Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
In fact, it’s borderline unfair.
They’re everything you could possibly want, and more: reliable, charming, effortlessly funny and oh-so interesting. They’re the perfect kind of morally grey; and even when they’re bad, they’re redeemable enough to make it all alright. They seem to always know exactly what to say, consistently nail the perfect timing and somehow look ridiculously hot no matter what they're wearing (or not wearing).
Real men, though? Real-life men?
They can’t even compare.
No wonder I’ve been single forever.
To some, it might be a sad thought; but for me, it’s a relief more than anything else. After all, it’s not as if my book boyfriends would roll their eyes when I talk about stats or try to make me feel bad for having opinions.
No, they just get me. Always.
And though I know that it’s ridiculously late and I should really try to get some sleep, I push those logical thoughts away and relish in this addictive feeling.
This is it. This is the breakthrough I needed.
I’m moving forwards. My characters are moving forwards.
And best of all, I don’t have to deal with real men to make any of it happen.
With an excited laugh, I turn my attention away from my notepad and dive into my laptop instead, already lost in the new direction I’ve found for the story. The plot twists are coming fast and furious, and I can’t wait to see where this takes me.
*
Two days later, I find myself hunched over my laptop again, fingers flying across the keys as the words pour out in a frenzy of excitement.
I’ve hit a groove with my novel. Something I haven’t felt in ages.
All previous thoughts about my main character’s love interest? Ha, forget him. He’s nothing but a distant memory.
The revelation that my villain - the brooding, angry guy with a tendency to be morally grey - is actually the perfect match for my heroine has zapped a whole load of new energy into me and the story.
Who knew I’d have a thing for bad boys who are occasionally good?
I lean back in my chair and give myself a mental high-five for finally making some progress in my book. My word count has practically doubled, the plot’s picking up, and the ideas are constantly flowing.
Not bad for a woman who spends most of her time drowning in football stats and gossip from men who think it’s cute to underestimate her.
I glance at my phone, and the screen lights up with a voice message from Richard. I swipe it open, expecting some sort of lecture or task that’s going to require all my patience and restraint.
Sinclair! he greets, sounding uncharacteristically chirpy. I’ve got a new assignment for you.
I roll my eyes, even though no one’s around to see it.
“Of course you do,” I mutter under my breath.
It’s a recovery press piece after Roma’s defeat, he continues, as if I didn’t already know how terribly they played. You’ll be covering the players’ visit to a local children’s home. Charity work, community service - you know the drill. Get those good vibes flowing after the loss.
I can practically hear Richard’s self-satisfied smile.
Because if there’s one thing I know about my editor, it’s that he loves making me do fluff pieces.
I pause for a moment, considering how much of my soul I’m willing to sell for this job.
You’ll be going with Mark, Richard adds, his tone still way too chipper for my liking. He’ll handle the photo ops. You just get some quotes from the players and write something inspirational. I know you’re good at that.
Sure. I’m fantastic at writing articles that are 80% fluff and 20% actual football knowledge.
“Great,” I mutter, already picturing the day’s events.
No doubt it will play out with Mark smiling like a robot in front of cameras while pretending to care about the kids and me trying not to gag on the forced positivity while thinking about how much I’d rather be here, working on the next chapter of my book.
But the worst part?
I already know who’s going to be there.
The one person I absolutely do not want to see again.
Matteo.
Of course he’ll be there, recovered from his defeat and grinning like the cocky asshole he is. I can picture it now: the messy hair, the sharp jawline and the smirk that says he knows exactly how irresistible he is while he takes one photo with the kids and then disappears.
Just thinking about it makes me want to crawl into a hole and never come out.
It’s time to face the inevitable, though.
So I shove my laptop shut, quickly get dressed into something slightly more casual, grab my things and move to leave.
But not before I glance at my reflection in the mirror.
“You’ve got this,” I mutter under my breath as I brush through my auburn hair and pull it up into a tight, high-ponytail. “Just smile, nod, ask the right questions, and pretend like you’re completely over the fact that Matteo Rossi is a literal human god walking among mere mortals.”