The Write Stuff (Write Stuff 1)

"Are you always so hard on yourself?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, reaching for the bill. He grabbed it before I could get my hands on it. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"I'm not comfortable having you pay for everything."

I laughed. "Don't be ridiculous, Alec. It's all part of the job. This is a business expense."

"Maybe so, but my ego takes a hit every time you pay for something."

"I'm sure you have plenty to spare," I joked, sliding my credit card into the holder for the waitress.

He rolled his eyes, but elaborated. "Look, my dad was old school. It was ingrained in my head at an early age that a gentleman always pays."

I smiled. The sentiment was cute, but old fashioned. "Well, unfortunately, you're working for me, and I cover the expenses when we travel. Including the astonishing pile of food you just devoured and our adjoining hotel rooms."

One thing I found curious was the way he referred to his dad in the past tense. I realized again I didn't know anything about Alec's life. Being naturally nosey by nature, I could people watch like nobody's business, so of course I wanted to ask him, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. It felt too personal.

"So are you?"

"Am I what?" I asked, not remembering his question.

"Always so hard on yourself. It's just that in the past twenty-four hours I've seen you put yourself down at least a dozen times. Is it just a ploy, or do you really feel you lack in all these areas?" His question was pointed and serious, making me uncomfortable. I wasn't sure I was ready to be analyzed.

"An attention-seeking ploy? Yeah, right. Obviously, you don't know who you're talking to. I don't like attention enough for that. Besides, aren't we supposed to acknowledge our faults and embrace them?"

"Only when it's healthy. Your fascination with putting yourself down borders on emotional mutilation."

I snorted as the waitress handed back my credit card. "Emotional mutilation? You sound like a doctor, not a bartender."

His eyes lit up in amusement. "That's good since I'm premed. Believe it or not, I don't have aspirations of flirting for tips tending bar and modeling forever. Not that I don't appreciate the gig," he said, raising his cup of coffee to toast me. "It's just a means to an end." He stood up, reaching out a hand to help me to my feet.

"No shit? Like a surgeon or something in that capacity?" My knowledge of the medical field was limited to watching Grey's Anatomy. I had binged watched the show so much I felt I could be a doctor.

"That's the end goal. I haven't decided on a specialty yet, but I have plenty of time for that. I was forced to take some time off and now I'll be starting medical school in the fall."

"Wow, I had no idea."

"Surprised that this face has a brain?" He looked pleased that he had shocked me. I smiled, pulling out my agenda for the day from my purse.

"You said it, not me," I laughed. "All kidding aside though, I think it's great."

He peered over my shoulder. "What's on the schedule first?" His breath skated across my cheek and his mouth was so close to the side of my face that if I turned my head slightly my lips would have touched his. It was such a tempting thought that I had to dig my fingernails into my hand to resist.

Trying to regain some of my self-control, I shifted slightly to avoid another of my embarrassing slips. "We have the Dream Model panel Olivia was able to get us on last minute. That's in thirty minutes, but nothing else until the Hunky Ball tonight, so the afternoon is yours. I'd rest up since they'll be auctioning you off." I tried unsuccessfully to hide my grin. I'm not sure how Olivia had talked him into participating, but it was bound to be entertaining. >"How many books do you write a year?" He stretched his long legs out in the limited space.

"I seem to be averaging one every four to five months start to finish."

He whistled through his teeth. "Impressive."

"That's nothing. I have friends who release more than that. It makes my head spin sometimes. Readers seem to love it though."

"I guess I didn't realize books were produced that fast. I feel like I have to wait forever for some of my favorite authors to put a book out."

"That's traditionally published books. They tend to move slower because of the way they fill their release calendar. Indie-published authors have the autonomy to release whenever they want." The conversation felt odd. We were talking like we were friends.

He held out the bag with the remaining doughnut inside. Unable to deny my hunger any longer, I accepted it and made him grin when I devoured the tasty treat in two bites.

"Impressive," he said, crumpling up the bag.