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“You can’t fool me, brostato. I’m your best friend. I know you as well as I know the hairs on my balls.” I’ve never been able to fool Nick. Doesn’t mean I want to discuss my shortcomings.

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Fair enough.” He nods and scratches the back of his head. He studies me again, quickly, and then winks. “When you’re done being a baby girl, give me a call.”

Just before he shuts the door, I catch it. “Hey Nick?”

“Yeah?”

I chew on my lip for a moment, swallow down my pride, and say, “Tell Becca thanks for letting me borrow you all week. And, uh…thanks for the offer too.”

He just smiles.

“Becca didn’t let you borrow me. Wash those sheets, bro.”
Damn it.

And then I’m alone.

I run my hands through my hair and look at Gus, who is flopped out next to me. “I really fucked up, Gus.”

He perks his head up a bit and then sets it down.

“You don’t think I’m an asshole, do you?”

He huffs, which I take to mean a decided
no
.

“She thinks I’m an asshole.”

Gus rolls over and bares his belly at me. I sigh and lean down to pet him. It’s not like I could get any groundbreaking, earth-shattering advice from a dog, anyway. Deep down, I knew there was only one way to fix this.

And dammit, I would fix it.

At least, I would corner her and apologize. Apologies aren’t my thing, but after tonight, it’s time to make them A Thing. She deserves it. Frankly, she deserves a hell of a lot better than me. But I’m rapidly deciding I’m selfish enough to want her more than I want her to do better.

I climb into bed with resolve. I’m going to get her back. I’m going to woo her. I’m going to prove to her I’m not the deadbeat dino she thinks I am. I’m a man, a good one—well, a decent one at least—worthy of her time.

I toss and turn all night, scribbling down ideas in my trusty notebook. The sun shines in my face before I decide what I’ve got to do. I’ve got to show her I’m serious. I’ve got to show her she’s amazing and worthy of being adored and loved. That I am the man to adore and love her.

Because I super do.

I love her.

I, Joe McCoy, am in love with Miranda Rose, and I’m not hiding it deep inside like a shameful secret anymore.

I don’t deserve her. But I want her. I want her more than anything else in this world. I want her more than foreign rights. I want her more than bestseller lists. I want her more than I want club seats to the Royals.

That’s a
lot
, by the way.

Two sleepless days pass, full of pacing and obnoxiously long walks with Gus and even longer stretches with my notebook. It takes several more days to execute my plan, because it’s got to be perfect. I have one shot to make this right, and it has to be done exactly.

I don’t think I can handle another rejection. I don’t think I can handle any more hatred in her eyes.

“All right, stalker. Ready for the address?” Spence answers the phone.

“Who said that’s what I was calling about?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Spence laughs. “I pulled her over the other night. She’s cute. I mean, she was crying and snotty and dressed as one of your characters, but cute beneath all that.”

“Oy vey,” I mutter. That must have actually been her worst night ever. “All right, hit me with her address. You didn’t ticket her, did you?”

* * *

L
ater
, I stare at my chicken-scratch handwriting, plan running through my head. It’s going to take a lot of nerve to pull this off, but she’s worth it. She’s all I can think about, all I can dream about, all I can jerk off to. She’s become my entire world, and I need her in it or I’ll die.

Joe McCoy, Drama Queen.

Now, I can only pray to the old gods and the new that this display of affection will be enough. I can only pray she’ll open the door and hear me out.

Because if she won’t, she’ll be writing “The End” on my heart.

W
indows down
, Beyoncé blaring, I feel better than I have all week. And the treasure in my passenger seat brings me unbelievable joy. I really am an amazing author, harnessing the emotional trauma of my life and turning it into something incredible. Something I’m proud of. Something I can’t wait to share.

The new book has been vetted by everyone I care about. Evelyn and Vanessa gave it two big thumbs up, and I made Jane spew wine all over her Kindle, so I am feeling seriously good about all of this.

I’m so proud of myself. I’m proud of how well I bounced back. I’m proud of how well I write. I’m proud of how seriously I take my career. Last week’s humiliation was just a blip, an accidental nightmare that came to an end and didn’t ruin my life the way I thought it would in the midst of all the turmoil. I’m a badass and I
feel
it. Nothing can rain on my parade.

Nothing, that is, except the thing waiting on my doorstep.

Rather, the
person
waiting on my doorstep.

Whatwhat
what
? I told him never to speak to me again. He’s
supposed
to be nowhere near me ever again. And. And! Most importantly! I never ever gave him my address.

Not only is he a first-class asshole, he’s a total stalker. A sexy stalker, but a stalker nonetheless. Although since his cop friend gave me a message for him, I have a pretty good guess where he got his information. I shake him off and hold my head high, brushing past him to get to my door.

“What do you want?” I hiss, giving him my best “fuck off” glare.

But do you remember how I’m a liar?

Truth be told, I’m super ready to make up. This last weekend helped me through it, let me look at things more objectively, and I’d love to hear an apology. Actually that’s what I really want, more than anything. But I don’t want him to
know
that I’m willing to hear him out. He’s got to freaking work for it. Hard. I narrow my eyes at him and cross my arms. I’m a badass and he can’t hurt me again.

“I have a present for you.”

There’s that smile again, the one that melts my panties. He looks suspiciously normal, like the Asshole was washed off him. He actually looks sexier like this, which is odd. Usually, I like that whiff of arrogance about him. But here he looks…normal. Apologetic? Hopeful? There’s something shining around him that I can’t name.

“I guess I can allow a present,” I say. And then I add, so he doesn’t get cocky, “If it doesn’t suck.”

He pulls something wrapped from behind his back. It’s literally wrapped up in brown paper and tied up with strings. I wonder if it will contain all my favorite things. That song is going to be in my head all night.

I stifle a nervous giggle and open it slowly, savoring his twitching. I’m almost terrified to open it, but I can’t really place why. Maybe I’m not really ready to forgive him? Maybe I just don’t want this to be over, because the emotions fueled by the entire debacle have created so much positive energy in my life.

When I see it, I start laughing. It starts small, and then it grows until I’m hiccupping and wiping tears from my eyes. He looks confused and startled. Good. He needs a little fear in his life.

“What? What’s so funny?” Joe looks mildly panicked. It’s adorable, and the ice around my heart thaws as I weigh his expression and the gift in my hand.

I dive into the bag I’m carrying back from the printers and pull out the thing I’m most proud of. A book. A book just like he gave me. I hand it to him, the ice around my heart, thin as it is, melting into heart-shaped puddles.

“
Claimed by Conifers
?” Joe asks, in a voice of pure wonder. He flips through it, jaw hanging open. I don’t even feel nervous, I realize. Just proud. “You wrote me a bizzaro-porn short? Under the name Bambi Fauna?”

I hold up the book he gifted me. “And you wrote me a serious novel? About a man and a woman? Who are both alive? And who are both human? Under the name Joe McCoy?”

It hits me this is the first time I’ve seen his real name anywhere. McCoy suits him.

We stand there awkwardly, holding our respective gifts. It didn’t really sink in until now that I wrote the book
for him
. Okay, it was largely for me. It was mostly for me. But there is a decent-sized chunk of it that was written for him, too. Maybe to prove to him that I could do it. Or to prove to him that he couldn’t break me.

But it strikes me now, in this moment, that it was a weird love letter to him. Even if he sucked—and he did—and even if he wrecked me, he taught me amazing things. I knew I was doing this for him, I just didn’t fully embrace the extent of how much. Or fully embrace
why
I was doing it.

Okay, that’s a total lie. I’m really going to work on honesty next week.

I knew I’d been in love with him from the moment we hate-banged in the conference room. All the back and forth, all the warring, all the tears, were because my heart anchored itself to his when I didn’t understand why. But I got it, as the week went on. I understood it.

We are like two kindred souls, like two puzzle pieces of creativity, who are drawn to each other like moths to flame. We didn’t understand it, we fought it, but in the end, we ended up here. Face-to-face, gifts in hand. Gifts that bared our souls to one another. Gifts that spoke louder than we ever could because of petty pride.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I never stopped—”

We both laugh awkwardly, standing there, staring at one another.

“You first,” I say. Mostly because I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust myself not to break down and confess my feelings and throw myself at him. Because he does still owe me an apology, even if I came to understand what happened. I would have done the same thing. That was a hard pill to swallow, but I suffered through it and came out stronger in the end. Time to see if he did the same thing.

“I am the biggest asshole on the planet,” Joe McCoy says.

Miranda McCoy would be a good name,
I idly muse.

“What I did was petty and mean and stupid. If I could rewind time and take it all back, I would do it in a heartbeat. Quicker than a heartbeat. I’d do it as fast as a hummingbird flaps its wings. You didn’t deserve any of that, Miranda. No matter how awful we were to one another. You’re brilliant and your book deserved the award. I read it, you know. I spent an entire afternoon gobbling up your book. It’s as smart and sexy as you are.”

I feel myself blushing, so I look away, but his gaze burns into me. He read my
book
?

“You are the perfect woman, you know that? You’re smart, funny, incredibly sexy, and so dedicated to your craft. I’m in awe of the power you possess over the written language. Over your body. Over your
mind
. Everything about you arouses me. And I screwed it all up because of stupid pride. I’m an idiot, the biggest of them all, and I know I don’t deserve someone as incredible as you.

“But I can’t get you out of my head. You’re all I think about. If you were a song, you’d be the one I play on repeat. If you were a movie, you’d be the one I watch on bad days. If you were a sports team, you’d be the Royals. Because you’re royalty.”

“I—” But he isn’t done. He actually pulls out his notebook to continue, and my god, he has actually planned this speech. Raptors, I’m smitten.

“If you were a weather pattern, you’d be sunny and cloudless. The perfect day. Being with you is like drinking a cold beer on the beach. Being with you is like walking my dog in the rain and laughing all the way through it. Being with you is like being with my best friends, Miranda. You make the days less tedious. You make the sun come out. You make me want to write books about real people who are really in love, because you unlock those emotions in me.”

I swallow hard. “Are you saying…?” I can’t even finish the thought.

“I’m saying that I love the shit out of you.” Oh, sweet romance.

“I’m saying I’m yours. I’m saying even if you never want to see me again, and god knows I’d deserve it, I would gladly let you walk all over me in heels just to be near you one more time.”

His words move through me, and I feel tears again. I swallow them down and manage, “And to think I called you a hack writer.”

We stand there, locked in a heated gaze, until he finally, finally closes the gap between us and presses his lips to mine. The last week falls away. The last month falls away. The perfect, sunny day falls away until there is nothing left but me and Joe and our bodies speaking a kind of love you can never express with words, no matter how many bestsellers you write.

“Does this mean you forgive me?” he whispers against my lips.

“Oh, you silly, silly boy,” I whisper back and kiss him again. “You’ve been forgiven.”

He picks me up and spins me around. We laugh and giggle and kiss and stare longingly at each other. I can feel the tightness in his jeans and the answering heat in my pants. I can feel my heart growing infinite sizes larger, beating out a love song just for him. I can feel the world righting itself in indescribable ways.

“Want to go sell some books?” I ask coyly.

“I thought you’d never ask.” This is the hottest moment we’ve ever shared. Mutual uploads, baby.

We dive into my house and set up our laptops. It takes ten minutes and a lot of smack talk, but our newest, most soul-baring books are uploaded onto Amazon. I’ve never felt more proud. I’ve never felt more empowered. I’ve never felt happier to upload a book with someone beside me. Writing is such a lonely job. To do it with someone so…important…feels incredible.

We celebrate with a kiss that deepens as soon as our tongues touch. We fall onto the couch, hands roaming, bodies arching. For once, we are hungry for each other without pretense. There is no hate, no kink, no unbridled and vile emotions pushing us together.

“Not here,” he pants in my ear, strain evident in his voice.

He picks me up in one fluid motion and carries me to my bed. Our clothes strip off, our hands find all of the hot spots, and I’m on the verge of an orgasm before we’re even naked. He presses me into the bed, holds me tight, and slides into me gently. I wrap my legs around his waist and we move together, slowly, our lips never leaving one another’s.

His head comes to rest on my shoulder, and I dig my nails into his back and shoulders. His groans vibrate all the way down to my swollen and wanting clit, stealing my breath. He rolls us over so I’m on top riding him. With a free hand, he grasps my right breast and lavishes his tongue across my nipple. I moan in response, and he squeezes me tighter.

I press my forehead to his as we move, eyes trained on one another. I feel exposed and raw, but in a safe way. In an erotic way. In a way that screams it was meant to be. In those moments, between panting and moaning, between licking and sucking, it feels as if my soul found its home. This is where I belong, wrapped up in Joe’s arms, feeling his length inside me, merging our souls together. Everything from the past melts away and leaves me feeling shiny and new. Being with him, I feel sexy, empowered. Being with him, I feel complete.

“Fuck, I love you,” he moans before flipping me back under him, and I almost come at his words.

I could live in this very moment forever.

Locked together, we gently rock each other to orgasm, and it’s as if the world explodes with color. We come together, crying out in one another’s ears, and it’s the most intimate I have ever felt with anyone.

Joe kisses me deeply and rubs his nose against mine. He hasn’t pulled out yet, and I don’t want him to. I don’t want to lose this feeling of intimacy and closeness.

“I will never get enough of your body,” he murmurs. “I will never get enough of being with you, like this.”

His words break my heart, but like, in a good way, and I kiss him back. “I would be okay staying like this forever.”

“Forever is a long time.”

“Creative license.”

He laughs and it’s beautiful. Slowly, he pulls out of me and slides me next to him. He runs his hands down the length of my body, and I shiver at his touch. He presses his lips to my shoulder. “I could make you shiver forever. It is my namesake, after all.”

“You dog.”

“You love it.”

I roll to face him. “I never knew missionary could be so…intense.”

“Love will do that to you.”

“I never said I loved you.”

He pulls back and stares at me seriously, intently. “You don’t have to. I already know.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

“Don’t hold your breath for me to say it.”

“I already heard you loud and clear.”

“You wish,” I tease, nibbling on the tip of his nose. “You know, hot as that was, I think I prefer our kinky sex better.”

Joe groans and presses himself against me, biting my collarbone. “I’m gonna marry the shit out of you, you know.”

Well, no one can accuse Joe McCoy of doing anything by half.

We clean up and venture into the kitchen, looking for sustenance before our next, hopefully more adventurous, round in the bedroom. I pull out a carton of ice cream and two beers stashed away for special occasions. This is about as special as it can get. Joe is looking at something on his phone, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.

“Anything interesting?” I wrap my arms around his waist and peek over his shoulder. “Holy shit. Is that…?”

“Your latest release cracked the Top 100!” Joe wraps an arm around me and kisses my forehead. “Not that I’m surprised. I told you, I devoured it in a day.”

“Seriously?” I squeal, grabbing the phone to get a better look. “I never crack the Top 100!”

Well holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. There I am at number two. And right next to me is Charlie Shivers’ latest Furry-porn, at number three. Not only did I crack the Top 100, I’m freaking
number two
. I feel like dying. I feel like flying. I do the world’s dumbest dance, squealing around my kitchen. Joe grabs me and spins me around, kissing me.

“Are you mad that I’m that high up, even though I’m not a real writer?” Joe asks with a wink.

“Not anymore.” I wink back coyly. “I finally topped you. All is right in the world.”