Page 4 of Guys Can’t Write Romance

“You’re doing this just to distract me, aren’t you?” Chad said, catching the ball as it fell through the net.

Rhino shot him a grin. “It’s working, too. So, what’s your answer?”

Chad groaned as he walked out to center court. “How many beers have I had in your hypothetical bar?”

“One,” Rhino said, stepping between Chad and the basket and extending his arms like a gorilla.

“Why only one?”

“The beer goggles need to be off for this.”

Chad took a breath and let out a long exhale. “I don’t know. Maybe. But then she’d open her mouth and start talking about color-coordinating closets, and I would be so out of there.”

“So, she’s not ugly.”

“I didn’t say she was.”

“You didn’t say she wasn’t either.”

“She’s cute. But the whole neurotic, OCD thing kills it for her. And now she’s going to screw up my book.”

“Describe her like you would in your book.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Let’s see your talents at work.”

Chad dribbled for a moment as he thought about it. “I don’t know; long, wavy brown hair, green eyes, short, petite. She’s not bad until you actually meet her.”

“You noticed her eyes?”

“Dude. She sits across the table from me. How am I not gonna notice?”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t give that ‘uh huh’ crap.”

Chad made a sudden fast break past Rhino and dribbled the ball in for a layup. The ball bounced off the backboard and dropped in through the net.

“That’s game,” Chad said, catching the ball as it dropped and spinning it on his finger. “Even with your distractions, you still suck.”

They headed over to the bleachers, where they grabbed towels and patted themselves down.

“So, you’re actually serious about this romance novel?” said Rhino.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Having to give up your man card, for starters,” Rhino said, opening a bottle of water and guzzling half of it, then pouring the rest over his head.

“Guys can write romance,” Chad said, opening his own bottle and guzzling down a gulp.

“Name one.”

Chad thought about it as he capped his bottle and set it on the bleacher. “The guy who wrote The Notebook.”

“A guy wrote that?”

“Yup.”

“Okay. That’s one.”

“And the guy who writes those books about teens with weird diseases and stuff.”

“What happened to you wanting to become Stephen King?”

“It’s just one contest. I prove to Daisy I’m the better writer, then boom! It’s back to real literature.”

“Have you even read a romance book?”

“Don’t have to. Tanya made me watch The Notebook with her back in college, so I know all there is to know.”

“The Notebook doesn’t count. Every girl makes her boyfriend watch it.”

“It’s still exposure to all the rules.”

“Now you’re just sounding like a nerd.”

Chad rolled his eyes. “Every genre has its rules. For romance, rule one is make girls cry. Rule two is make them cry some more. The end. I can Google the rest.”

Rhino chuckled. “Bro. This girl’s gonna kill you in the contest. And I’m gonna be there with a big I told you so.”

“Not a chance.”

“Seriously, bro. You might wanna get some help from her.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“Why not? You said she’s cute.”

“Dude. Her stories suck. She’s okay with the prose and structure parts, but her characters and dialog put you to sleep.”

“So do a trade-off. Your characters don’t totally suck, so help her with her characters, and have her help you with the mushy stuff.”

“You’re sounding like our group moderator.”

“She sounds like a smart woman.”

Chad shook his head. “Whatever, man. I’ll think about thinking about it.” He picked up a towel and wiped his face, pausing to watch several girls jog past on the bike path. “What time are we meeting the guys?”

“Sixish?”

Chad pulled out his collar and sniffed it. “Think we have time to shower?”

Rhino raised his arm and took a big whiff of his armpit. Judging by the sweat stains, it was probably toxic. “What for?”

The maitre d’ led Daisy and Ethan to a corner table at Lumière, the kind of restaurant where the menus didn’t list prices and the serving portions couldn’t feed a rabbit.

“Your table, Mr. Sterling,” the maitre d’ said with a slight bow.

Ethan straightened his already straight tie and nodded. “Thank you, Pierre.”

As they sat down, Daisy noticed the beautiful place settings, gleaming silverware arranged precisely alongside delicate china. It was almost perfect, but not quite. The dessert spoon was angled slightly off. She fought the urge to fix it.

“This is lovely, Ethan,” Daisy said, smoothing her blue cocktail dress. She’d spent forty-five minutes picking it out, hoping it said ‘sophisticated’ without saying ‘desperate.’ As it turned out, she had no idea whether it said either of these, since Ethan didn’t even seem to notice.

“Would you believe I had to make the reservation three weeks ago,” Ethan said, taking pride in the restaurant’s exclusivity.

Of course he had. Daisy smiled, and when Ethan wasn’t looking, quickly adjusted her dessert spoon to align with the others.

The sommelier appeared at their table a moment later. “Good evening, Mr. Sterling. Would you like to see the wine list?”

“No need,” Ethan said. “We’ll have the 2015 Chateau Margaux.”

The sommelier’s eyebrows rose in appreciation. “An excellent choice, sir.”

As the sommelier headed off, Daisy leaned forward, no longer able to hold back her excitement about the contest. “I have some really exciting news I’ve been dying to tell you about.”

He looked up from his menu. “Oh?”

She gave a big nod. “Mags — she’s the moderator of my writers’ group — told us about a contest Heartstrings Publishing is holding for romance comedy manuscripts.

The winner gets a real publishing contract.

” Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “This could be it, Ethan, the break I’ve been waiting for. ”

“This is about your writing?” he said, his dulled reaction nowhere near matching her excitement.

Daisy looked dumbfounded. “Yes. If I win, I could get my new book published by a real publisher. It could be my first step towards becoming a full-time author.”

“And if you don’t win?” Ethan said, his tone measured.

The light dimmed in her eyes. “Then I guess I’ll self-publish again and keep trying. But at least it’s a chance.”

Ethan sipped his water. “I just don’t want to see you get your hopes up and then dashed. I assume there will be a lot of other, more established writers you’ll be competing against.”

Why did he always do this? Daisy regretted ever bringing it up. “There will be. But I think this book has a solid shot at winning.”

He nodded. “How many books have you written?”

“This will be my fourth.”

“And how many copies of your last book did you sell?”

“About three hundred,” she said. “But that was without marketing support.”

“And how much did you make after expenses?”

Daisy’s shoulders tensed. “That’s not the point. Building a readership takes time.”

“I’m just trying to be practical,” Ethan said gently. “I checked the sales figures for your self-published books. The rankings suggest they’re not exactly flying off the shelves.”

A cold knot formed in Daisy’s stomach. “You researched my book sales?”

“I was curious about the financial viability of this hobby you seem to be spending so much time on,” Ethan said, as if this were perfectly normal behavior.

“It’s not always about the money,” Daisy said, rearranging her fork so it lined up exactly with the knife.

“Of course not,” Ethan said. “But hobbies are meant to complement your career, not replace it.”

Hobbies. He’d said it twice now in the span of less than thirty seconds, and it stung both times.

She had stayed up until 2 a.m. just last night refining her character arcs.

She’d skipped lunches to work on dialogue.

She’d attended workshops and conferences, spending her teacher’s salary on craft books and editorial feedback.

At that moment, the wine arrived, and Ethan performed the tasting ritual with practiced expertise. Daisy watched his hands, steady, confident. So different from the inky fingers of the writers in her group, especially Chad’s perpetually smudged ones.

Where had that thought come from?

“The Crawford acquisition is moving forward,” Ethan said, smoothly changing the subject. “I’ve been leading the due diligence team, and Martin was very impressed with my financial models.”

“That’s great,” Daisy said, having to force any enthusiasm. She wanted to steer the conversation back to her writing, to make him understand that this wasn’t just a pastime. It was part of who she was.

Right then, her phone vibrated. Daisy glanced down to see a text from Chloe: ‘zzzzzzzzzzzzzz’

She discreetly put her phone away. “You do know that it’s my dream to become a full-time writer?”

“And I can appreciate that,” he said. “But surely we can agree that financial security should be the priority. You’ve seen firsthand what happens when that foundation crumbles.”

The reference to her family’s struggles after her father’s death felt like a low blow, even if Ethan hadn’t meant it that way.

Her parents’ love story had been far from perfect.

Military life was hard on marriages, but they’d had something real.

Something passionate. Her mother still kept her father’s letters in a box beside her bed.

Her phone buzzed twice in rapid succession.

“Do you need to get that?” Ethan asked, a note of disapproval in his voice.

“No, it’s just Chloe being silly,” Daisy said, turning her phone face-down.

The waiter arrived to take their orders. Ethan promptly selected the duck confit, while Daisy couldn’t decide between the salmon and the risotto.

“The salmon is excellent here,” Ethan offered. “Very reliable choice.”

Reliable. It was the highest compliment in Ethan’s vocabulary.

“I’ll have the risotto, please,” Daisy said, feeling suddenly rebellious.

After the waiter left, Ethan reached across the table and took her hand.

“I actually have some news,” he said, his expression softening. “That’s why I wanted us to have a special dinner tonight.”