Page 12 of Loving Words
“Pig head.”
“Brilliant,” I said, and before she could say more, I asked, “What about chicken noodle soup to warm everyone up with the incoming storm?”
Kennedy rolled her eyes and squatted in front of a cabinet. “We’ll want the Instant Pot to speed it along.”
I grabbed seasonings and set them on the counter before opening the fridge and grabbing a package of thawed chicken. “Does Gran have a bag of frozen vegetables we can add to it?”
“I’ll look.”
“What were you working on earlier?” I asked as I gathered the other ingredients.
Kennedy shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing. You were quite invested and equally frustrated.”
Time passed without her answering my question. We moved around each other, small touches igniting the lust boiling in my gut. At this rate, I wouldn’t survive the holiday with the family without blue balls or attempting to bend her over and feeling her soft pussy squeezing around my cock.
With the food in the pot, I returned to the table, hoping some time away would cool my overheated engines. The woman was scrambling my brains. There was no way I’d be able to concentrate on my novel. I pulled up my email on my laptop and set out to reply to my literary agent.
“A Queen’s Move, really? I’d never have guessed you for a romance reader,” Kennedy said, laughter lacing each word.
I followed her line of sight and spotted the paperback, then pulled the fabric over and covered the book. As usual, my hackles rose at the ignorant belief that men didn’t read romance, let alone write it. “Am I not allowed to read a book?”
Kennedy scoffed. “I didn’t say that. I guess I’m just surprised you have a popular romance author’s book in your bag. Maybe OnlyFans not doing it for you, so you’ve had to turn to mommy porn?”
My nostrils flared. “Mommy porn? Have you read this one?” I asked, knowing full well she hadn’t because the release wasn’t for another two months.
“I don’t read smut.”
With that, I pushed up from my seat. I didn’t bother replying to her but rather grabbed the jacket I’d hung up only an hour earlier and escaped the room.
Societal stereotypes blatantly described men as inept at romantic gestures. When I’d managed to garner the attention and acceptance into a large publishing house, they’d persuaded me into using a female pen name because of the stigma associated with male romance writers.
How many times had I seen screenshots of sex scenes written by males passed around social media? Hundreds if not thousands of times. They were never in a positive light or even pointing out how sexy the scene was. Each time, the post was made to describe males as incompetent creatures. Don’t get me wrong; there were cringe-worthy scenes out there, but they could have been written by a woman just as easily as a man.
If my fans only knew the love scenes they often referred to as sexy-as-fuck in my reader group had been written by a man, they’d blow their tops—figuratively of course.
Then there was the usage of the word smut. I personally had never been a fan of it, which made me think of dirty taboo things. My books had plots and open-door sex scenes. For some of my readers, they were the only intimacy they got to experience. For others, it was a positive image of sexuality they unfortunately hadn’t either experienced or seen in life. I applauded the industry for taking back the word, but it didn’t stop my knee-jerk negativity associated with it. One day I hoped it provided the positive shining light women’s sexuality deserved.
The sore spot Kennedy had jabbed her figurative finger into bled with each step I took around the property. For a moment, I debated chopping more wood, but I didn’t want to risk injuring my wrists ahead of a deadline. I was merely one man in a vast pool of injustice against my gender’s standing within the romance community.
At the thought, I envisioned a boxer romance. Perhaps the man was pigeonholed as a dumb-as-rocks athlete as opposed to the literal genius he was. The idea spun its intricate web, spurning me to pull out my phone.
I opened my voice note app and proceeded to dictate every angle I could consider about Manny, my fictional boxer. Wandering the property, I became lost in the words and the fictional world I was creating.
Sometime later, I peered up at the sky and noted daylight was waning at an alarming pace. More time had passed than I’d thought in my pursuit of fresh air. If I stayed out in the elements much longer, it wouldn’t matter how many layers of clothes I wore. Growing up in Connecticut would only get me so far.
As I pushed open the cabin door, heat enveloped me as the delicious aromas of pasta sauce and bread greeted me. I hung up the jacket I’d donned at some point during my dictation and set my boots on the waterproof mat in the mudroom. I made my way to the fireplace and stretched my cold hands toward the heat.
“Where the fuck did you go, man?” Harrison asked. “Kennedy said you took off without eating lunch. The soup was fantastic by the way.”
Turning my head slowly, I peered from the fire to my friend and back to the flames licking the brick stones of the fireplace. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“Fine, don’t mention what put you in a mood. Gran seems to think it’s something Kennedy said or did.”
“Jack!” Gran called. “Oh, good. I was beginning to worry. Would you like some hot tea before dinner? You must be a frozen popsicle by now.”
Flashing her my charming grin, I said, “I’m good, Gran, but thank you.”
