So. Long(40)

Let’s see what he has to say about himself.

The About Me page takes a few seconds to load. I tap trembling fingers alongside the mouse. After a minute, I yank them into my lap.

No reason to be so excited, or nervous, or whatever this is.

He’s just a guy.

Granted, he’s a gorgeous guy who is possibly blind, because he did email me. And sadly, this guy’s way out of my league. Light years out of it.

Why on Earth did he contact me?

Finally, his About Me page loads, but there isn’t much to it.

This man doesn’t have the tools to write the perfect romance, but I’d like to try. Help me find the right words, and I’ll help you find yours.

I catch my breath as my heart melts all the way to my feet.

His words. It’s like…like they were written just for me.

I stare at the screen, reading and re-reading the few words he used to describe himself again and again.

Warmth curls into my soul from the screen and spreads to my fingers.

Fuck it. Outta my league or not, I’ll reply to his last email.

I can see if he’s a real guy or some made-up figment of my imagination—or someone else’s.

Aw. That’s nice. Thank you.

So, what do you do for a living? I’m an author.

It takes fewer than two minutes for his reply to come back.

I own a very small construction and re-model company.

Owns his own company? Small or not, that’s got to be a positive, right?

We email a few more times.

I learn that he’s just moved to his new home a few weeks ago. Apparently, he likes dogs and cats. Which is nice, since I have a kitten—a terrorist of a feline, perhaps, but still a cat.

A lot of men don’t like cats. Matt didn’t like cats. Fuck Matt. I don’t even want to think about what Matt did or didn’t like. His likes and dislikes are now irrelevant.

A few more emails go back and forth.

What kind of books do you write?

My stomach sinks.

Fuck.

Do I tell him all of it? That I’m a smut writer? That I spin dirty tales of sexy couples who can’t keep their hands off each other?

Or do I just give him the pretty version I usually share with most people, like my mom’s church group and Clarissa’s teachers or her friends’ parents?

I write romance—love stories. I know, I know…it may seem cliché, but readers like it, and so do I.

There. If he doesn’t like the fact that I write romance, then fuck him too.

So what if I didn’t give him full disclosure? I can always expand on it later, right? It’s not lying, after all. My books are categorized that way—officially.

His answer comes back fast.

Cool job. You must have a great imagination.

I suppose so. ;)

So, can I ask you a question without offending you?

Go ahead. I’m super hard to offend…on purpose. I think people are much too easily upset. Ask me pretty much anything, but be prepared for the bald truth.

Okay, then. We’ll see if he can handle Kelsey—full-tilt.

If not, he’s probably not the guy for me anyway, right? That’s the whole point of this online thing—to find a guy who will like me for me and not waste my time on a bunch of dates with guys who want something else. Isn’t it?

Don’t worry. I can handle anything you dish out, beautiful. My mom used to read some pretty racy romance novels…exactly how good is your imagination?

Shit.

Now I have to put up or shut up.

Okay. You asked for it, buddy.

I have a very good imagination. I describe things in vivid, full-color detail, using all the real words.

My tummy squeezes as I hit send.

He might decide he doesn’t want a woman who writes smutty fiction for horny women. We’ll see if I lose him on this one.

Ha! All the real words, eh? So, porn for the ladies?

I smile. Maybe he can handle the truth.

Ha, ha, ha. Not exactly pornography. My novels do have plots and character arcs and all the things real books have, but pornos lack.

Porn flicks have plots.

A sexy librarian showing up to deliver pizza to a gang of barely legal blondes when suddenly a girl-on-girl orgy breaks out is not a plot.

Okay. You got me on that one. Show me something you’ve written…give me a few lines.

I bite my lip.

Do I dare? I don’t even know this guy.

A wicked, little voice in the recesses of my mind says, “Exactly.”

I pull up one of my contemporary novels from a couple of years ago and pick one of the racier bits.

His hand slips behind her knee and pulls her leg up over his hip. He pushes her back hard against the wall, his cock ramming deeper into her pussy. Over and over. Harder and harder. Until she’s dripping and screaming for release.

I hit send.

Immediately, regret swamps me.

I wring my fingers into knots.

Oh, Lord. That’s it.