Page 59 of Honk if You Love Real Men (Tempting SEALs 1)

And most of all, she hated her most embarrassing dirty secret: that she couldn’t write unless she had a man in her life.

“Win! Baby!” Artie met her at the entrance to his office suite as he always did, standing up on tiptoe to kiss her cheek, guiding her through the mahogany doors and sending Betsy for decaf lattes. “Come on in, sweets. How’ve you been? How come you didn’t return my calls from the Berkshires?”

Win cocooned herself in Artie’s creamy white leather sofa and tried to find a place to hide her briefcase. She gave up, propping the leather-encased, half-written pile of crap against the coffee-table leg in full view. There was no escaping the inevitable. “I don’t like to bother you on vacation.”

Artie sniffed and waved his hand. “I wouldn’t call you if I didn’t want to talk, now, would I?” He smiled at her, his mischievous old eyes narrowing into wrinkly slits behind his glasses. He laughed. “You’re that unhappy with the script? You know, we can always send it directly to the studio and they’ll assign a rewrite team.”

Win’s head snapped to attention. “I’d rather be eaten by a pack of rabid dingos, and you know it.”

“Same difference.” Artie often amused himself, and this morning was no exception. After a few moments he stopped chortling and patted Win’s stocking-clad knee. “Let’s have it. Let’s see the script, babycakes.”

“It’s not done.”

Artie’s pleasant expression evaporated, and he glowered at her over the top of his thick-rimmed glasses. She could see the lamplight reflecting dead center on his bald little head. “This is not good, dear,” he said.

“You’ve already read it?”

Artie shook his head with disappointment. “You can’t be late on this one, sweetheart. They’re nearly pissing themselves waiting for this script. Production budgeting is done. It’s in the pipeline. I promised them one more month, doll—four weeks, I said, and Maria would have it in her greedy little manicured hand.”

Win swallowed hard. If Artie Jacobs told executive producer Maria Chen that something would happen, it would happen. That’s what made Artie what he was—the most powerful literary agent on the East Coast and Win’s own personal fairy-freakin’-godfather. Nine years ago, the man lifted one of her action adventure scripts from the slush pile and made her a very happy—and financially solvent—girl. If it weren’t for Artie, she’d still be mixing cosmos at Lower-The-Bar in Chelsea.

“Four weeks?” The outburst sounded whiny even to Win’s own ears.

“Hand it over.”

Win unzipped the Gucci case, loving the feel of well-crafted steel and soft-as-butter leather, knowing she’d soon be toting Land’s End canvas if she didn’t get her act together. She handed him the severely deficient pile of paper.

Artie flipped through it, his expert eye grazing over dialogue and stage directions, devouring what she’d spent nearly six months ripping out of her brain and soul.

“So where’s the sex?” Artie flipped through the pages like Evelyn Wood on poppers. “I see no sex here, doll.”

Win scrunched up her nose and shrugged. “Yeah. About that. I haven’t felt motivated lately.”

Artie placed the half-script on the glass coffee table between then. “You know, Winifred, you have the worst love life of any single woman I have ever had the pleasure to meet.”

“How sweet of you to say.”

“Look at you—you are stunning. Bright and charming and what—? What are you now, thirty-five or something?”

“I’m thirty-three.” God.

“You go through men faster than Barbara goes through hundreds at Barney’s.” Artie sighed. “How many suitors have you deemed unworthy so far this calendar year? Five? Six? Seven, for God’s sake? I’ve lost count.”

Win didn’t appreciate that comment, though, truthfully, s

he’d lost count, too. But aside from Carly, she didn’t let other people talk to her with such bluntness. A girl expected that from her best friend, but not necessarily from her agent.

“You need a change of scenery.” Artie got up and headed for his speaker phone. “Betsy, bring in the lattes and get my sister on the line if you please.”

Win was relieved to hear the lattes were coming, but a bit confused about what Artie’s sister could possibly have to do with their current dilemma.

Betsy came in, smiling, and placed two big white stoneware mugs and saucers on the glass-top table. She winked at Win and headed toward the door. “Your sister is on line two,” she said to Artie in passing.

Win half listened to Artie on the phone as she sipped the hot, sweet froth, letting her eyes stray to the coffee table. The stark white pages of the screenplay mocked her, cursed at her, reminded her that she was washed up. Her stomach twisted and her heart tripped. Her left eyelid twitched. Four weeks. Four insanely short weeks made up of seven days each.

“We’re all set, sweets.” Artie came back to his leather chair. “Day after tomorrow, I’ll have a car pick you up at your place. All you need to bring is your laptop and an extra battery, and some comfy clothes. Oh, and I’d throw in a couple of sweaters because it gets chilly at night.”

Win held the latte an inch from her lips, too stunned to either sip or put it down. None of this was registering in her brain as information she would need to know, for any reason. “Exactly where does it get chilly?”

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