Page 41 of Guys Can't Write Romance
“Oh, right,” she said, glancing around at the plastic cups and beer taps. “Not that kind of bar.”
“Nope. But they do have Stella and Sam Adams on tap.”
“Which one’s better?”
“I prefer Stella.”
“Let’s do Stella then.” She smoothed her napkin, arranging it precisely under her drink coaster, a move that earned an amused smirk from Chad.
Chad flagged down a waitress and ordered a round for both of them. As the waitress headed off to fill their orders, Chad turned to Daisy.
“What changed your mind?”
“Watching you write almost three pages in the time it took me to write one sad paragraph. And that was with you stopping at least three times to check out girls in bikinis.”
“Research.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right. Research.”
“So, you’re going for the full immersive experience.”
“Why not? It worked for Hemingway.”
“Should I get us some cigars, too?”
Daisy snorted. “Not there yet.”
The waitress returned shortly with their beers, and Chad held his out. “To new experiences?”
“To not regretting this and having to kill Chad.”
“I can drink to that.”
They both raised their glasses and clinked them together. Daisy took a cautious sip, then a longer one. It was cold and refreshing in the afternoon heat, and she had to admit it wasn’t unpleasant.
As the afternoon rolled on, the minutes slipped into hours without Daisy even realizing it. The bar grew more crowded as the workday ended, with locals and tourists alike seeking refreshment and ocean views. Someone switched the music to reggae, creating a laid-back rhythm that seemed to sync with the sound of waves in the distance.
Somewhere after her second beer (a move she blamed entirely on Chad), Daisy found herself jotting down notes and bits ofdialog for scenes she hadn’t gotten to yet, then returning to scenes she had been stuck on earlier. Her usually meticulous handwriting had grown looser, more flowing, and she was scribbling in the margins ideas for later chapters. She was mid-sentence on one of those scenes when she noticed something. For the first time in ages, writing felt easy.
When she glanced at Chad, he was mid-chuckle as he re-read something he’d written. His hair was slightly mussed from running his hands through it while working, a habit she’d noticed over the hours, and his sunglasses now hung from the collar of his t-shirt.
“Hey, Chad, can I pick your brain on something?” she said, in a lapse of judgment she blamed entirely on the beers.
“What is it?” He looked up, genuinely curious.
“It’s the setup for my characters. And if you tell me to add a tree monster, I’ll throw my beer on you.”
He grinned. “No promises, but go ahead.”
“So, as you know, my story’s set in the world of minor-league baseball. My heroine’s a journalist, who’s assigned to cover a charity gala for her local minor-league team. That’s where she meets Rick, my male lead. He’s one of the players.”
Chad took a gulp of beer, wiping foam from his upper lip. “Tell me about Rick.”
“He’s a good man. Stable. Driven.”
“Safe?”
“What’s wrong with him being safe?”
