I finally, finally, understand why all those girls were throwing themselves at him. Because they believe he can make them better, just by being around them.
And so for this second I can pretend that I am here on a date with Blake, that we aren’t both here because of some other opportunity, and that what we share is genuine and true.
It’s all a lie. And it’s so sad that I’m even pretending. But at least I’m not thinking about Alan. At least I’m for once not thinking it was all a mistake. At least I’m hopeful for the future because I know now that there is more for me – guys or otherwise. Especially everything otherwise.
After we get our beers, he raises his pint to me and looks me dead in the eye in such a way that reaches deep inside, disrupting something dormant.
“Here’s to The Heart Thief,” he says, even though we toasted over it the day we finished. “And to new endeavours. To the future.”
I purse my lips for a beat before clinking my glass against his, the thick white foam spilling over the edge. “Cheers.”
“Seven years bad sex,” Blake says before taking a sip.
“What?” I say, trying to wipe up the side of my glass with a napkin. “I looked you in the eye.”
“No, it’s seven years bad sex if you spill,” he explains. “But don’t worry, I can always bring you out of it.”
As always, super inappropriate. God, I hope I’m not starting to like it. Regardless, I take a swig of beer, staring at him unamused. “So, what is this new endeavour you’re proposing? We write short stories for a living?”
I’m completely joking but he tilts his head and displays his palms, like I’m totally right.
“What are you saying?” I prompt him.
“I had an idea a few days ago,” he says, clearing his throat and putting on his extra-serious face which involves a furrowed brow and piercing stare, like he should be roaming the moors yelling for Catherine. “I did a lot of research before I wanted to talk to you about it. Painful research. I think I may have spared you some of it. But I think we can make this work. I know we can. I just need you on board.”
“Blake, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He licks his lips for a moment. “Okay. Okay, but listen to me before you make a snap judgement. Hear me out, hear all of it. Got it?”
The movie Friends with Benefits is flashing through my mind. He’s not suggesting we have some sort of fuckboy/fuckgirl arrangement between us, is he?
I don’t even let myself think about it.
“Okay…”
“We work well together. Writing with you has not only been inspiring to my own work but it’s actually been a lot of fun. Who would have thought, right? Me, life of the party and you, girl who sits in the corner and makes snarky comments about people.”
“Blake,” I warn him, making the signal for him to hurry up.
“Anyway, you can’t deny we write well together. And that somehow we work well together too.”
“Most of the time.”
“Most of the time,” he concedes. “But what if I told you there was a way for the both of us to keep writing and make a hell of a lot of money.”
“I hate to break it to you, but The Heart Thief was a project. No one is going to pay for a novella about an affair, especially not one that so reeks of Creative Writing class. I know enough about the market to know that.”
He sits back in his chair, trying to move his face out of the ray of sun shooting through the patio. “Tell me what else you know about the market then.”
I exhale noisily and start flipping my coaster around. “Oh boy. Okay, well I’ve been subscribing to Writer’s Digest for a few years, I read Publisher’s Weekly. I know what sells and what doesn’t.”
“And what do you know about the indie market?”
I’m surprised to hear him bring that up. I wouldn’t think it would be on his radar, especially running a bookstore and all. “The indie market is all cheap romance and erotica.”
“Below you,” he says, more of a statement than a question.
“It just doesn’t interest me,” I tell him, trying not to sound like a snob. “I know what I want to write and unfortunately high fantasy doesn’t do well in self-publishing, so I have my sights on getting an agent and a publishing deal one day.”
“But what if you could make more money than that publishing deal and you could make it today?” he presses his finger into the table for emphasis. “What if you and I write together? Under a pen name.”
Though my first instinct is to just say no, I have to ask. “What would we write?”
“Erotic romance,” he says without missing a beat.
I stare at him askew, not sure I heard him right. “Um…”
“Listen,” he says. “The writers who are doing it are making a ton of money.”
“They’re also sell-outs.”
“So? Maybe they have bills to pay, mouths to feed. You think it’s so bad to want to make money? Greed is good, Amanda. Greed is good.”
“That phrase doesn’t really work with a British accent.”
“And we wouldn’t be selling out, per se. We can write well but we’re both beginners, really. It would be good practice, a way to get a foot in the door. We write what sells, what the masses want, need, crave, and then when we have their attention, then we can publish what we really want.”