Broken Read Free

discovered I was an epic failure. Over the last few months, Angie had given me books by authors she had signed to the agency, and they were good, really good. The language was vastly different and being proper books, not short stories, they had depth and a twist and a conclusion.
    I had a lot of work ahead of me to get to their level. Still, Angie had faith that I could do it, and that gave me the confidence to at least try. She’d assured me that to be able to write the short stories I had written in college purely from imagination took a natural talent that couldn’t be learned. You either had it in you or you didn’t. I just prayed that I could dig deep enough to find it again.
      
    The sun was not yet creeping over the horizon when I awoke the next morning. I stretched my arms above my head briefly, before snuggling back into the warm-as-toast quilt. I could stay here all day, but I wasn’t in the Hamptons on vacation. I was here to work.
    After reading the collection of short stories well into the night, I had come to the conclusion that they were good…as a means to light the fire.
    My stories had been written partially as a joke, and partially as an aide to get nerdy guys around campus laid. They were filled with cheesy romance, where creative names had been used for a man’s dangly bits, and the heroine had heaving mounds, and swooned after a passionate first kiss, whereupon she had to be scooped up and carried to the bedroom.
    My romance was over the top compared to stories of today. A subtle breeze would blow raven locks, and lips were full and pouty—and that was just on the men. Shirts were unbuttoned to the waist and gold chains were rife, with names like Fabio and Eduardo paired with Scarlett and Chastity.
    But no one fell in love with a lothario named Roberto anymore. They wanted real men, with real issues that could be overcome when the right woman crossed their path. Women didn’t swoon anymore or faint at a kiss either—they got wet and horny, and wanted the man as much as he wanted her. My stories had been written as a bit of fun at the time, and they wouldn’t cut it these days.
    I needed a plan. I had eight weeks to deliver a manuscript that Angie could pitch, that wouldn’t embarrass her, or me. To help focus my thoughts, I decided to go for a quick walk to the rocks I could see in the distance, hoping that the fresh air would assist me. I quickly showered and dressed, then grabbed a notepad and pen before stepping outside. The air was icy, biting at my cheeks until I hunkered into my warm coat, pulling the lapels around my neck and halfway up my face.
    The rocks were closer than I’d realized, or maybe I was just scurrying quickly because of the cold. I found a sheltered spot with the perfect flat rock to sit on, and perched out of the wind as best I could.
    I needed to outline my story and decide on the characters. It would be a boy-meets-girl romance, but just what type of boy and girl was yet to be determined. To make it easier, I had been contemplating basing my main male lead on Charles. Not Charles’s stuffiness, but his looks. He was tall and lean with perfect blond hair and a whiter-than-white smile. Surely that would appeal to readers, and I’d lived with him for so long that his mannerisms were locked into my memory for life. Looking along the deserted beach, I debated using this location as the setting for the novel. Maybe a summer romance could work, or a traveler passing through with a secret that would eventually be revealed.
    Loud, excited barks drew my attention along the sand in the direction I had just walked. Smiling, I watched as Max galloped into the shallow water, chasing a tennis ball, fetching it, and taking it back to what looked to be quite a handsome man; then the process was repeated over again. Max’s owner seemed to be enjoying the game as much as Max himself, laughing and chasing his canine companion every time the ball was returned. By this time, Max was