m worried about. I’d rather your pepper spray remain unused.”
She swallowed back a tiny lump. “I’ll take a cab, but I can pay for it myself.”
He opened her palm, placed the bill inside, and closed her fingers around it. “That’s not the point.” There was something in his stance that deterred her from quarrelling. Not to mention his proximity made the simple task of articulation difficult. She whiffed his intoxicating scent, clean and soapy, yet masculine.
“Thank you.”
“Be safe, Shyla.”
Chapter 5
Nick’s day followed the usual sequence. A morning jog with a stop at the flower shop, followed by a visit to the cemetery, repeating his apologies to a girl who could never answer back. A mid-morning addiction meeting complete with robust coffee and painful stories. He spent the remainder of the day gawking at the damn blinking cursor, mocking him with its slow, shameless dance. Today was different, though. Not in his habits, but definitely in his demeanor. He was excited…to see her again.
He disapproved of his own enthusiasm. He shouldn’t like her this much. It was dangerous for him. Her name was appropriate because she was shy, but at the same time opinionated, perhaps even brash. Oh, and she did have goddess-like qualities. She had a sense of humor, and she listened to him with rapt attention. He listened to her, too. In fact, her lyrical voice made his dick jerk, which in turn made him feel like a jerk, but hell, that part of his anatomy had a mind of its own. Interestingly, it had been inactive for a very long time. It was good to know, unlike his career, his dick wasn’t dead.
She arrived on time, wearing her large trench coat and an even baggier blue sweater underneath. She certainly didn’t dress to impress, which was almost a sin in this city. Yet, she managed to be sexy nonetheless.
“Hello, Shyla,” he said, gesturing her inside.
“Nick,” she greeted.
She placed the paper bag on the table. Nick helped her with her coat and took her knapsack, and just like the night before, she seemed surprised by his small gesture. His hand twitched slightly, aching to tuck the loose strand of hair behind her ear, but he refrained.
She cupped her hand to her mouth, her grin transforming into a long yawn.
“Tired?”
“Very much so, and it’s your fault, Nick Dorsey.”
“My fault?”
She reached into the knapsack and pulled out his book. “I read this last night. I stayed up very late, but it was worth it. I loved it.”
Nick tried to subdue his grin, but couldn’t help it. The fact she liked something of his meant a great deal, especially coming from such a harsh critic.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” And relieved, too.
“It’s amazing, Nick.”
“Stop