But when the smell’s gotten bad enough to knock yourself out, I should probably pause for some self-care. “No pauses,” I argue with myself. “You’re procrastinating. You don’t have a hot date.”

  Yeah, but for real, when the stench gets so bad that even Nut and Juice give me ugly looks, I really should at least wash the hot spots—pits and pubes—because you know it’s awful when dogs, who literally greet each other by sniffing each other’s butts, start shunning you.

  And I do have an afternoon writing session at the library. If my dogs are turning up their noses at me, then the writing friends I’m meeting will definitely balk and spray me down with copious doses of body spray. The last time my friend Aleria did that, I sneezed for days. She tried telling me it was my body ridding itself of toxins in that weird hoodoo-voodoo voice she does, but I’m pretty sure the only toxin I’d been exposed to was the stinky stuff she sprayed me with and the pizza rolls I had for lunch.

  None of that matters, though. If I don’t get some progress made on my book, I’m dead meat. I laugh out loud, thinking that I’d smell worse then. But that’s not exactly a compliment, nor a positive thought.

  I start back toward the table when my phone rings, and I look down, my heart stopping and then sprinting when I see who it is. Speak of the devil, it’s my agent, Hilda.

  I don’t want to answer the call. Hilda’s nice, but she’s not going to like to hear that I’ve been doing little more than wearing out my keyboard for no reason for the past week . . . but I’ve got to keep her updated on what’s going on.

  “Hilda, hey,” I greet as I answer nervously. “What’s up?”

  “How’s my favorite writer doing?” Hilda asks, sounding wary but optimistic. “Almost ready to turn in your next masterpiece yet?”

  I rub the middle of my forehead, hoping that I can miraculously wake up my brain this way and failing. “Uh . . . well, about that . . . have you ever been constipated? Like for a whole week? Where you try and try to push it out, but it won’t go, or well, won’t come out? Well, I’m like that . . . but just with my writing.”

  Yeah, I have quite the way with words. It’s a gift, I’m told.

  Hilda thinks so too, if the ew in her voice is any indication. “That’s disgusting,” she says, and I wait for the other shoe to drop. “And concerning. Poppy, you’ve got a deadline coming up, and while I can keep them off your back a bit if you’re turning in work, right now it’s . . . you’ve given me nothing for two months now.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s a lot riding on this,” Hilda continues as if I don’t know and tell myself that every time I get stalled. “Your reputation is your biggest asset. Publishers will always work with someone who puts out copy, but eventually, they’re going to give up hope when you don’t do that, and then you know what happens.”

  Gee, thanks. As if I didn’t know what happens at that point. I definitely needed that.

  “Hil, you know—”

  “But I have something that I think might help. Get you out of the house and inspired, ready to kick this book’s ass.”

  “Huh?” I ask, suspicious of the dangling carrot Hilda is holding out. It’s not that I don’t trust her, but I know she’ll do anything to get me to the finish line, whether it’s good for me or not. She’s an agent first, and if I don’t succeed, neither does she.

  “Look, I just got news that a sudden spot opened up at J.A. Fox’s workshop dinner. Apparently, someone forgot that, yes, sex does lead to babies, even though she writes accidental pregnancy books all the damn time.”

  Whoa. I mean, I feel bad for the author, but . . . the Fox Dinner. J.A. Fox is the Grand Dame of Romance Writers. The GOAT, in my opinion. And for the past few years, she’s held workshop dinners with fledgling romance authors, talking about her illustrious career, giving writing advice, and signing copies of her latest new release. Right now, it’s The Art Thief, which is already a New York Times bestseller. Not only that, but she's going to showcase the rare painting of a beautiful woman called The Black Rose, the art that inspired the novel.

  I might have been fangirling a bit—fine, a lot—when I heard about the dinner.

  “Normally, you wouldn’t be up for something like this, but I fought for you to get the spot because it's local to you . . .” Hilda quickly corrects herself. “I mean, I know what a huge fan you are. I thought it’d be a good reward for finishing your manuscript. Maybe that’s not a good idea if you’re this far behind, though? Hmm.”

  I’m so excited that I don’t worry about her little slight at the beginning or take offense to her dwindling faith. I’ve always wanted to meet J.A. Fox and have always looked up to her writing prowess. Whether she knew it or not, J.A. Fox was my inspiration, my mentor, my guiding light in the dark. Every time I didn’t think I was good enough, I’d remind myself that if J.A. Fox could do it, so could I. And I’ve got my own WWJD when it comes to writing. What Would J.A. Do?

  “Enough waxing poetic, Poppy!” I whisper to myself before speaking up. “Hilda, OMG! Of course, I can do it. This’ll be just the boost I need to finish. You’re the greatest, I actually love you after all . . . if I can go to this workshop.”

  “Hmph!” Hilda says with a full harrumph. “You don’t love me, you just love my agent benefits. But you should be loving me for putting up with your craziness and making it sound cute and eccentric to the publishing company.”

  “You know I already love you for that. You’re amazing!”

  “So you say. But if a catering hall chicken breast with no seasoning is what it takes for you to appreciate me . . . voila. This will be a once in a lifetime chance, and maybe a little of J.A. Fox’s magic will rub off on you and you’ll be able to finish,” Hilda says, obviously not ready to let up on the pressure quite yet. She’d probably make a Marine drill instructor sweat. “Make sure you show up on time looking fabulous . . . well, at least shower and fix your hair, ’kay?”

  Ouch, she knows me that well. Or maybe she can smell me through the phone? I might be rank enough for Verizon to carry the signal.

  “Okay, I’m gonna be on it,” I promise her, crossing my heart even though she can’t see me. “Look, I want to finish at least a chapter, maybe two, and then I’ve got an appointment. And I’ll shower. Definitely shower.”

  “With body wash?”

  “Of course, I promise,” I tell her, trying not to hop up and down in excitement. I’m getting to meet J.A. Fox! “Look, lemme get to pounding my keyboard, and then I’ll scrub myself fully. Promise!”

  “You’d better.”

  We hang up, and though I just promised, when I check the clock, I see that writing will have to wait. I’ve barely got enough time to take care of Nut and Juice before it’s time to get on the road to get to the library on time. But I do grab a quick shower first, scrubbing down with some cinnamon scented body wash just like I promised and getting dressed.

  I don’t do anything fancy, just some jeans and a baggy sweatshirt for comfort and to cover the bewbies before I let Nut and Juice out into the front yard. I’d prefer the back, but my ‘back yard’ is about the size of a picnic table with just enough space for a small barbecue and no grass. So front yard it is, but my babies know the invisible fence.

  Looking around the neighborhood, I feel that I got pretty lucky. I live in a townhome complex that’s quiet and cute, with little two- and three-bedroom places lining the street. Each place has a neatly manicured lawn in front, with plenty of parking and cute mailboxes that let you express your personality. It’s not a cul-de-sac, but there’s only one other street at the end of the block, and those are cul-de-sacs. The exit to the neighborhood’s the other way, and most days, you can go for a walk, jog, or bike ride in the middle of the street with no problem.

  I didn’t realize it when I moved in, but it’s mostly a female residential area. There are few younger women like me who’ve bought their first place on their own, boss babe style, and quite a few divorced women who downsized after their split. I can understand that because there’s no maintenance, it’s safe, and it’s close to a nearby park for custody changes.

  Or so Renee from four houses down tells me. She gets her kids two weeks a month, and they’re pretty good kids. Her son, Kyle, even offered to walk Nut and Juice last summer, and he did a good job, all things considered. Like Nut’s tendency to pull on the leash and Juice’s preference to lie down and not go anywhere, but they absolutely demand to stay together and not be walked separately.

  There are also a few older women like my neighbor, Helen, who interrupts my daydream where J.A. Fox raves about my work at the workshop luncheon, telling me I remind her of herself when she started out.

  “Watch where the hell you’re going with that thing, you blasted dingbat!”

  At first, I think she’s talking to my dogs, but when I look, I see Nut doing a number two and Juice peeing on the round rock that I buried my spare house key under, so all’s normal there.

  I turn to see who she’s yelling at and find my next-door neighbor, a single woman in her sixties, pointing at a truck. It appears as if she’s moving out, with moving men moving in and out of the house hastily. Helen’s a cranky old woman with the voice of a leather-lunged truck driver, but she’s always been nice to me and loves to gossip about the drama inside our complex. With a few tweaks, I’ve used her on several occasions as inspiration for some of the colorful women in my stories.

  “Helen!” I gasp in surprise. “What’s happening, you’re moving? You never said anything.”

  “Too fast to even scoot next door to share the news,” she says as she comes over, grinning. “You know how I went to visit my new grandbaby last month?”

  I nod, remembering the hundreds of photos I flipped through with Helen of her new granddaughter, who is admittedly adorable, but newborn pictures all pretty much look the same. Squishy and puffy-eyed, sleeping, or screaming balls of limbs curled around a round, tiny belly. Cute, but . . . not, at the same time. At least, not when they’re unrelated to you. “Yeah.”

  “Well, my daughter called last week. Told me there was a little house in her neighborhood for sale. It’s perfect for me—a little one-bedroom bungalow, walking distance to my baby . . . my daughter too. Big enough that I’m not banging off the walls, but not so big that I’ll tucker myself out cleaning it on a regular basis. So I snatched it up. Closed in one week and sold this place to an investment group. So, boom,” she says with a snap of her fingers, “I’m blowing this popsicle stand.”

  Her comment hits me harder than I thought. I’ve always enjoyed talking with Helen and have always treasured her advice. But at the same time, I get it. She wants to be with her first grandchild, which she always wanted. So instead of saying anything bad, I just reach out and give her a hug.

  “I’m happy for you, Helen. I’m gonna miss you, though. Do you know who’s moving in?” I ask, looking over. Her townhome’s one of the bigger units in the neighborhood, three bedrooms with plenty of space. It could attract a fast-moving single person, a work-from-homer like myself . . . or a family with kids.

  I’m personally hoping the former. Or at the very least, no rowdy kids or partying young adults. I’m behind schedule already.

  Even worse, the looks the husbands give me when they realize that the book they sneak-read and totally deny came from my mind. I even had one guy tell me he’d read his ex-girlfriend’s copy and that I obviously knew how to give killer blowjobs, so how about I practice with him?

  Nope, don’t need either scenario. I want a nice, quiet neighbor who’ll make it easy to focus when it’s my writing time.

  Damn, I’m picky. No wonder I want Helen to stick around.

  “I’ve got no idea, but you’ll be fine, dear,” Helen says reassuringly. “You’re so quiet and easy to get along with.”

  Maybe Helen’s losing her hearing because I know I spend a lot of time talking to myself and yelling at Nut and Juice. But I guess in the scheme of loud kids and partying neighbors, I’m not that bothersome.

  “Well, one more hug,” I tell Helen, who laughs when Nut grabs her leg and gives her a ‘hug’ of his own. “Nut, stop that! You can’t hump every leg you see!”

  “Well at least he thinks this oven can still bake something,” Helen says with a chuckle. “Best of luck, dear.”

  I wave, shooing my dogs back into the house and running out to my car. I’m already running late.

  Chapter 2

  Poppy

  W3AS.

  It’s probably not the best acronym in the world, but it works for us. Besides, I think as I run up the stairs to the second-floor study room of the Great Falls Public Library, Women Who Write Awesome Shit doesn’t look very polite on the room reservation forms.

  Whenever someone asks, we just call it ‘wheeze’, like the sound a two-pack-a-day smoker makes. It’s a weird assembly of women, but they’re my tribe.

  There’s Aleria, who is only thirty but is by far the oldest soul of our group. Blonde and often barefoot—and possibly naked—beneath her floaty skirts, she loves to fit social commentary into just about everything she says, does, or writes. She’s big on nature magic, inner power, and a lot of ‘crunchy granola’ stuff like meditation, crystals, and kombucha. More than once, we’ve caught her trying to cast spells over the group, which she says are protective spells against the ‘evil magics the patriarchal capitalist system uses to leech our feminine power’, also known as shitty publishing contracts like the one she got tricked into as a newbie romance author.

  So of course, she writes indie paranormal romance with some pretty creative sex scenes and groupings that can open your mind to unique possibilities even if you’ll never, ever meet a vampire, a werewolf, and a faerie at the same time.

  Daysha’s sassy but the most no-nonsense of us. Highly educated with a bachelor’s from Spellman and a master’s from Columbia, she keeps us in line. You always have to be prepped for Daysha because if you ask her for an opinion, she’s going to tell you exactly how she sees it. Offended? Tough shit, which she admits can get her in trouble, but more often than not, she doesn’t really care. Daysha’s specialty is dark romance.

  Jasmine’s our resident sarcastic, snappy weirdo who bounces between Sci-Fi and Sci-Fi erotica. Younger than anyone else and still in college, she changes her hair color with just about every book she writes, often as a hint to her theme for her upcoming book. Like when she put a book in a Matrix-like universe, her hair was a bright neon green. As I walk in, I see that she’s still rocking her natural blonde, which probably means she’s between books.

  The loudest of our group, though, is Becca. She’s pretty much our group cheerleader, which is funny because that’s largely how she put herself through college, on a cheerleading scholarship. Her time around both the ‘in crowd’ and ‘out crowd’ means she knows exactly how to overreact to everything at all times. The Space Deer coffee place is out of her favorite blend? Catastrophe. There’s a category-five hurricane in some far-off country? Equally catastrophic.

  But Becca’s true talent has to be as a professional shit stirrer. She knows exactly how to get people worked up, and if she ever transitions to Hollywood like she says she wants to, she’s going to become a director. She’s that much of a puppet master, and her rom-coms are just as twisty. I could totally see her writing and filming twenty seasons of the same show and still managing to keep it fresh and surprising every week with stuff like ‘OMG, Jason slept with who?’ and ‘He died from a coconut hitting him on the head’.

  “Hey, ladies,” I greet as I come in, hugging all around. I swear Aleria sniffs me as I hug her hello, so it’s a good thing I showered and washed my hair.

  “Are you making the most of your 86,400 seconds today?” Aleria asks in her usual airy tone. It’s her way of gently reminding me to choose wisely and not fuck around on my deadline or I’ll find out what the publishing company really thinks of me.

  “Well,” I admit, sitting down and pulling my laptop out of my bag, “I don’t know about that, but I’ve got great news today. My agent got me a spot at J.A. Fox’s upcoming workshop.”

  What I love about my Wheezers is that there’s no real jealousy. Instead, it’s cheers all around, with Daysha adding on, “Okay then, you lucky bitch, better get to work so you can show her what you’ve got. Twenty minutes, ladies? Go.”

  It’s a sprint session, one of the tools we use during our meetings. Twenty minutes, just type, and to hell with spelling, grammar, or any of that. Just crank.

  My problem, though, is that as I stare at my keyboard, no words come to me. I’ve been stuck at this same love scene for Trouble in Great Falls for going on a week. I’ve written, deleted, and re-written this fucking thing so much that I literally have pains in my forearms, and for what? Nothing good, that’s what!

  The main problem is with my two main characters, Amber and Ryker, and the stupid things that keep coming out of their mouths. Half the time they’re talking like robots, and the other half, I’m wondering why the fuck I should care about them. And if I don’t care about them, the readers damn sure won’t.

  The sex scenes are causing me special trouble, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because I haven’t had actual sex with anything but my bedside buddy in almost a year. Seriously, even my memory of sex is getting hazy.

  And that’s a problem. As an author, you’re supposed to either know or research the topic that you’re writing about. Quite frankly, watching Pornhub to get inspiration isn’t doing the damn trick any longer.

  Besides, do people really do weird stuff like have sex on treadmills when the couch or floor is right there? I mean, rug burn’s a thing, but falling dick- or tits-first onto a whirling conveyor belt sounds way less sexy and is a good way to end up as a dirty meme on the internet.

  “I think I need to have sex.”

  Silence reigns around the table, all typing stopping instantly, and I look up to realize, to my total petrification, that I said that out loud.