Page 13 of The Bad Boy's Fake Wife

“No, I need oil apparently. I’m baking chocolate cake for the first time and imagine my surprise when I found out you’re not supposed to use butter in it, only vegetable oil.”

I roll my eyes. “I’d love to see how that cake of yours turns out.” I grab the cup from him to go fill it with some of Reed’s vegetable oil. I wonder if there’s actually a chocolate cake, or if he’s just finding excuses to speak to me.

I return with the cup filled with oil. “Here you go.”

But I find him crouched in front of my laptop, a serious expression on his face as he reads my very horrible first draft.

“Hey!” I yell at him. “I didn’t give you permission to read that!”

“It was open, Emma, and there’s a limit to how much I can control myself. Let me finish reading this chapter,” he says.

Annoyed, I plop into my chair and watch him, my stomach knotting with anxiety. Jonathan’s face remains unreadable as his eyes scan my words with intense focus. The lack of reaction makes my nerves worse.

After he’s done, I say, “You really shouldn’t have read that. It’s so bad.”

“Yeah, it’s bad,” he says bluntly.

I blink at him in confusion. “Geez, way to lay it down gently.”

Jonathan replies, “I don’t believe in sugarcoating words, especially when it comes to constructive criticism. Itisbad, you said it yourself, but that doesn’t mean you can’t fix it. Change a few things, and it’s good. The plot seems interesting so far and the intro is attention-grabbing, don’t get me wrong.” He pauses.

“But?” I ask, my hands shaking. I’ve never been good at accepting criticism. This is why no one reads my work unless I’ve edited it at least a dozen times. It makes me nervous, and I feel like hearing someone else’s advice too early in the process will just make me want to scrap everything and go die in a ditch.

“But there’s some work needed on the dialogue, and in a few other places.” He highlights the faulty sections, which I notice take up almost the entire draft.

I start getting defensive at how much he thinks I’ve done wrong. “And what do you know about writing that warrants me paying attention to your advice?” I ask angrily.

He replies, “I don’t, but I know how to read, so I’m offering you this advice as a consumer. And also, I noticed a repetition of a trope you used inThe Untimely Death of the Count, which seems repetitive, and…why are you looking at me like that?”

I blink rapidly at him. “I had no idea you read my work.”

“I own every single book you’ve published, Emma. My favorite isMurder in Paris.”

“We barely sold any copies of that book,” I say. I had no idea he even knew that book existed. It did so badly that most copies had to be taken off the bookshelves.

Jonathan looks away. “I loved it. I can’t begin to explain how brilliant it is, and it bugs me to know that it’s not as successful as your first book. I mean, I understand the appeal ofThe Talking Gun,it’s a classic, but nothing beats your last two publications. And this…I just know this will blow me away.”

My heart soars at his words. I had no idea Jonathan knew my books so well. I feel like I’m about to cry.

“Maybe you’re not as annoying as I thought,” I say, smiling. Jonathan smiles back before grabbing a pen and paper to write down what he thinks of my work so far.

Surprisingly, all his points are valid, and I’m already picturing how I’ll make the dialogue sound more natural.

“Jonathan, if I had the money, I’d hire you to be my editor,” I say, meaning it truthfully.

Jonathan laughs, his eyes twinkling. “It’ll be an honor to work for you, with money or not.”

My heart does the stupidest thing right then—it bursts into a million tiny butterflies, and I can’t begin to explain why.

***

Mia thinks it’s a good idea to go wedding dress shopping instead of settling for the first wedding dress I see. She doesn’t want any reminders that it’s all fake, because to her, it’s still her best friend’s wedding.

“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” I groan, following her to another dress shop.

“Didn’t you have a dream wedding dress when you were younger?” Mia asks, and I nod. She knows I did.

I stomp my feet like a child. “But this is different! It’s not a real wedding, so I’m not going to treat it like one.”

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