How in the world can someone tell a million romance tales and not have love?
For real? If you’re honestly wondering, ask me. I’d know.
I’ve got bestselling romance novelist behind my name, but the world only knows me as W. Parker. It’s been fun to keep them guessing whether I’m a woman or a man.
I’m pretty private beyond that because why give up the ruse? They’d laugh if they looked at my own love life.
Besides, no good ever came from the entire world knowing someone’s dirty laundry. But then like in chapter twenty in a good book, it happens. She walks up while I’m deep in thought and bam!
It was a dimly lit bar and a rainy night. As soon as I laid eyes on her, a muse formed in my mind and I had to talk to her.
I had to know her.
What? I’m a romance writer. Cut me some slack!
Little did I know, though I should have, she rocked my world in ways I couldn’t create on paper or otherwise.
She’d been with a lot of Mr. Wrongs, but maybe, just maybe, it was time for her to find Mr. Write.
Note: This is a standalone story.