The Ghostwriter

by A.R. Torre

Three months. The deadline is the tightest I’ve ever faced. There will be no frantic calls to my agent, no negotiation for more time. Three months to write a story that deserves years. Is it even possible?

Great stsrt

I was once told that marriage is a facade. I ignored the wisdom of the words, mainly because they came from a fifty-two-year-old swinger, one who believed that monogamy was a self-destructive concept, and a good orgy is the answer to everything. But that slimy stick of sex appeal was right. Not about the orgy, though I never tested that concept out. Marriage is a facade. Simon and I … our facade started early and grew, deep and dark, a pit of secrets and lies. I loved my husband. But I also grew to hate him. Prologue: Helena Ross

“I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared.” I made a list that night, though I never gave it to Simon. Five Rules for a Proper Proposal. Don’t put the woman on the spot. Don’t have an audience. Don’t eat garlic before the act. Don’t check out the waitress’s ass mid-proposal. Don’t ask unless you are certain that the answer is yes.

He was a walking pile of mess and disorganization, a man who enjoyed hangovers and dripping nachos, impromptu sex and a lack of retirement planning.