Stone Cold

Jovie releases her hold over my mouth and takes a step back.

“My apologies,” I say.

“Some people actually find that romantic,” she adds. “It’s a trope … arranged marriage. But in those books, they always fall in love in the end.”

An image flashes in my mind’s eye—a series of them actually. Jovie brushing her teeth, hunched over the bathroom sink, a thick paperback spread eagle on the counter. Jovie stirring boiling pasta, a book in her left hand. Jovie splayed out on the living room sofa, a pile of drugstore paperbacks on the coffee table. During lazy, rainy weekends and snowed-in mornings, she would devour them by the stack. She was always reading. And it was always romance. I guess I never paid much attention to the content beyond that. I just knew she loved love in all its forms—real, imagined, idealized.

“You’ve always been a sucker for a happy ending,” I say.

“Should we find our seats?” She checks her watch. “Show’s about to start.”

We make our way through the throngs of concert attendees. I place my hand on the small of her back so as not to lose her. A minute later, we’re in the third row, center. The crowd packs in. The sun sets behind us as the moon rises over the bay behind the amphitheater.

The opening act takes the stage—a guy with a lumberjack beard, an electric acoustic guitar, and the apparent voice of an angel.

But all the harmonic melodies, bright lights, starry skies, and crashing waves don’t hold a candle to the gorgeous woman to my right. She’s got her gaze trained ahead on the show, but all I see is her.

Everything around us fades to black. For the two hours that follows, it’s as if we’re the only ones here.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Jovie

* * *

“You sure you want to read this?” I dig a paperback of my latest book from the box of advanced copies my publisher sent a few days ago.

Stone and I were chatting on the drive home from the concert when he mentioned he’d never read a romance book. I told him it was the sort of thing everyone should experience at least once in their life.

“Only if you’ll sign it first,” he says with a straight face and a wink.

I don’t expect him to read it. In fact, I’m certain he’s only humoring me. But truth be told, we were having a good time tonight and I wasn’t quite ready for the evening to end.

I dig a Sharpie from my kitchen junk drawer and flip the cover open.

To Stone—

Enter at your own risk (and thank me later).

Jovie Vincent

I close the book and hand it over.

“You want a drink?” I ask, nodding toward the microwave clock. “The night is young.”

He eyes the time—eleven seventeen—and twitches his full lips to the side.

“One won’t hurt,” he says.

“I have vodka and pineapple juice,” I say. “Or some Coors Light Monica’s husband left here over New Year’s. I can’t promise they’re not expired, so … pick your poison.”

“Wine,” he says without hesitation.

Stone pages through my book while I uncork the bottle of blueberry wine I dug out from the back of my fridge. It was a gift a couple of months ago, and it seemed too special to waste on a night of Netflix binging, so I held onto it.

“What’s so great about these anyway?” he asks as he studies one of the pages. “Romance books.”

I pull the cork. “In real life, love is unpredictable. If you read a romance novel, you know that no matter what trials and tribulations the hero and heroine go through, it’s all going to work out in the end. Happily ever afters are guaranteed.”

“But if you know how it’s going to end, doesn’t that take the fun out of reading?”

“Nope.” I grab two wineglasses and pour them each halfway full. “That’s the whole point. You can sit back and relax and enjoy the ride, knowing the story’s going to take you exactly where you want it to.”

I push a glass toward him.

“You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to,” I say. “They’re not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“I want to,” he says. “Nothing wrong with broadening my horizons …”

“That’s the spirit.” I take a sip. “Oh, full disclosure: the Duke of Stonington may or may not be based loosely on someone I knew once upon a time …”

His hooded gaze narrows.

“There’s a sprinkle of everyone in all of my books,” I say. “I’m like an alchemist but with words. A little of this, a little of that …”

“You based the hero on me?” His eyes drop to the cover, where a tall, dark, and handsome model with an unbuttoned shirt holds a fainting beauty in his arms.

“Bits and pieces,” I say. “He’s kind of hard to read. And very serious most of the time. And he’s loyal to his homeland. He likes his routine and he’s a bit of an introvert. A little difficult to get to know—until he lets you in.” Waving my hands, I add, “I don’t want to spoil it for you, so I’m going to stop talking.”