Page 17 of Book Boyfriends
A loud smack reverberates through the door. “Stop smelling her. It’s ungentlemanly,” Lord James scolds. “Dogs are for the hunt, not for wooing ladies.”
Wooing ladies?
“Want to find out what dogs like me can do, Lord Fancy Pants?” Lars grits.
“Beyond chewing my boots, I doubt you can do much harm,” he says haughtily.
“I’ll shove that boot up your?—”
“Stop! This isn’t helping,” Owen interjects. “Georgia, I promise that you’re safe with us.”
“Whoareyou?” I press tighter against the door.
“We told you.”
“Oh yeah, you’re my fictional characters come to life.” An unhinged laugh falls out of me.
“Fictional characters?” Lord James’s protest is filled with disdain as if holding up a smelly sock. “I assure you, my lady, we are indeed real.”
“I don’t believe you!” As the words leave my mouth, there’s a nip of uncertainty.
The resemblance is uncanny. The boyishly sweet curve of Owen’s smile. The seductive haughtiness of Lord James’s voice. The primal sexuality that radiates from Lars. Even their mannerisms. It’s not just things in my book but from inside me. So much about the characters I create live off the page. Little tics or parts of their backstory help me craft them but readers never see. Things only me and the characters would know.
“Georgia, how can we help you feel safe?” Sincerity braids around every syllable of Owen’s question.
The fear coiled tight within me unspools just a bit. While still scared, something inside me recognizes these men. Not as perfect replicas but as…
“Prove it,” I breathe, not believing the request that falls from my lips.
“Prove what?”
“That you’re…well, you.”
There’s a beat of silence. I’m sure they are standing there, silently wondering how they can meet my request. For a moment, I wonder the same thing. How does someone prove not just who they are but they are real and not merely a vivid delusion?
Worrying my lower lip, I scan the room searching for an answer. My vision snags on the bookshelf in the corner. In the colorful spines of some of my favorite books sits a proof copy of each of my novels. I’d kept them like a trophy celebrating each book’s publication. At this moment the little trophies give me an idea.
“Lord James, what was the name of your first horse?”
In the first draft ofThe Duke’s Darling, Lord James tells Lady Cecily about his first horse. The scene, while sweet, did nothing to help move the narrative along, so I cut it after my first round of self-edits. Nobody saw it but me. I didn’t even save it for a special deleted scene bonus feature for my newsletter.
“Shakespeare,” he says.
I swallow thickly, not letting the correct answer smooth away the lingering doubt that this is real. “Owen, what was your favorite subject in school?”
After a short pause, he answers, “Chemistry. It’s just like baking.”
That’s only in my character analysis for Owen Baker. It’s based on something Hope always says, “Baking is chemistry, and cooking is mad science.” She’d provided consultation to addauthenticity to my small-town baker. There’s no way anyone else would know that.
“Her scent is less scared. More confused.” Lars’s whisper is gravelly.
“Stop smelling me, Lars!” I huff an annoyed breath.
“Ladies do not enjoy being smelled,” Lord James tuts.
“Your mother had no complaints,” Lars snarks back.
Oh, Lars.I let out a strangled laugh. There’s no need to test Lars. Those violet eyes. The way he can smell every emotion. That gruff timbre. His sarcastic quips. Most authors make the werewolf alpha all broody grumpster, but I made mine a protective snarkster.
