Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)

by Amy Daws

And what does boring ole, practically pushing thirty years old Kate do? She writes porn. In a tire shop. In Boulder, Colorado.

Betty is so not my people. I should have guessed, but you’d be surprised at the number of grannies who like dirty smut.

“With book boyfriend arms like that, it’s no wonder.” “Book boyfriend?” I ask curiously. “Book boyfriend,” she repeats. “The leading male in a romance novel that readers claim ownership of because he doesn’t likely exist in the real world. Basically, the ideal man.”

“I’m sorry, I get emotional when I’m hungry. You know how some people get hangry? Hungry and angry? I get emongry. Emotional and hungry. It’s a thing. I got them to enter it in Urban Dictionary.”

“Jesus, now what?” I ask, slicking my tongue across my lower lip to catch the dribble of garlic butter on the run. “You are a walking, fucking tease, you know that?” he states with a shake of his head. He grabs a beer, twists the cap off, and drinks half the bottle in one go. “How so?” I ask with a laugh, my mouth still full of doughy goodness. “I just stuffed my face with a breadstick like I haven't eaten carbs in years.” “Carbs look good on you,” he replies and takes another swig.

Sex appeal wasn’t created in a gym with weights and treadmills. No, it was born in powerful, grungy garages where men, real fucking men worked with their hands. Where they got so dirty, they had to use a special manly soap to clean themselves up. You can’t find that shit at Bath & Body. Pure fucking testosterone.

I suddenly realize we’re not alone and quickly force myself to stop petting the hot mechanic.

One time, I had to bite my fist to stop myself from laughing out loud when she dreamily closed her eyes, licked her lips seductively, and air-kissed the room. She totally writes dirty books.

“My writing makes me horny.” I nearly choke on my beer. “I’m sorry, what?” “My writing makes me horny.” She pulls back and nods her confirmation. “I’m serious. I have a sex toy that works really well and really fast, but I miss the heat of a man, ya know?”

“You dudes are all alike. You want a lady in the streets and a freak in the sheets.”

But deep down, I know I’m more. I’m a creator of stories. Stories that have a plot and an arc and a journey. Yes, they experiment in BDSM. Yes, they do anal. And yes, you will probably get horny when you read them, but they still mean something to me. I’m still proud of them when I type The End. And I love the fact that I have readers who get to escape their regular lives for a while and pretend that they’re someone else. I give them book boyfriends like Miles.

Miles runs a hand through his hair, causing his shock of black locks to stick out all over. “I’m sorry. I…don’t know what to say.” I sigh and take mercy on him. “There really is nothing else to say. I’ll just…I’ll see you around, Miles.” I turn and stride away, humiliated by the fact I was just rejected by my real-life book boyfriend.

I let my book boyfriend walk away, keeping him safe right where he belongs, in fiction.

“You want to be my boyfriend?” “Yes,” I reply with a frown at her choice of word. “But none of that book boyfriend bullshit. I’m as real as they come, and I’ll put all your fictional studs to shame, you got that?”