Naughty Neighbor - Lauren Runow Page 0,6

the month. Maybe if I had a story, but right now, it feels impossible.

“I’m so excited for you! I know it’s crazy to call on a weekend, but I just had to let you know. I can’t wait to read this one. The youngest brother has been such an enigma in the first two books. I loved the secrecy of him, and I can’t wait to see what you have planned.”

I smack my palm to my forehead.

He was an enigma because I didn’t know who he was either.

“Yep, you’re going to love him. He’s the best yet,” I lie through my teeth.

“Great! Okay, well, I’ll let you get back to your writing. Have a good night.”

“You too.” I hang up and drop my head to my chest.

When I walk back into the kitchen, Charisse and Melody are staring at me with a mixture of excitement and curiosity, wondering what my phone call was about.

While I want to laugh—and cry—about the opportunity that is within arm’s reach, I throw my hands up and declare, “I’m so screwed.”

Chapter Three

Another day passes, and I have a document with only five thousand words total. Sadly, most of it is a recap about the first two books in case someone jumps in now and hasn’t read the previous two. It’s total crap because no one wants to open a book and reread old stories. I’m resorting to bad habits in storytelling, and I know it.

I’ve written six books in my short writing career, and I’ve never had writer’s block like this.

I’ve tried everything to get out of it.

My day started with music while I cleaned my kitchen. Often, if I do something mindless, like scrub the floors, I can clear my head, and ideas come to me like magic. After my entire apartment was spotless, I still had no clear picture of who this guy was going to be.

I tried going for a jog, and then I tried centering myself with yoga. Neither helped.

As I hopped in the shower, I was sure the premise would come to me. I’ve had my most amazing plots pop in my head while I lathered shampoo through my hair. Not today though. I stood there until the water was cold and my freshly shaved legs were getting goose bumps from the shivers running over my body.

With my coziest writing clothes on and my hair in a high, slick bun, I light a candle and decide I need to immerse myself in research.

Authors are always posting about how if their computers were ever stolen, people would be sure they were serial killers. It’s true. In my career, I’ve looked up how to pull off the perfect murder, unique sex positions, and how to commit money laundering. Us authors need to make sure there are no holes in our plots, and the dark World Wide Web leads the way.

I open my browser, like I have a million times before, except, today, I’m not searching how to hide crimes. I’m looking for bad porn—the kind that actually has a story line that most people will fast-forward through to get to the good stuff. Not me though. I’m dying for any twists or turns that could spark an idea.

Two hours of watching horrible acting, and I still have nothing and am beyond irritated.

I’m searching through photos of Tom Hardy, who is my physical-feature muse, when there’s a knock on the door.

Whoever is there had better watch out because they’re about to get the brunt of my frustration.

I look through the peephole and see the impossibly handsome face of my neighbor.

I swing the door open with more might than I probably should. My eyebrows are raised, and my hand is on my hip.

“There you go, interrupting my work hours again,” I announce.

“Damn, you really know how to make a guy feel wanted,” Jake says in a roguish reply as he strolls in my apartment.

I roll my eyes and drop my arms to my sides as I close the door and follow him into the kitchen.

He leans against my counter as he takes an olive from my snack dish and pops one in his mouth. “It’s past ten. Office hours are closed.”

“Nonconventional job, remember? I can’t just clock out when the bell rings.”

“That’s the reason people dream for careers like yours—so they aren’t slaves to their desks when they should be out, partying.”

“What makes you think I don’t have hot plans tonight?” I ask with a defiant crossing of my arms.

He’s smirking as he stares