“Huh. She never really was into petting with me.”

  “Lean into her name. She likes things to be just so,” he says.

  “You’re a cat charmer,” I say, but that’s not entirely surprising.

  River just has that way about him.

  He knows how to make any mammal feel good.

  River makes me feel incredible nearly every night. Sometimes we’re our own brand of kinky, using handcuffs and ties. Sometimes we’re rough, grabbing, kneading, spanking. Sometimes, we just take it slow and sensual, and it feels like the world disappears when our bodies tangle together.

  I love it all with him.

  Every night. Every day.

  And when the calendar turns to November again, and we’re hanging out at The Lazy Hammock with Grant and Declan, the shortstop offers us the cabin one more time.

  “Yes,” River says, pouncing on the invitation in less than a second.

  “I’ll just add in my yes as well, though it seems Mister Bossy has spoken.”

  “Mister Bossy,” Grant says with a chuckle. “That’s a perfect name for my business partner.”

  River is bossy. He likes to be in charge. He likes to be in control. But he also likes to give that power to me. To let me make him feel good. Feel wanted. Feel loved.

  Fortunately, I’m great at that.

  So we road trip again, snacking and arguing, debating Sleepless in Seattle this time, and deciding it didn’t age well, but that Love, Simon definitely deserves a rewatch.

  “Let’s watch it tonight when we get to the Fight Club Sex Cabin,” River declares when we reach Markleeville.

  “Before or after the hot tub?” I ask.

  “Depends on what we’re doing in the hot tub, cutie,” he says.

  “So maybe I shouldn’t exhaust you in the jacuzzi.”

  “Exhaust me anywhere you want. You know I love that you’re only speedy at taking showers,” he says with a sexy wink.

  “I do like to take my time on all the field-day events,” I say.

  Fifteen minutes later, we pull into the driveway, cut the engine, and stare out the front window at the orange haze in the sky. “River?”

  “Owen?”

  “I think it’s starting to snow.”

  I couldn’t ask for anything more.

  Well, there’s one thing.

  A little later, when we break out the champagne—using flutes this time—and settle in for a game of Would You Rather on the couch in front of the fire, I draw a quiet, measured breath.

  I can do this.

  I ignore all the nerves skating over my skin. The wild thrumming in my chest. I meet my boyfriend’s deep, soulful eyes. Then I ask the question I came here to ask.

  “Would you rather be proposed to in front of the fire right now, or outside in the hot tub in a few minutes?”

  River’s eyes pop.

  His hand flies to his mouth.

  And he just nods, like crazy, like he can’t stop. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  My heart glows, and I take that as a now.

  So I get down on one knee in front of the fire, and remove a tiny box from my pants pocket. With nervous fingers but a certain heart, I flip it open. “You’re my best friend, my boyfriend, my lover. You’re my favorite person. The one I want to curl up with every night, wake up to every morning, and spend all my days with,” I say, my throat tightening with emotion, so much it’s overflowing in me. But it feels so good to love this deeply. “River Michaels, I love you so much. I love you more than I ever thought possible. And I would be the happiest man ever if you would be my husband.”

  He wastes zero time. He’s down on the floor, on his knees, clutching my face. “Yes. I say yes. I’ve been thinking about it constantly and you beat me to it, and I love that, and I love you, and you are the only man for me. So I say yes.”

  I slide a platinum band on his finger, then bring him close for a tender kiss that’s full of so much love—like all these days and nights with him.

  When we break the kiss, River smiles like he never intends to stop. “I guess we’ve got ourselves a marriage pact now.”

  I suppose that’s the true Harry and Rod rule of falling for a friend—cherish him, love him, and let all that friendship fuel a forever with each other.

  That summer, we get married in San Francisco with all our friends and family there to see us say, I do.

  Delilah brings the rings down the aisle.

  When the justice of the peace pronounces us husband and husband, I kiss my groom, and River kisses his.

  Another Epilogue

  River

  * * *

  Some facts need tweaking. Like this one. The bigger the dick, the bigger the dick.

  I’m going to amend that law right now to this—the bigger the dick, the bigger the heart . . . when it comes to my husband.

  That’s the true justice in the world. My hubs is packing in every department. Brains, looks, body, and the most important part of all—how he loves.

  That’s why I’ve revised my Big Dick Law to The Big Heart Rule.

  Find a man who’ll cherish your heart.

  That’s all you really need to be happy.

  And that’s a fact.

  * * *

  I’m so excited to let you know I’ll be releasing a never-seen-before MM standalone romance for free in about a week! Sign up for my MM mailing list to be the first to know when it’s available!

  Curious about TJ? His life is about to change when he has to fake a romance with an ex-hookup! Can he pull off a pretend relationship with the cocky, charming movie star he regrets? Find out in HOPELESSLY BROMANTIC! A preview follows. Keep reading to grab DOCTOR GOOD IN BED, your free book as promised, for preordering THE BROMANCE ZONE!

  Chapter One of Hopelessly Bromantic…

  TJ

  * * *

  Things that suck—when your ex-boyfriend dates your . . . ex-boyfriend.

  Things that don’t suck—when you finally find the inspiration you’ve been scouring the city for.

  There. Right there.

  The second I run into Flynn and Caine holding hands as they order tacos at a food truck in Central Park on a Sunday afternoon while I finish my jog, my first thought isn’t the obvious they’re talking about me.

  Not even when Flynn spots me, lifts a hand in a perfunctory wave, then when Caine follows his lead, waving too.

  Nope.

  My first and most epic thought is—They’re talking about me and that would be such a brilliant idea for a book, like, say, maybe the one that’s massively overdue to my publisher.

  See you later, exes.

  I don’t end my run after all. I fly home on fleet feet to Chelsea, bound up four flights of stairs, flip open my laptop, and crack my knuckles.

  It is on.

  This guy has a book idea at long last.

  After all these months of blank pages, words are flowing through my veins.

  I write and I write and I write.

  Goodbye, trashcan full of proverbial crumpled up pieces of paper.

  Hello, brilliant idea for my next novel.

  After a whole lot of nothing in the creativity department for several long, painful, idea-free months—and months vacant of ideas are almost as bad as sexless months, a drought I also know far too well—this surely is my breakthrough.

  At last.

  A few days and countless cups of coffee later, I’ve got almost ten chapters.

  I’ve ordered in most meals and forgotten others, too, because that’s how it works when the muse strikes. You don’t stop to snack on Swedish fish or shove salted-caramel pretzels in your mouth. You just do.

  You serve the gods of inspiration. And have I ever served.

  I’m like that crazed author in a movie, tapping madly away, the clack-clack-clack of keys the soundtrack in my apartment till I yank the pages from the typewriter and slap them down on my agent’s desk.

  Okay, obviously I don’t write on a typewriter. I’m not a Luddite. Also that’s super wasteful when it comes paper.

  But after a quick re-read on ye olde laptop, I send this bad boy to my agent.

  Five minutes later, he replies with a hallelujah then tells me to swing by in an hour since he’ll have it read by then.

  I pump a fist, then push away from the couch to take a shower. Even when inspiration strikes, I’d never leave the house smelling like, well, like people think writers smell.

  My goal in life is to smell like a magazine ad looks, and I accomplish that in fifteen minutes, then get dressed quickly, tugging on jeans and grabbing a short-sleeve button-down I snagged at a thrift shop. Bonus that it shows off my arms. Double bonus? The cute illustrations of foxes that cover the fabric.

  Looking hip, I head uptown on a late spring morning in Manhattan. I push through the revolving glass door of Nathan’s building, eager for his feedback.

  It’s gonna be good.

  Bring it on. The welcome back, TJ. The we know you’re late on your deadline, but we love you so fucking much. And you’re brilliant and incredible, and you’re clearly already penning a fantastic follow-up, so go write more.

  A minute later, I exit the elevator on the eleventh floor. From behind the reception desk, Zoe waves excitedly at me, her chunky bracelets jingling and jangling against themselves, revealing bits and pieces of the tattoos of vines that line her arms. “TJ, I wrote five thousand words last night,” she says, wildfire in her eyes. “You’ve inspired me.”

  See?

  Everything is new again.

  Everyone is creating.

  “It’s in the air, Zoe.” I hold up a hand to high five. “Keep it up.”

  “I will. Also, Nathan said to just wave you in.”

  How about that? I don’t even have to wait to see the dude. I knew it. He loves the premise of my new book too.

  But when I reach his corner suite, he’s still seated at his desk.

  Staring at the screen.

  Scratching his head.

  Weird.

  I expected him to be standing in the doorway, blowing on a trumpet, hailing my return.

  Parking my hands on my hips, I clear my throat. “Hello? Where is the parade? The ticker tape? The marching band? I’ll wait for them but, man, I normally expect you to be a little faster.”

  Nathan lifts his gaze from his screen.

  His face is completely inscrutable, his dark eyes behind his black glasses a total closed book.

  But I’m undeterred.

  I won’t let a little thing like an agent’s unreadable face get me down, though I kinda wish Nathan would say something. I do like praise. It’s oxygen.

  I wag a finger at him. “Wait. I know what you did. You got me a singing telegram, didn’t you? One of those Magic Mike strippers is going to jump out in just a second and tell me how awesome you thought the pages were.” I cross my arms. “I’ll wait.”

  With a beleaguered sigh, Nathan takes off his glasses, sets them down on his desk, and scrubs a hand along the back of his neck. “For the record, if I ever order you a stripper, it’ll be a cop.”

  “Sweet. I ordered one the other night after a burger and a beer. It was basically a perfect night,” I deadpan.

  A small smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “That.” Nathan stabs his finger against the computer screen. “Why isn’t that in this?”

  My brow furrows, and I step into his office, head to the cushy blue chair across from his desk, and park myself in it. “Why isn’t what in what?”

  “That kind of humor. That kind of wit. Stripper jokes. Humor. Badinage. Wit. Banter.”

  My face goes blank.

  At least, I think it does. I can’t see my face obviously.

  But it feels blank from the shock of his comment. I flap my hand in the direction of his computer. “That’s all in there. That’s really fucking funny. And full of heart. How could you not see it?”

  “Is it?” Nathan clears his throat and reads from the screen. “Ten Rules for Dating My Ex. Chapter One. Tanner. The first rule of dating? Don’t go out with a dude with a one-syllable name. I learned that the hard way the other day.”

  “That’s a good rule. See? Flynn. Caine.” I drag both out like their names are a warning. “If only I had known that before I got involved.”

  “Allow me to read more.”

  “Please do.” With a smile, I kick back in the chair, happiness washing over me. I’ve always loved when people read to me. There’s little I love more than being told a good tale.

  Well, pizza and sex. I like them both better.

  Not in that order though.

  I listen contentedly as the hero sets up his dilemma—Lessons learned from the front lines of dating, since it’s a battlefield out there.

  When Nathan trails off at the end of the second page, I scoot forward in the chair.

  Doesn’t he like it?

  Oh shit. Does he . . . hate it? Are my words complete and utter garbage?

  “TJ,” he says heavily, and, uh-oh, that sounds less like a seal of approval and more like a veto.

  Worry wiggles down my spine. “Yes?”

  “There’s no romance in here. This is a breakup book.”

  I bristle. Like I’ve never bristled before. He’s wrong. He’s just wrong. “Did you read all ten chapters? It’s a set-up for a romance. He’s just . . . well, Tanner is just . . .” I cast about for words to describe my hero’s situation. “He’s recapping the lessons learned from past breakups. Licking his wounds and all.”

  Nathan stares at me like his eyes are a bullshit detector. “Yes, I get that. Loud and clear. But where’s the romance?”

  It’s . . .

  It’s in . . .

  Isn’t it in there?

  My mind flips back to the pages I wrote. “I’m sure it’s there. It has to be. I meant it to be.”

  He shakes his head, his expression rueful. “The first ten chapters are about his breakup. There’s zero romance. Zero dates. Zero set-up. I don’t even know what the trope or the plot is. Is it enemies to lovers? Friends to lovers?”

  I cringe at the last one. Whip my head back and forth. No way would I write friends to lovers—not after what went down with Flynn.

  “Opposites attract? Forbidden romance? Fake romance.”

  My stomach churns.

  Dammit.

  I slump down in the chair, drop my forehead into my hand. There isn’t a shred of romance in Rules for Dating My Ex. Shoulders sagging, I drag a hand through my hair. “I don’t know what the hell to do, Nathan,” I say, confessing what I think he already suspects. “Everyone’s expecting this epic love story like Top-Notch Boyfriend. That was easy to write. I was . . .”

  But I can’t finish the sentence.

  I’ve written books before Flynn.

  Hell, I wrote nine.

  But none that big, that powerful, that swoony as the ‘epic guy meets guy and falls head over oxfords in love’ story that was Top-Notch Boyfriend.

  The romance that vaulted me from midlist to bestseller.

  That made my apartment possible, my life possible, my freedom from worries possible.

  But only if I can pull off another.

  Nathan’s intensity vanishes. In its place is concern. “Yes, you were in love, TJ. It drove you to write. To feel. To dig deep into your soul for your art. But it didn’t last and that sucks. I get it. I’ve been there before.”

  I turn away, peering out the window of his Amsterdam Avenue offices, staring at the city below. Millions of people in this naked city. Some days, it feels as if everybody here knows what happened. The guy who inspired the story that topped bestseller lists and made me a mint dumped me publicly, painfully, and with disastrous consequences for my career.

  I jerk my gaze back to Nathan. “Fine. I’ll try again. Another approach. I’ll—”

  “—You’ll introduce the trope in Chapter One,” he says, laying it out there, crisp and business-like. “You’ll bring the other hero on page in chapter two. And how about a kiss by chapter eight?”

  My jaw drops. “You have the whole thing plotted out, man?”

  His grin makes it clear this isn’t his first time at the rodeo. “I know a thing or two about what makes for a good book. I’ve also read all yours. That’s what works—that kind of strategy. Make this one work.”

  My agent pulls no punches. With intense eyes, he delivers the final verdict, pointing to the screen. “This anti-romance isn’t what anybody actually wants to read in your romance novel, King TJ.”

  It’s like a shot to the heart, especially when he uses the name my readers have given me. Lovingly given me. But lately, they’ve all been knocking on my social media doors, asking for the next book that’s been delayed, and then delayed some more.

  Soon, if I don’t deliver, they’ll move on to the next writer.

  Someone who actually puts out more books.

  And it hurts so much because . . . that excitement I felt while writing was classic brain trickery. My mind fooled me into thinking this story was good. My fingers were flying, so I figured I was spinning solid gold.

  When I was spinning solid gold shit.

  I drag my hands through my hair, heaving out a sigh of admission. “What do I do?”

  “You’ve written ten books. All with great reviews. One of them was a massive, huge, fireball of a hit, that turned your backlist into money trees — incidentally that’s my favorite kind of tree. So, can’t you just do that again? Write another good love story?”

  His question is a reasonable one. I should be able to. There’s no logical reason why I can’t pull it off. “Absolutely. I just need to focus on what they all had in common. The magic ingredient.”

  Nathan’s eyes say you’ve gotta be kidding me. “Could it be . . . oh, I don’t know, you believed in romance back then? You were fucking romantic. You went on dates. With Caine, with Flynn, with Dante, with Gabriel.”

  “Feel free to just list all my exes. The reminders are great for my confidence,” I say drily.

  He pays me no mind. “And you took them to baseball games, or to play pinball, or to go thrifting or do game nights. You felt the mojo. You were getting out there.” He gestures to my arms. “From the looks of it, the only place you’re going these days is to the gym.”