𝘎𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥, my publisher said. 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘫𝘰, he added. 𝘉𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥, he suggested. Oh, sexy shenanigans, was I inspired. Drew Carolla would do that to a woman. Reclusive and brooding, an ex-pilot-come-sexy-woodcutter-come-luxury-wedding-venue-owner-come… 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.
Writing romance doesn’t come easy when you don’t have a muse, and I was on a deadline. Four weeks to write my next bestseller or face being dropped by my publisher. Thankfully, watching Drew chop wood, sweaty and shirtless, soon had the words flowing like water through Cornish coastline rock pools.
But Drew had his own stories to tell. Why did his luxury wedding venue no longer host weddings? Why did he scoff at the idea of romance? And why, despite that, did he look at me like he wanted to wake up on Christmas morning and find me naked in his bed?
Conundrums. Drew was full of them. Too bad I wasn’t writing psychological thrillers.
Would Drew Carolla, a man who didn’t believe in romance, inspire my 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 love story or leave me with unfinished chapters?