The True Love Experiment

An unexpected upside to bringing a Hot DILF to my first signing in months is that readers are much less concerned with when my next book will be published and much more interested in who the giant man lingering in the background is. There were a few murmurs and glances during the Q and A portion of the event, but by the time the signing starts, every person in line is trying to figure out who the six-foot-five piece of ass over there talking to my dad is.

I know this because they’re all breaking their necks trying to keep track of him as the line weaves around bookshelves. Several have come right out and asked me. My answers have ranged from “He’s my security detail” to “He’s my mail-order groom.”

Listen, I get it. Catching sight of the Casual DILF on my doorstep earlier caught me off guard. Gone was the man in the starched shirt sitting in a pristine office. This version of Hot Brit looks more like a hot lumberjack, in a soft faded flannel shirt and worn jeans with much-loved sneakers. His hair falls over his forehead; his eyes seem unbelievably bright for someone standing in the dark corner of a bookstore. In One for the Road, I described the eyes of the hero, Jack Sparling, this way—“illuminated from within,” I think it was—but I’ve never really seen it in person.

Except—

I’m mentally jerked backward, tunneled in reverse to the moment with Jess a couple months ago in the bar when I looked across the room and met eyes with the man in the suit, rumpled hair, jaw like a blade. He’d looked at me like he wanted to meet in the hallway and fuck me into next month.

Is this really the same guy? I can’t believe all this was hiding under that stiff, gelled hair, a bright toothpaste-ad smile, and a crisp black suit.

I look down at my lap, daring the flutter to linger. But it fades out, and I’m dropped back into the present day when the reader in front of me asks me if I’m okay.

“Gas,” I tell her with a grin, and she laughs a familiar oh, Fizzy laugh and takes her signed books. But I’m still feeling the echo of interest in my lower torso. Was the pants flutter because I was thinking about Jack Sparling? His sex scenes were some of the most fun to write, that dirty little rascal.

Or was it… from him? Intrigued, I look up across the room at Connor again.

He’s so taken with my dad he’s barely seemed to register how much mental salivation is being aimed in his direction. I knew he’d get along with the unstoppable Dr. Ming Chen. My father is an objectively charismatic man with a million stories for every situation and has the most infectious laugh you’ve ever heard in your lifetime—it’s this sort of bursting belly laugh that honestly should be recorded and trademarked as Happiness?. But what surprises me is how much talking Connor seems to be doing. I don’t see Dad waxing poetic, telling jokes, doing all the heavy conversational lifting. When I glance over in tiny, furtive glimpses, I see Connor doing much of the chitchatting and Dad is cracking up. Almost like Connor’s got stories.

Almost like he’s… interesting.

He’s also grinning, and the way it exaggerates the lines around his eyes and softens the angles of his face makes a flutter happen up near my chest, too.

But the heart flutter is doused by a cool, reactive flush spreading across my skin, panicky and jarring. Wait, my brain screeches. I don’t want to actually like him.

“Who is that guy over there with Papa Chen?” a reader asks, and slides an impressive stack of books onto the tabletop. A quick inspection tells me the only ones she’s missing are from the High Seas series, which, honestly, is full of fantastically filthy pirates, and it is a truth universally acknowledged that pirates are not for everyone. I won’t hold it against her.

“He’s my dad’s new boyfriend,” I answer, and this earns me another oh, Fizzy laugh, especially because Dad chose this moment to come kiss my cheek and tell me he’s heading home. Clearly, if he heard me announce that he has a new boyfriend, he knows to ignore it. He gets an enthusiastic burst of applause as he ducks out of the bookstore.

“Who is he really?” the reader prods, leaning down so I can confide in her.

We haven’t announced anything about the show yet, so it’s not like I can tell her specifics. But saying he’s a friend would raise too many eyebrows.

“He’s on the publishing team.” I give an apologetic wince like I know she wants a juicier answer. But the time it takes to make my way through her stack of books gives me the perfect opportunity to work past my weird ew, emotions moment.

This is good, actually, I tell myself, signing my name with a flourish. This isn’t about emotions! You’re just experiencing a long overdue Fizzgina reawakening. You need to get the flutters back if you’re going to have any success on this show. You need to get the flutters back if you have any hopes of writing romance again! It’s okay that Connor is good-looking. The fact that you notice means you’re one step closer to being back to the old Fizzy!

The pep talk works. When I hand the hefty stack back to the woman, I feel the twinkle of a real smile in my eyes.



* * *



I find Connor after the crowd has thinned, standing alone in the horror section, awestruck as he turns a gilded hardcover over in his hands. He looks like he’s about to lick it.

“Do we need to run a DNA compatibility test between you and that special edition of ’Salem’s Lot?”

“I didn’t know they released this,” he says, running a long finger down the spine. “This was one of the first books I can remember being unable to put down. This edition is gorgeous.”

Why is it so sexy when he says gorgeous like that? Like he’s staring down at a lover, overcome? I was hoping the power of his attractiveness would lessen, up close—bad skin, weird odor, yellowed teeth that I’d somehow missed—but I’m irritated to discover that none of those things are true. He smells like yummy man and the trace of whatever deodorant he’s wearing. I bet it’s called Ice Zone or Sports Hero or Silver Blade, and I’m disgusted with myself for liking it. I can’t even locate the Hot Millionaire Executive archetype in Connor anymore. He is all soft and brawny. Soft Lumberjack is his new name. Why does he ever approach that head of hair with even a drop of gel? I might have to take one for the team and pretend I know him well enough to advise him on styling.

I wonder idly, on a scale of Get It Girl to Only If You Never Want to Work Again, how bad it would be to sleep with my reality romance show producer. Get back on the horse and whatnot.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I do a hard mental reboot. I’m glad to see the old Fizzy rearing her head, but she’s a bossy one, and even I know that hooking up with Connor Prince III would be not only professionally brainless but probably astonishingly mediocre. It would have to be, right? His hot lumberjack vibe today is likely a one-off while his suits and Lego hair are at the cleaners. My first sex after the dry spell should leave me walking with a limp and recuperating for an entire weekend with a giant bottle of Gatorade and Nancy Meyers movies for company.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Like what?” I ask, immediately swapping out whatever my expression was doing for a relaxed smile.

He frowns, his gaze doing a brief circuit of my face, searching for whatever he saw a moment ago. “Never mind.”

Redirect time: “Did you have fun today?”

“I did,” he admits. “You’re funny. Your readers are so enthusiastic. I can tell you genuinely love being with them.”