Mason lifts his gaze from his screen. He’s inscrutable, his eyes behind his black glasses a total closed book as he stares at me.

  I kind of wish Mason would say something. Like he loves the premise of my new book.

  That tickling sensation grows annoyingly stronger. I try to fight it off, wagging 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 will jump out in just a second and tell me how awesome you thought the pages were.”

  With a beleaguered sigh, Mason removes 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, hoping to at least make him crack a smile.

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

  That’s not the reaction I wanted from my agent. Worry digs into my gut as 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.”

  “That’s all in there. That’s really funny. And full of heart.”

  Why can’t he see that? Isn’t it clear?

  “Is it?” Mason clears his throat and reads from the screen. “Ten Rules for Dating My Ex. Chapter One. 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.”

  “See? Flynn.” I drag out his name like a warning. “He’s an ex. Ergo, that’s a good rule.”

  There are other exes with one-syllable names too. Cough, cough. Jude.

  “Allow me to read more,” Mason says, then dives into the story as the hero sets up his dilemma—Lessons learned from the frontline of dating—because it’s a battlefield out there.

  When Mason 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 as I’ve never bristled before. “Did you read all ten chapters? It’s a set-up for a romance. He’s just . . . well, the hero is just . . .” I cast about for words to describe my hero’s situation. “He’s recapping the lessons learned from a handful of past breakups.”

  A handful that doesn’t include the big, epic, painful, slice-his-soul-into-a-thousand-jagged-pieces breakup. My hero’s not talking about that one. Nope. My character won’t touch that in this story.

  Mason stares at me like his eyes are a bullshit detector. “Yes, I get that. But he’s recounting unexceptional breakups with a couple of guys he only dated for a little while. It’s not like he let the love of his life slip away in some epic knock-’em-down-drag-’em-out fight.”

  I flinch, too clear memories snapping before my eyes. A cottage in Venice Beach. Words that stung. Accusations that flew like sharp knives.

  “You need to make the wound big and gaping and raw.”

  Ouch. My agent is mean.

  “And once you’ve done that, then let’s get him moving the fuck on.” Mason claps his hands. “Chop, chop, hero! Time to put on your big boy pants. Find a new man.”

  As if that’ll happen. “Easier said than done. It takes time for certain heroes.”

  But I don’t have much more time to figure out this book. I’ve been trying to start the engine of the story for nearly a year, and I’ve stalled out every time. Now and then, I think I know why this car won’t turn over.

  But it hurts too much to admit it out loud.

  So I haven’t.

  Mason shoots me a dead-eyed stare. “It takes time in real life. This is fiction. You write fiction. In make-believe la-la land, I want you to make all the readers happy as love saves the day. Make them so damn happy they buy copy after copy of your book. But this book?” He grabs the laptop and waggles the silver machine like he’s trying to shake pennies from a stingy piggy bank. “There’s zero romance. Zero dates. Zero setup,” he says. I hate that he’s right. I hate it so much because I can’t get there anymore. I can’t muster the enthusiasm. “I don’t even know what the trope or the plot is. Is it enemies to lovers? Second chance?”

  I cringe at the last one, rejecting the idea. No way would I write a second chance, not after what went down with my second chance with Jude. I won’t get into that in a story. Might as well slice a vein open and watch myself bleed.

  Pass.

  “I don’t write second chance.” I cross my arms, holding my ground on this front. Forever. “Or third chance for that matter.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. But then what is the story? Is it opposites attract? Forbidden romance? Fake romance? Friends to lovers?”

  As I answer no to every question, my stomach churns.

  My head hurts.

  And the truth of the last year rears its ugly head.

  I slump in the chair and drop my forehead into my hand. There isn’t a shred of romance in Ten Rules for Dating My Ex because there isn’t a shred of it in me.

  I thought I was writing an epic follow-up, and instead, I’m an ice fisherman, and I chopped off a block of my frozen heart.

  I’m empty. I’m broken. And I don’t know how to fix . . . well, me.

  2

  Bionic Sharks Descended from Mount Olympus

  TJ

  I shrug helplessly. “I don’t know what the hell to do,” I tell Mason, confessing what I think my agent already suspects. “Everyone’s expecting another Top-Notch Boyfriend.”

  That romance vaulted me from mid-list to bestseller. The love story made my apartment, lifestyle, and freedom from worry possible. The “guy meets guy and falls head over oxfords” tale was full of so much longing, passion, and heart.

  I wish I could write like that still.

  But the last year has proven otherwise. I can’t write a dog-falling-for-a-bone love story. I have nothing in my dead heart but memories of a guy who was poised to ruin me if I let him.

  I would like to get over Jude Fox once and for all. I would desperately love to write again. “What am I missing, Mason?”

  His intensity vanishes, and in its place is concern. “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.

  He’s technically not wrong.

  But like the rest of the city, he thinks Flynn the Chicken King broke me. He believes 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.

  That’s what I let people believe. It’s easier than the truth.

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

  “You’ll introduce the problem in Chapter One,” Mason says, crisp and businesslike. “You’ll layout the trope in Chapter Two. You’ll bring the other hero on-page in Chapter Three. And how about a kiss by Chapter Eight?”

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

  His grin says 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 of yours. That’s what works—that kind of strategy. Make this one work. You can do it, TJ. You’ve been doing it for years.” Mason delivers the final verdict, pointing to the screen. “No one wants to read anti-romance in your romance novel, King TJ.”

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

  If I don’t deliver soon, they’ll move on to the next writer.

  That excitement I felt while writing these pages was classic brain trickery. My mind fooled me into thinking my fingers were spinning solid gold.

  When I was actually spinning solid gold shit.

  I blow out a shaky breath. This anxious feeling is becoming all too familiar as I tank my career more with every passing day. “But I don’t know how to do that anymore. Maybe you need to send me to a writer’s camp or something. To writer rehab? Does that exist? Maybe it should. Maybe I should write a story where a guy meets another writer in writer rehab.”

  “TJ. Take a deep breath.”

  Inhale. Exhale. “I don’t even know how to type most days,” I say, and there’s a reason they call it spiraling—I’m a tornado right now.

  “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, all you have to do is just do that again. Write another good love story. Can you do that, TJ?”

  My heart slams too hard against my rib cage. My breath comes too fast. “I don’t know.”

  “You can. Repeat after me. I can,” he says, sounding like a TV self-help guru leading the live audience in an affirmation.

  “I can,” I mutter. I should be able to. There’s no reason why I can’t pull it off. Except, the answer isn’t logical. It’s emotional.

  It’s Jude.

  “I just need to focus on what those stories all had in common,” I say, giving my own pep talk. “The magic ingredient.”

  Mason’s eyes say you’ve gotta be kidding me. “Could it be . . . oh, I don’t know, you believed in romance before Flynn? You were fucking romantic. You went on dates to watch baseball, or play pinball, or go thrifting, or compete on 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.”

  Even I glance at the biceps in question. The guns are bigger than they were a year ago. “Gym equipment doesn’t break your heart.”

  “But rock-star writers who don’t deliver their next novel break mine,” Mason says, clutching at his chest. “You don’t want to do that, do you? Or, say, break your contract?”

  Vehemently, I shake my head. I keep my promises. Like when I was a teenager and discovered the truth of my parents’ divorce. I promised myself I’d never breathe a word to my brother, and I didn’t.

  “But I don’t know if dating is the solution. Maybe my next hero should be a detective, a cool-as-a-cucumber private eye, who’ll track down my muse.” I offer a lopsided grin like that’ll cover up the case of my missing inspiration.

  Mason aims finger guns at me. “That’s what I’m talking about. A little humor. You can use that on dates. Because you need to get back in the romance groove.”

  I’d rather listen to Jethro Tull perform in a Broadway musical while I drink bad coffee. “There has to be another way. Maybe I can just walk around the city and take notes.”

  “That’s what you’ve been doing for a year,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “How do you know everything?”

  “It’s my job to know all. See all.” Mason stands and strides around his desk, looking all sharp in his slacks and his tailored shirt, and sets a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, you’ve got a contract and a deadline. There are only so many ways I can do a song and dance for Brooks & Bailey,” he says gently this time.

  “Yes, I know,” I say with a wince, still embarrassed that he had to ask for three extensions for me already.

  “This isn’t like you. You popped out books like you were making kettle corn at the farmers market back when you were the swinging stud of New York. You need to start dating again. How hard can it be, especially with those arms?”

  Hard? Try granite level.

  Why would I want to date when it could lead to an epic fight that shreds my soul? I never want to go through that again.

  “Romance and I are on a timeout,” I mutter, admitting the sad, stark truth.

  He cups his ear. “What’s that? Oh, that’s the sound of the buzzer on your timeout. You’re up, TJ. Get on a dating app. We don’t even have to use Grindr anymore. We can do Tinder. We can use any app. Hell, you can do Boyfriend Material and level all the way up. Is that such a bad idea?”

  I lean into the public’s perception of me. “It’s taken a year to get the Flynn-breakup stink off me, but if I’m on an app, the whole Team TJ versus Team Flynn debate will rage on.”

  Mason smiles the nefarious grin that only a true shark of a literary agent can pull off. The man gestures grandly to himself. “Then I shall be your app. Be ready this Thursday at eight o’clock for a date at the St. James Theatre, home of the new musical, Adventures of The Last Single Guy in New York.”

  I hate musicals and Mason knows it. “Why are you sending me to a night of auditory torture?”

  “Because it’ll inspire you. And you’ll be going with the date we hand-selected for you.”

  What the hell has he cooked up? “Who is we?” I ask.

  “Holly and moi.”

  That name is dangerously familiar. “She reps actors, right?”

  Like Jude. But others too. Many others.

  Mason points at me like I’ve won a prize on a game show. “Give this man a cookie! She joined our firm a little while ago, and do you want to know who she brought with her?”

  Please don’t say Jude. Don’t fucking say Jude at all. “Who?” I ask, and I can hear the dread in my voice. I pray he’s arranged a date with someone else. Anyone else.

  “Does the name Jude Fox ring a bell?”

  I beg the universe that I misheard him. “Jude Fox?” I croak out in case there’s a country star I don’t know named Bood Fox.

  “Jude was fantastic in If Found, Please Return,” Mason continues, and there’s no mistaking this horror show now. I’m officially watching My Private Nightmare.

  Mason’s praise of my ex continues. “And he’s poised to become a breakout star, but he desperately needs a very appropriate fake boyfriend. And his agent and I have chosen . . .” he pauses, bangs air drumsticks, and points to me, “. . . you.”

  The words knock the air out of me. I can’t breathe. “And you’ve somehow, for some reason, chosen me out of everyone in the free world?”

  “Voila! TJ Hardman and Jude Fox are now a Hollywood-meets-the-lit-world couple,” Mason says. He really is a bionic shark. “As America’s sweet and hot romance writer, you’re the perfect antidote.”

  “Antidote to what?” Anxiety consumes my soul as Mason proves he’s more like a bionic shark descended from Neptune himself and crossbred with a fire-breathing dragon of the sea.

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “No, obviously I didn’t hear because I’m asking.”

  Mason chuckles. “Let’s just say Jude needs a new beau because his last boyfriend was a bit of a bad boy.”

  The fucker moved on already? I’m suffering, and he’s not? “I’m not very fun these days. I’m not good fake boyfriend material.” Good fake boyfriends don’t want to punch things.

  “Didn’t you just ask for my help? I assumed that meant you’d do anything I suggested,” Mason says with an evil grin.

  “Anything but date Jude Fox,” I spit out.

  “Why not him? He’s fun, gentlemanly, talented, and easy on the eyes. We need you to get him through some events during the awards-season publicity tour now that his flick is the biggest small budget hit in years. And if I’m right, and let’s face it, I usually am, the events will spark some ideas for your book.”

  That makes less sense than the solid gold shit I wrote. “How?”

  “TJ, you need to shake up your world. Because what you’re doing now isn’t working.”

  “And why is fake dating him going to shake it up?”

  He stares at me like the answer is obvious. “You can’t spend all your time in the gym, kid. Or running in circles in Central Park. You need to get out there and mix it up. The dates you’ll go on will inspire you.”

  If he only knew what Jude inspired—the biggest, boldest, brightest emotions I ever felt.

  And one fiery ending where we burned our house down.

  “I don’t think inspirational is the word I’d use,” I mutter.

  “Your book is overdue. The way I see things is you can keep not writing your book, or you can go on some dates and find some spark again and write the book that everyone’s waiting for.” Mason takes a deep inhale, sounding wholly satisfied. “Which option sounds more appealing? Door number one or door number two?”

  “I choose door number three. Getting my balls waxed by a first-timer at a shady clinic with one-star reviews,” I say, trying one more time to swim away.

  Mason doesn’t blink. “And I imagine that’s how Brooks & Bailey feels every time you don’t deliver your book.” He gestures to his phone, waving airily at it—my stomach drops. I hate letting people down. “If you have a better suggestion, I’m all ears. If not, let me know what I should tell Holly.”

  That Jude shouldn’t have accused me of using him.

  That I have zero interest in fake dating a secret ex-lover, an ex-roomie, an ex.

  But the clock doesn’t stop ticking on my deadline. There are no more extensions. No more grace periods. This farce might be the only thing between me and failure.

  I meet Mason’s stare head-on, swallow my pride. “Thursday at eight works for me. I’ll meet him at the St. James Theatre.”

  That’ll give me all week to get a haircut, trim my beard, maybe even track down that aftershave that used to drive Jude wild. Make him fucking miss what he lost.

  Mason grins, returns to his desk, and sits down. “Great. And I think you’ll find it more enjoyable than scrotal depilation. But hey, that’s ultimately for you to decide. And since we need to hash out some of the details before you make your dating debut, the CTM press department, Jude’s agent, and I have conveniently arranged for you to meet the movie star in fifteen minutes.”