Mister Romance Amelia Simone (english books to improve english txt) 📖

only had she responded, but she’d remembered it was my birthday from my grilled cheese post. Riding high on my social success, I navigated to the website for the pole dancing studio. My worries about how silly I’d feel dancing in a roomful of strangers melted at the triumph from the brave steps I’d already taken. A few clicks later I was enrolled in the upcoming weekend’s intro class.

Personal growth, here I come.

Chapter 3 - Chase

Now, kiss. No, that’s not right. It’s too early to kiss. Maybe my main characters, Maggie and Reed, needed to eat something. I rubbed at the growl that emanated from my own stomach. Maybe I needed to eat something. Fictional characters didn’t really need food.

I’d been immersed in my latest manuscript all day, refining the bachelor auction scene, and I was pretty sure I hadn’t eaten since the previous night. Maybe the day before? Cooking something awesome for myself at least once per week helped compensate for the days I forgot to eat altogether or only managed to eat a few slices of toast. Toast. Sure. ‘Cause I was healthy like that. The orange Cheeto dust mocking me from the crevices of my keyboard told a different story. One never to be spoken of. Writing was a capricious beast, and I had learned the hard way that if I broke my flow to eat, I could lose my train of thought and never find it again.

Writing my latest book had been going well; a little too well if my stomach rumblings were any indication. I’d been freelance editing since graduating college with an English degree and writing indie romance full-time under the pen name Virginia Rothman for about ten years, with some success. It helped that a small trust from my grandparents gave me a cushion to get started. I still had some regular editing clients but devoted most of my creative efforts to romance. It was freeing to quit writing what I thought I should enjoy and embrace the genre I’d always loved reading. Even if I kept it mostly secret.

I stretched in my office chair and spun around to appreciate the view of the Puget Sound from my apartment window. I was surprised to find waning sunlight streaming in as the last rays dipped below the Olympic mountains. My writing binges typically lasted a full two days, not a measly one and a half. I must be slipping. A glance at my phone alerted me to three missed text messages.

Matteo: Hey, we still hanging out tonight? 8 at your place?

Jimmy: Have you eaten, or shall I pick up a pizza for tonight?

Jimmy: You’re not responding. Pizza it is.

I smiled. Jimmy knew me too well. He was the only one of my friends who knew the truth behind my career choice. His acceptance had come with merciless teasing about my lack of romantic game in real life, but that was Jimmy. Matteo and some of the other guys I’d met after high school thought I was a freelance editor full-time. Which I was ... but I also wrote my own books. I didn’t know why I didn’t tell them the truth; we had all matured past the point where they’d think the words “breast” and “cock” were funny. Then again, they knew how little actual experience I had with the fairer sex, so they’d think it was hilarious that I was choreographing love scenes and trying to bring them to life on page. My box of plotting Barbies needed to stay hidden under my bed.

I didn’t need the high school ridicule for reading romance resuscitated. “Chase Hoffman the Loverman” was dead. It was a stupid nickname, but the ones that stuck usually were. “Loverman” had actually been one of the kinder ones. Writing made me vulnerable enough and was part of the reason I used a pen name. I didn’t need old high school tormentors tracking down my books and spamming the reviews. No need to unearth any ghosts of nicknames past.

My female pen name was how I blended. It kept me from being a curiosity or a freak. Anonymity made a fantastic security blanket. I was content to fade into the background and let my writing speak for itself. It was much easier to be myself and write what was in my heart when I could keep my life private. Safe.

Hiding behind a pen name gave me a shot of confidence in my early writing career. Writing about female desire was foreign territory in a lot of ways, and I didn’t want to expose myself to extra scrutiny and ridicule as a male author. I knew of several men who wrote popular male/male romance but in male/female romances, men were more likely to be celebrated as models on the cover rather than as the author. It didn’t help that Google considered the most famous male ‘romance’ author one I categorized as fauxmance. The death of a main character or leaving out a happily-ever-after might make for a gripping love story, but the algorithm needed work. Readers demanded and deserved a happily-ever-after.

I was shaken from my reverie by my doorbell. Crap. Matteo and Jimmy were here already. I glanced around my apartment and ran a hand through my shaggy blond hair. I needed a haircut. Again. My apartment was a mess, but they wouldn’t mind. The guys were used to my clutter when I was on deadline. Also, when I wasn’t on deadline. Mostly, the disorder was a sign I was breathing.

I shuffled to the door in my jeans and T-shirt, glad I’d at least remembered to get dressed today. Giving my armpits a sniff, I was thankful that my shower regimen was still on track. I’d learned the hard way to set a daily alarm for that one. No one wants to hang out with a stinky author.

Throwing open the door, I was greeted by the sweet, sweet scent of pepperoni, mushrooms, and sausage. Jimmy was one of my closest friends for a