The guy was here again.
The gorgeous one with all the muscles and the glasses.
He was hard to miss, since most guys at my local library branch were either teenagers or octogenarians…but I also might have been looking for him.
I might have started coming to the library every morning to write instead of my usual once or twice a week. Well, to write, and in hopes of getting a glimpse of him and all his pretty muscles.
Not that I was a weirdo stalker or anything. I didn’t follow him out of the library to see what kind of car he drove. Or try to figure out what books he was reading. That would be creepy.
No, I just…looked.
I swallowed a wistful sigh. He was yummy. Inspirationally, mouthwateringly, motivationally yummy.
A lightbulb flickered.
My latest book had stalled. I felt like I was trudging through a sticky mire of useless words. The blinking cursor taunted me with its wink-wink-wink, as if with each flash it was poking me. “You suck. You suck. You suck.”
A word of warning to my future self: shaking the computer didn’t work. And drinking a gallon of coffee might be an even worse choice. In fact, all that caffeine made me twitch in time to the vicious jibes of my cursor.
I had a schedule, and no words were coming. My outline was lame. My hero unfun. What was worse, even I didn’t want to do my character. If I didn’t want to get cuffed, spanked, and fucked by the guy, why bother writing about him at all? Because if I didn’t want him, no one reading the damn book would either.
Unlike my library hottie.
Who wouldn’t want to read about him?
And that was when not just a lightbulb but stadium lighting went off in my head.
My nerdy hottie was a man born to be a romance hero.
I could make that happen.
The hero in my book morphed. He turned into the gorgeous bespectacled guy with ridiculously fabulous muscles, and the words started to flow.
CHAPTER 2: DEX
My hot stalker was at the library again.
I noticed her last week and was intrigued. She was an adorable bunch of contradictions. Hot as fuck but wrapped in an oversized beige cardigan I’d swear I saw my eighty-two-year-old neighbor wearing the other day.
Interested—she’d eye-fucked me every time she didn’t think I was looking her way—but wouldn’t make eye contact.
And absolutely oblivious to the fact that I was onto her.
She eyed me like she wanted to yank me into the travel section and suck my dick until I blew my load. How was I not supposed to notice that?
But I played along. I let her maintain the delusion that she wasn’t obviously checking me out.
Mostly because the alternative wasn’t great. She seemed shy enough with the no-eye-contact business to pack up, disappear, and not come back if she realized she’d been found out.
So I watched her watch me, and I watched her type frantically on her laptop. I wasn’t sure why she was in the library every morning, because she certainly wasn’t here for the books.
* * *
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