Page 3 of Just My Type
Just my type, but so completely not mine, I remind myself, picking up her hand to study her wrist.
“Did he hurt you?” I ask gently, running a hand over the thin skin on the inside of her wrist.
Something about the question, or the way I’m touching her, seems to activate Hannah. She shoots to her feet so fast I almost careen backwards.
“I’m fine,” Hannah spits, brushing off her dress. “I don’t need saving.”
I stand, keeping my eyes on hers. “I’m not here to save you—you look like you can save yourself just fine. But I saw him put his hands on you, and, well, I can’t see that and do nothing. I’m just not that kind of guy.”
Hannah slams her hands on her hips, her eyes shooting lasers. “And exactly what kind of guy are you?”
I go for casual even though what I am is undeniably turned on by Hannah’s fire, with a side of worry in my gut because she is probably going home to Asshole McAnger Issues tonight, and no part of me likes that. “I’m just a guy, standing in front of a girl, asking her if she wants to get another drink at the bar.”
Hannah narrows her eyes at me. “Are you really quotingNotting Hillto me right now?”
I grin, thrilled she got the reference. “Gorgeous, if one has a choice between quotingNotting Hilland not quotingNotting Hill, you quoteNotting Hill. It’s Julia Roberts at her absolute finest.”
“Most people say that’sPretty Woman.”
I shrug. “Most people would be wrong. So, drink? It’s been a long fucking day. And I can get Ben to grab some ice for your wrist.”
I mentally kick myself in the balls the second Hannah’s face goes stony. That was exactly the wrong thing to say. “My wrist is none of your business. None of this is your business. I’m fine, and I have to get back to my sister. Just forget what you saw and go find someone else to bother.”
With that, she sweeps past me, the smell of vanilla invading my senses as she walks away, hips swinging in her black dress and her golden-brown ponytail bouncing. As I stand there, eyes glued to her back as I watch her go, I know two things with absolute certainty. Hannah Evans has officially taken up permanent residence in my brain, and I still really, really need to pee.
CHAPTER ONE
HANNAH
When one of your characters steals one of the most famous lines in the entire romcom cinematic universe, it’s definitely time for a break.
“Seriously, Hannah?” I mutter. “You complete me? Way to be fucking original.”
I shove back from my desk in disgust, pushing up to stand and eyeing my laptop like it personally wronged me, which, honestly, it kind of has.
Grabbing a Twizzler from the ever-present pile on my desk, I bite into it, letting the sugar soothe me as I ruminate for the zillionth time over where it all went wrong. I used to know how to write books. I was pretty good at it. But for the last bunch of months, I can’t seem to locate my talent.
It’s pissing me off as much as it’s scaring me shitless.
I thought I would find it when I came to Boston a few months ago on a spur-of-the-moment trip to visit my sister, Jo, thinking that getting away from my Pittsburgh home, which had become more like a prison of anxiety and dread, would make my characters start talking to me again.
Then, I thought I would find it when I went back to Pittsburgh and, at long last, shed two hundred pounds of anger-issue ridden manbaby.
And finally, I thought I would find it when I came back to Boston, relationshipless and finally free to make my life whatever I wanted it to be. Grinning with the joy of it all, I walked in the front door of my borrowed apartment, dropped everything, and made a beeline for my desk. Excitement thrumming in my veins, I opened my laptop, poised my hands over the keys, and…nothing.
No funny character banter. No witty text threads. Not a single great love confession. No words at all. Not even one.
Instead, I was treated to my ex-boyfriend’s voice in my head and all the subtle and not so subtle ways he used to belittle my writing. Make me feel like what I did was unimportant. Small. Embarrassing.
Your little writing hobby.
It’s just romance, Hannah. Not the next great American novel.
When are you going to start writing real books that people actually want to read?
And on and on.
That was two months ago, and all I’ve managed since then are a few disjointed paragraphs I write and rewrite, over and over again, with Brett’s voice playing in my head, until I have to resist the urge to hurl my laptop straight out the window.
