Page 1 of Cupid's Beau

1

Chapter 1

The cursor blinks mockingly on my laptop screen. I’ve written and deleted the same sentence seventeen times in the last hour. Outside my office window, fat snowflakes drift past, turning Starlight Bay into a scene straight out of a snow globe. February in Massachusetts is exactly as I remembered it - the perfect excuse to hole up and write.

Except I’m not writing.

I groan and slump forward, my forehead hitting the desk with a soft thud. My latest manuscript is due in three months, and I have exactly jack-shit to show for the two weeks I’ve spent hiding out at my parents’ inn. My agent is going to murder me. Slowly. Probably with one of those fancy letter openers she keeps on her desk.

“You’re being dramatic,” I mutter to myself, lifting my head.“You’ve written five books, you can write a sixth. Just… words. On a page. Any words.”

I straighten up, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. The cursor keeps blinking.

“The night was…” I type, then delete it immediately. “No. No, no, no.”

From downstairs, I hear the distinct sound of my mother’s footsteps, followed by her voice calling up the stairs. “Neneh! There’s someone at the front desk!”

I close my eyes. “I’m working, Ma!”

“Neneh Aisha Ba!” The full name. Never a good sign. “If you don’t-”

“Fine, I’m going!” I save the practically empty document (force of habit) and push back from my desk, mumbling to myself, “what was that about being dramatic? Clearly hereditary.”

I slide my reading glasses up into my curls and head for the door. The wooden stairs creak under my feet as I make my way down. Our inn might be historic - or old, depending on who you ask - but it’s home. My parents bought it twenty years ago, fresh off their latest restaurant venture in Boston, determined to create something lasting. The Starlight Inn became their American dream, complete with ocean views and questionable plumbing.

“Ma, you could have checked on the guest,” I call out as I pass the kitchen. “I was having a moment with my manuscript.”

My mother’s laugh floats out, along with the smell of her famous Jollof rice. “You’ve been having moments with that manuscriptfor two weeks. Maybe a distraction will help.”

“That’s not how writing works.” But I’m smiling at her teasing.

I round the corner to the front desk, a professional welcome already forming on my lips. Then instantly forget how to speak.

Because there’s a mountain of a man standing there - tall, broad-shouldered, practically radiating irritation despite being mostly hidden behind a scarf and baseball cap. But it’s his eyes. I know these eyes. I’ve seen them on magazine covers, movie posters, and that one Broadway show my best friend dragged me to last year.

My mouth falls open.

He shifts uncomfortably. “I’d like a room.”

Jack Ellis. Jack fucking Ellis is standing in my parents’ lobby, looking like he just walked straight out of one of those rom-coms he used to play in at the beginning of his career.

I should say something. Anything. What comes out is: “Um.” Real smooth, Neneh. “Right.” I shake my head, trying to reboot my brain. “Sorry. Yes. A room.” My fingers hover over the ancient computer keyboard. The same computer system I’ve used a thousand times suddenly feels impossibly complex. “How many nights?”

“Not sure yet.” His low, gravelly voice comes out gruff, and even through the scarf, I catch his familiar Boston accent.

I nod like this is totally normal. Like we get A-list celebrities at our fifteen-room inn all the time. “We have several rooms available. There’s a king suite with an ocean view, or-”

“Whatever’s furthest from your other guests.”

Right. Because if he’s come to our small town in the middle of the off-season, it’s probably not to be seen. Maybe he’s running from the latest tabloid drama about him and that supermodel? Or the Oscar buzz around his new movie?

“Room 15,” I say. “Top floor, end of the hall. It’s technically our honeymoon suite, but-” I snap my mouth shut. Why did I even say that? “I mean, it’s just a regular room. With a nice bathtub. And, um, privacy.”

He just stares at me.

“I’ll need a name for the registration,” I manage, hoping my face doesn’t show how shocked I am.

There’s a pause. “Smith,” he says finally. “Jack Smith.”

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