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

reason. He got me. More specifically, he got me pizza. He knew to bring food when I was on a writing binge, and he knew not to expect a response when he texted.

I was probably a crap friend, but I tried to make up for it in other ways. Like never hitting on his hot sister. That wasn’t a real sacrifice because we grew up together. Andi had seen me in my awkward phase, and let’s be honest: it was all an awkward phase. High school. College. Adulthood. She’d had a front row seat for every embarrassing moment.

Andi was the quirky badass you read about in paranormal romance. Snark for days, silky skin with a smattering of freckles, long dark hair, and a sense of humor that allowed her to put up with me on the rare occasions we all hung out. Her sense of humor and fun had inspired my latest main character, but I doubted Jimmy would recognize Andi’s traits if he ever read the book. We all had blind spots, and he still pictured his little sister in braids with scraped knees, not as a grown woman balancing a career and the possibility of passion.

As I took the pizza boxes from his large hands, Jimmy Torres was revealed in all his glory. If by glory, you’re cool with a lanky thirty-something in slacks and a crisp button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves to reveal strong forearms. Short, dark hair, brown eyes, and a jaw that could be used to chisel statues accentuated one of the funniest, kindest men I knew.

Noticing his hero potential was a hazard of the trade. I was always cataloging and thinking of how I would describe my friends on the page. Jimmy had leading man potential for sure. He’d love that opening. I could see him chatting up women, casually mentioning that he was the inspiration for a best-selling romance novel. He’d turn that into dating gold.

“Hey, Jimmy. Thanks for bringing dinner. Not sure when I last ate,” I acknowledged with a grimace.

“That must mean the writing is going well though?” he asked, glancing around the hazard zone that was my apartment.

“Yeah, but my deadline is also closing in. I’m looking forward to wrapping this book and taking some much-needed time off. What about you, how’s work? You fight any good fires lately?”

Jimmy gave me his best sober firefighter-face. He could rock that look like no other, with his closely shaved head and built body. “No, man. There is no good fire. Would you believe we got a call for a seventy-year-old grandmother who was high as a kite today? She fell and her caregiver couldn’t get her up again. I asked her what she’d taken. Gummy bears. It was marijuana gummy bears, and she claims they help with her glaucoma, but still, seriously? Helping grandma on her gummy bear high is not good for my street cred.”

He shook his head in disgust, and I did my best to hide my grin. I was glad that he was helping stoned grandmas. I worried about his safety every time I heard about a major fire in Tacoma. Assisting high grannies didn’t sound as hazardous in comparison.

We moved into my small kitchen and loaded plates and grabbed beers before settling in on the couch to eat and talk while we waited for Matteo.

Jimmy and I managed to finish off both pizzas before our friend arrived. He knocked and pushed open the door with the familiarity of years of friendship. Stocky and dressed in jeans and a vintage Atari T-shirt, Matteo struck the balance between geek and chic with his trendy haircut and glasses. He looked every inch the gaming programmer, and he’d already inspired a hero that met his match in my first friends-to-lovers book.

“Aw, man. You had pizza without me. Alyssa made lasagna tonight, but it was vegetarian and packed with Swiss chard. I’m craving pepperoni like you wouldn’t believe.”

Jimmy smirked. “Sorry, bro. That’s what you get for being all married and shit. You get the Swiss chard.”

Matteo nodded with pursed lips. “Yeah, but I also get all the lady love. What do you have again? Oh, that’s right—your hand.”

I snort-laughed and Jimmy shoved my shoulder. “No comment from you.” He looked around my apartment and tilted his head at a pile of abandoned clothes in one corner. “When was your last date again?”

I shrugged, and he nodded knowingly.

“Exactly. I’m not the only one sleeping alone with all hands on deck,” Jimmy said.

He put his hands up and shook them at me like tambourines. I groaned and shoved him back.

“Knock it off. The only hands I want to see are on controllers.” Jimmy chortled at my unintentional euphemism. “Yeah, I heard it after I said it. I want to get some gaming in before you two clock punchers have to bounce.”

We spent the rest of the evening trash talking while we careened around the Mario Kart track, trying to best each other. It was a welcome break and distraction, but I knew my looming revisions would be waiting for me when the guys left.

After they went home, I opened Twitter. Part of promoting my books was having a web presence as Virginia Rothman. I wanted to be as truthful with my fans as possible, but I chose not to share the identity behind my pen name. Most of my social media posts were about my writing, favorite authors, or food recipes. I kept things as authentic yet professional as possible. No interacting beyond a few surface likes. It was safer for my career that way. Other authors may be able to share everything online, from funny kid stories to personal fails, but that wasn’t me. Secret squirrel tendencies won out over any desire to share.

My online persona was predictable and book-focused, but I was wary of putting more of myself out there. I didn’t need people coming for me in my mentions and attacking my choices; I wasn’t built to brush off that kind