Mister Romance by Amelia Simone (the reading list .txt) 📕

I didn’t mean to cuss at you, though I’m not thrilled about the pen name smokescreen. How do I know you’re really Virginia?”

Chase was quiet. The moment lingered, and I tried to curb my instinct to fill the silence when he finally scratched his chin and looked at me.

“Well, I guess you don’t. I could show you an earlier draft for one of my books though. I think I’ve got an earlier copy of Temporary Love on my laptop. Or you could quiz me.”

“Quiz you? You mean ask you questions about your own books?” I paused, thinking back to my latest comfort re-read. “Okay, then, Mister Romance. Tell me then, from your very first book, where did Matt and Cassie get it on the first time?”

He smirked at me. “Get it on? What are we? Twelve?”

It was the most unique detail from Virginia Rothman’s books I could think of on short notice. I shook my head. “Not an answer. You’re going to lose this round in five ... four ... three ...”

“Wait, wait. Okay. Cassie and Matt were intimate for the first time”—he gave me a pointed look—“in a closet at an open house.”

I nodded. “Correct. Now, in Temporary Love, what unique item made an appearance, and how did the Claire and Rafe use it?”

I could see color filtering up from Chase’s neckline. I had a pang of regret for making him uncomfortable before suppressing it ruthlessly. He’d lied to me and his fans about who he was. Answering questions about his writing was proof that he wasn’t trying to trick me yet again, it shouldn’t be torture.

“And here I thought I would be the one most likely to make this meeting awkward by asking personal questions. You’ve got me beat.” Chase ran his hands through his hair, avoiding my eyes. He shifted his empty coffee cups around before looking back at me.

“Man, this is embarrassing. I barely like to admit I’m a writer, let alone acknowledge that people actually read what I write. I mean, conceptually I know it happens. It has to happen to pay my rent, but it’s still difficult to confront face-to-face.”

I remained silent. Conversational pause for the win. I’d intentionally kept my questions PG. If I’d wanted to turn the knife, I could have been much more explicit. He was getting off easy, even if he didn’t feel like it.

“Hooo. Okay, in Temporary Love the couple use a kiwano or horned melon during a massage.” He gave a gusty sigh and met my eyes.

I didn’t have the heart to grill him any further. Unless he was an amazing actor or another die-hard fan, he truly struggled to talk about his writing. I couldn’t hold a grudge; he had written some of my favorite books. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“For you,” he grumbled. “I had to prove I’m me.”

“Well, that’s what you get for leading innocent nurses astray with misleading female pen names. You’re getting off easy, buster.”

I tried to adjust my expectations of Chase. Wanting privacy wasn’t a crime. He still wrote my favorite stories. He still ate food and, at least based on appearances, cooked it well. If he faked the cooking, that might be a deal breaker. I took a bite of my cinnamon roll. Heaven. Heaven in my mouth. Yeah, it was that good. A few bites later I was feeling distinctly more magnanimous. Sugar bliss calmed my beast.

He sipped at his own coffee and took a moment to organize some of the papers sprawled across the table before breaking the silence. Maybe he sensed my impending sugar coma.

“I’m glad you came today. Are you still open to helping me? Even though, I’m ... well, me?”

I nodded slowly. “Sure. I love your work. It’s just a bit of an adjustment. Can I ask, do you cook the meals you put on Twitter? Or are those fake too?”

“Ah, those are real. I’ve been cooking for ages, but only manage it a few times a week now. Maybe I could make you dinner sometime?”

Had I just wrangled myself a dinner date? Maybe I didn’t need that personality transplant after all. I hadn’t managed to work up to my wedding setup request, but maybe dinner was an opportunity to get to know him better first. Ease into it. My mouth watered at the prospect of a meal that had actually been well prepared, instead of blackened in all of the wrong places. But I didn’t want to appear too eager. I shrugged.

“Sure. That’d be great. What did you want to ask me about?” I took my last bite of cinnamon roll and mourned the empty plate as Chase glanced quickly at his notes, organizing his thoughts.

“I enjoyed your email, but I was hoping you could tell me a few stories about the delivery room and expand on a few specifics.”

My shoulders loosened at the move to a safe topic, and I shared a few of my saddest and funniest nursing experiences. He listened attentively and pulled out a small black Moleskine notebook where he jotted down notes every few minutes. Minus the notetaking, it felt like talking to a friend, and I relaxed further as I acknowledged that while Chase hadn’t been what I expected, the roots of our earlier online friendship were still strong. I didn’t realize how long I’d been talking until I looked at my watch.

“Crud. I’ve gotta go. My shift starts soon.”

Chase appeared alarmed, then he glanced at his phone and flipped through his notebook quickly before meeting my eyes. “Thanks for taking the time with me, Tamra. I appreciate it. Would it be too much to ask to continue this over dinner one night soon?”

I’d had a surprisingly good time and probably talked more outside of work than I had in weeks. Chase’s pensive and stilted demeanor had faded away the more we spoke. We’d been so focused on chatting about my work that I hadn’t had the chance to bring up the wedding. Seeing him again would give me