Or maybe, he could be a love interest for Mia.
Grace rolled her eyes at herself. Could she be more desperate? It was bad enough she’d totally put her new web designer in her book, but to make him her heroine’s love interest was going a bit overboard. If she wanted to keep him in there at all, she was going to have to change some of the details. The smile was an especially huge giveaway. Still, Ryan made an excellent model, and Mia did deserve a man. This was going to be her third book and maybe it was time for Mia to meet someone. Readers seemed to like a bit of romance.
Her old leather office chair squeaked as she sat back in it, her feet up on the desk. A love interest would definitely open the series to more people, lend it some new marketability. That was the name of the game after all. She had a four-book deal with advances and publisher expectations. She had to make it good, make it readable and liked. She also really needed the money. She wasn’t going to try any gimmick just to sell books, but over the span of four novels, Mia couldn’t remain stagnant. That would be dreadfully boring. She needed to have a life in the town. Meeting someone was the next logical step in a normal life. Seth would enrich the story. He was going to have to stick around for a while.
Grace sighed. Not that she could write from experience or anything. Her own life was sorely lacking in the love interest department. Ryan Granger was an attractive man. And if she read the signs right, kind of interested. She couldn’t believe she’d flirted with him the way she had. But he’d flirted back. No woman could pass up that kind of encouragement. Her cheeks heated as she recalled his smile, the way his gaze fixed on her, the appreciative gleam in his eyes. It was unfortunate that they met now. She had no time for distractions.
Which reminded her—she had a meeting with him on Wednesday. She needed to make that list of “fun extras” for him. She sat up, opened her calendar, and made a note to do it tomorrow. She ran her fingers lightly over the keyboard, her thoughts drifting back to her web designer. She was really looking forward to seeing him again. More than she should be. He was a rough sort, the tight, faded jeans, the black eye, the rakish grin. He knew he was attractive too and had no problem flaunting it. His butt had been stupendous in those jeans. She’d bet he’d look good in leather.
Hmm, leather. Leather jacket, leather chaps…
Inspiration slapped her across the face. She sat up, her fingers flying over the keyboard, busting out sixty words a minute. She deleted Seth’s original introduction, rewrote his entire entrance. A motorcycle. Ryan—Seth—needed to have a motorcycle. What kind of motorcycle? She paused, her hands hovering over the keys. She didn’t know anything about motorcycles. It had to be sexy, all chrome and black. She was going to have to ask on Twitter for suggestions. Maybe she should run a contest. Give away a book and allow the winner to decide which bike Ryan—Seth—gets to ride. She scribbled a note in the notebook she kept beside the computer, envisioning how she would promote it, getting caught up in the details.
“Okay, stop,” she said out loud. Write now, worry about the promo later. She turned her attention back to her work.
Mia frowned at the unfamiliar noise outside the B&B. She peeked through the white lace curtains framing the inn’s bay window and watched a man in leather ride by on a (MOTORCYCLE). He parked the bike a few feet away from the entrance, and when he lifted off his helmet, Mia gasped. He was devastatingly handsome, with a thick stock of unruly dark hair, a bold nose, and the kind of lips that could make a woman think about wicked, wicked things. His muscular thighs flexed as he dismounted the bike, and her heartbeat galloped, the blood racing through her veins suddenly a whole lot warmer.
Grace cocked her head to the side, smiling as she read over what she’d written. It was amazing how easy the words came when she was writing about Seth. She was a slow writer by nature and often struggled over every word, but his appearance seemed to flow with a rhythm all on its own. And it was fun writing about him—fun like it had been in the beginning, before she was caught up in word counts and deadlines and marketing strategies. Writing about him brought back the pure joy of simply writing. It was a welcome change—one she hadn’t even realized she’d been missing.
She went back to work, the scene playing out in her head as she typed. Seth crossing the spacious front porch, the chime of the bell as he opened the door, the fluttering of Mia’s stomach when he approached the reception desk. She gave Mia the warmth she had felt in her own chest when Ryan first smiled at her, that first pulse of instant attraction. Their handshake went on a little longer than normal, and Mia’s breath caught as the heat of his palm warmed hers, a wild flush on her cheeks. It was all so clear in her mind, and the words flowed effortlessly, the tension between Mia and Seth building with every new paragraph.
Her phone buzzed, rudely breaking the spell, and Grace lunged for it, her heart thudding in her ears. There was time when she’d keep her phone off for days, lost in the worlds of her own creation, but now the phone was never far from her hand and every buzz made her cringe and jump. A knot formed in her stomach when she saw who was calling, the dread and fear and worry making her physically ill. She slid the bar across the screen and braced herself for whatever bad news the voice on the other end would deliver. “Hello?”
“Ms. Betancourt?” a coolly professional female voice asked.
Grace closed her eyes. Please don’t be bad. “Yes?”
“This is Andrea Wilcox from Westview Gardens. Your father has had a very minor accident.”
Her stomach lurched, and she clenched her teeth. This could be the nightmare she was always dreading. “Is he hurt?”
“No, not badly. He bumped his head on the way to the bathroom, and he is understandably upset. I’m sure he’d like to see you.” The woman paused. “Of course we were concerned by this incident and we ran some tests. Before you visit him, we’d like to speak with you about altering his level of care. Would you mind stopping by the administrative building when you arrive?”
Grace knew all too well that “altering his level of care” was fancy code for upping the bill. This was the second time since her father had been admitted to the long-term care facility that they’d needed to alter his level of care. Alzheimer's had taken his memory and now it seemed to be taking his basic motor skills as well. When she’d admitted him, she’d wanted to believe they would be able to perform some kind of miracle, maybe help slow down the progression of the disease. Westview Gardens was famous for their recuperative therapies, their brochures boasting they were voted the best residential care facility in the country for five years in a row. If there was any hope for him, it was to be found there. Of course, everything had a price, and in this case, a price no health insurance plan was ever going to pay.
She took a deep breath and rubbed her hand over her forehead in an attempt to soothe away some of the tension. It didn’t work, but it was a nice try. Nowadays, she was made of tension. She glanced at the clock on her computer. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“That’s excellent,” Andrea Wilcox said. “We’ll look forward to your arrival.”
Grace ended the call and instantly went online to the largest car sharing site to see if they had a vehicle free. If not, she’d try somewhere else. She had memberships with all the services and rental agencies. This was not the first phone call she’d received, and she’d learned the hard way that relying on mass transit to get out to Long Island on a moment’s notice was not the way to go. With delays and transfers, it had taken her three hours one day to get to her father’s side. That was totally unacceptable.
She had luck on her first