Page 45 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
“What fine literature you’ve chosen to read.”
“I know more about cats than I would prefer, but I think you’re a great writer, even if some articles are about the most effective ways to clean hairballs.”
“Yea, the pictures for that article were a little intense for my liking.”
“They were a bit rough.” He nodded and smiled.
Sincerely, I said, “Thank you for reading my articles, even if they’re not the most riveting.”
“Hey, I learned something.” He shrugged. “Do you want to work somewhere else?”
Starting to grow nervous, since I hadn’t really talked about my life aspirations with anyone but Delaney and Henry, I contemplated telling him what I really wanted to do. He seemed like he would be cool with me being a romance novelist.
Sometimes I worried what people would think if I told them I was interested in writing sex, writing romance, writing about that all-consuming power called love. I felt like there was a stereotype in the world for people who read romance novels. Some people depicted romance readers as sad ladies sitting in the corner of their house, wearing a torn-up sweater while eating chocolates and petting their cats, but that’s not the case at all. There was a whole community out there who loved love, who loved romance . . . and I’m one of them. It’s a world I loved living in, where there were happily ever afters offered to even the unimaginable. Where the odd girl gets the good-looking guy and where chivalry wasn’t lost. I knew it couldn’t all be true, that life wasn’t as grand as some novels made it out to be, but I still loved every single story because it was an escape from reality, a moment in time where you daydreamed of the impossible, where there was a chance of watching true love unfold right in front of you.
Sigh.
“Rosie?”
“Oh sorry.” I shook my head. “I’m actually writing a romance novel. Well, trying to.”
“Wow, really? That’s pretty cool. Does your hero have glasses and take pictures of cats?”
“Something like that.”Right now it certainly is. I laughed while I finished off my margarita. “Want to go back to bowling?” I told him I was writing a book, but I didn’t think I was comfortable enough explaining the fine details of my riveting novel, because I saw the look in his eyes: he was curious. I feared he’d start talking about sex, and I wasn’t prepared for that. I could barely talk about sex with Henry, let alone a guy I was interested in.
“Sure. Do you need some tips to keep your ball from staying out of the gutter?” he teased.
“Probably. I’ve never been particularly athletic. I’m surprised I can even pick up the ball.”
“Its six pounds.” He laughed.
“That’s why my arm is tired.”
Shaking his head at me, he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and led me to our lane where his friends were no longer lounging. They’d dispersed, which was nice because I far more comfortable when it was just Lance. I felt quite intimidated around his friends.
“Ladies first, Rosie,” Lance said.
“All right, I got this.”
I walked to the ball holder and grabbed my bright pink, six-pound ball, stuck my thumb in, and walked to the line. I was about to prepare to bowl when I felt Lance stand behind me and speak softly in my ear. His voice had chills running up and down my skin.
“Can I give you a pointer?”
“Please,” I answered a little too breathlessly.
His hands were splayed on my shoulders and his mouth was practically kissing my ear. Good heavens, my muscles contracted below and the heat in my body immediately sky-rocketed.
“Do you see those little arrows on the alley?” Uhh . . . arrows? All I could think about was the pass of his lips over my ear. “You want to line up your hand with those arrows and make sure your hand flows straight through them. Think you can do that?”
“Seems simple,” I replied with some confidence, despite the war of arousal my body was fighting.
“Good. You got this, Rosie.” He leaned in more and placed a gentle kiss on my cheek before pulling away.What a flirt.
My entire lady region was alive and awake, letting me know she still existed, and in fact she had a well-working libido, which was now spiked, thanks to Lance’s little intimate act. Hell, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it. I wanted to actually toss my ball down the alley and run into his arms. I wanted more kisses and not just on my cheek.
Concentrating on what Lance said, rather than dry-humping his leg, I brought my arm back and walked to the edge of the alley. With a strong thrust, I threw my arm forward and released the ball. I watched with my hands linked together, promise of a strike in my eyes, as the ball went straight into the gutter.
“Damn.”
