She’s holding out for a happy ever after.
I know where to find my happily ever after—between the pages of a romance novel. It’s why I sell books, why I blog about them, and why I’ll never get disappointed by love.So what if my brother’s best friend from high school is now a bestselling author? Or that he just blew back into town on a Harley, filling out a pair of jeans like he never did before? Or that he’s agreed to do a signing at my bookstore on such short notice? Because despite all his adoring female fans, I kind of hated his book.
The last time I saw Annie Denning, she was a senior in high school, three years older than me and way out of my league.
Now I’m her last-minute date to a wedding, and what started as a night of pure fun has turned into something more real than either of us anticipated.
Annie is my muse. When I’m with her, my writer’s block fades away, and the words finally flow.
The only problem? She wants the fairy tale—her very own happily ever after—and anyone who’s read my book knows the truth. I just don’t believe they exist.
She took a step closer, and he inhaled the warm scent of vanilla and, maybe, a hint of cinnamon? He’d been too caught up in the moment to notice before. But now he began to feel drunk, wondering if one glass of wine could knock him on his ass. But he knew it couldn’t have. It was this woman.
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
“Jesus you smell good, Annie.”
She leaned closer. Because apparently she was trying to kill him.
“What would the line be—if you wrote it in your book? How would you describe my scent?”
Uh, he could describe the agony of the erection straining against his pants, but somehow he thought she wouldn’t appreciate that.
Christ. Words. She wanted words, now? After he told her he was blocked? But he had to prove his plan would work, that they could use this evening—and each other—to their advantage and neither of them be worse for the wear.
Fine. Words. The girl wanted words, so he would deliver. “He grew drunk,” Wes said. “Drunk on the nearness of her, on the warm, sweet scent of home. Because that’s what she was to him. She was home. And until he kissed her, he hadn’t known what that meant. Home wasn’t a place. It was a state of mind. It was her, the intoxicating scent of her skin, and his lips pressed against it.”
He hadn’t realized until he spoke the last of it that his eyes were closed. Maybe hers were, too, because she wasn’t saying anything. All he heard was her sharp, shallow breaths. All he felt was his forehead pressed to hers.
How the hell did they get here?
“I think your writer’s block might be cured,” she whispered. “That was way more romantic than an ice sculpture.”
Wes laughed softly. “I don’t write romance,” he said.
“Whatever,” she countered, but she was still smiling.
“How about your ex situation? That cured yet, or do we want to give them more of a show?”
She cleared her throat. “I think the jury’s still out.”
Okay. They were on the same page—so to speak. He wanted this night, whatever ended up happening, and Annie seemed on the verge of jumping off this cliff with him.
He straightened and took a step back so his eyes could find hers. She chewed her bottom lip.
“One night, Annie. Whatever you want out of this evening, I’m your guy. And when we go home tonight—”
“Tomorrow,” she said, and Wes’s brows drew together. “When we go home—tomorrow…”
About the Author
AJ Pine writes stories to break readers’ hearts, but don’t worry—she’ll mend them with a happily ever after. As an English teacher and a librarian, AJ has always surrounded herself with books. All her favorites have one big commonality–romance. Naturally, her books have the same. When she’s not writing, she’s of course reading. Then there’s online shopping (everything from groceries to shoes) and, of course, a tiny bit of TV where she nourishes her undying love of vampires and superheroes. And in the midst of all of this, you’ll also find her hanging with her family in the Chicago burbs.