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

much time in my writing cave, with so few visitors or interruptions, it was easy to think that my writer’s detritus was normal. Jimmy cast an assessing eye over the bulletin board near my desk.

He pointed to a few colorful diagrams. “I think you should take those down before she arrives.”

I’d been toying with plot ideas for a murder mystery as a break from writing romance. The first diagram depicted a cadaver, and the second was a poster print of the most common household poisons and their symptoms.

“I thought those were pretty tame. I took down all of the more explicit materials I used in writing the love scenes for my last book,” I defended.

Key words: took down. He didn’t need to know the magazine perfume ads and pages I’d ripped from a sex manual were safely under my bed with my plotting barbies.

Jimmy shook his head and gave me a pitying look. “Chase. Bless your heart. You’re inviting a woman you don’t know well over for dinner. She’s likely worried you’re a serial killer. Don’t advertise your knowledge of poisons when you’re cooking for her. She’s already going to see your messy kitchen.”

I gave him a dirty look. “I know ‘bless your heart’ means some version of go fuck yourself.”

He shook his head at me again. “No, in this case, I meant it as a genuine Southern expression of sympathy for the poor woman you’re having over.”

I snorted. “Jimmy. You’re not Southern. You grew up here with me.”

“Au contraire. I have an Argentine great-grandmother. That’s about as Southern as it gets.”

I groaned, “Okay, okay. Go fuck yourself aside, I see your point on the poisons. I’ll take it down. Anything else that isn’t passing muster?” I asked.

He scrutinized the apartment carefully, taking in my deep green microfiber couch, writing desk and bulletin board, and the TV against the opposite wall. His gaze moved on to the kitchen and table already set for two.

“Everything out here looks fine, if a little messy,” he acknowledged. “What about your bathroom, game room, and bedroom though?”

I shook my head. “She’s not going to see my bedroom. I cleaned the bathroom earlier today. My mom has me well-trained on that one.”

He grinned. “Yeah, she started you there at a young age. I’ve never met a man with a bathroom as clean as yours. It’s usually in direct contrast to the rest of your apartment. If all else fails, show Tamra your bathroom. She’ll be impressed.”

I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, but I was pretty sure bathroom tours weren’t normal, so I shrugged him off.

He ignored me and moved to inspect the bathroom, then my bedroom and game room. I wished I could give him shit for crap I’d seen at his apartment, but his space was always immaculate. Always. He’d only hosted game night once at his place. One slice of pepperoni hits the carpet, and we’re banished forever. Jimmy’s not-so-secret Martha Stewart tendencies were the reason I asked him to give my place a onceover.

I’d only had a handful of visitors to my apartment. My parents, Matteo, and Jimmy knew me well enough not to mind the mess. I wasn’t ashamed of my space, but I also wanted to make a good impression. For research. Not because Tamra was more beautiful in person than I anticipated. Right.

The follow-up questions I wanted to ask Tamra about labor and delivery weren’t appropriate for a restaurant where someone could overhear. Some of those details might put someone off their dinner. Digging into her funniest and most awkward stories was on my agenda. Amniotic fluid, stitches, and Foley catheter fails—all were fair game. I was pretty sure that as a nurse Tamra would be immune, but I didn’t want her to hold back, worried about other diners.

Jimmy gave my apartment the go ahead and satisfied I wouldn’t traumatize Tamra with anything odd, I got started on dinner. Jimmy settled in at the kitchen island with a beer, watching me chop.

“What are you making?” he asked.

“Arroz con pollo,” I said with a dip of my chin, my gaze intent on the celery in front of me.

Jimmy side-eyed the pile of vegetables in front of me. “Arroz con pollo, huh? Isn’t that the one you only make for special occasions? So, this Tamra is special?”

I felt a light wash of color creeping up from my collar. “Hey, can you get the cilantro from the fridge?”

Jimmy was not put off by my subject change. “So, tell me more about Tamra.”

I focused on my chopping. “Nothing much to tell. She’s a labor and delivery nurse at the hospital. She’s helping me with research for my next novel.”

“Is she single?” he asked pointedly.

I nodded but kept my eyes on my knife. “I think so, but I honestly haven’t asked. We’ve mostly talked about her work.”

“I assume she’s roughly our age?” he asked.

I nodded again. “It’s a little tough to tell, but she’s somewhere near.”

He gave me a big grin. “Well, I hope you have a wonderful time with Tamra.” The don’t fuck it up was implied.

I smiled tentatively back. “Me too. She seems nice.”

Nice. The word was too tame. Smart. Funny. Sexy. Those were better descriptors, but with my dating record, friends and co-conspirators was more realistic. Sooner or later, the real me would leak out behind my carefully constructed mask and ruin her good will. With luck, I’d make it through dinner before I did or said something unforgiveable. I shook myself and glanced up at Jimmy. His raised brows signaled his disbelief in my insipid response.

“Well, you’ve got things in hand here. I’m going to take off. I have a date of my own tonight.”

It was my turn to give him the third degree. “Tell me more ...”

He smiled. “I met Janine a few days ago. We’ve been texting since, and this was the first time our schedules meshed. I’m taking her out for dinner.”

“How did you meet?”

“Her car was broken down on the side of