Page 1 of Pick Me

“Underwear or panties?”

My roommate, Meredith, paused with her hand hovering over her gym bag. “You mean to wear?”

“No.” I shook my head and pointed at the mostly blank page on my laptop. “The words. ‘Underwear’ sounds clinical, but ‘panties’

is sort of infantilizing. I struggle with what to use every time. It’s not like I can write, ‘Austin fisted her undergarment and ripped it clean off.’ That doesn’t sound sexy.”

“Um,” Meredith considered it. “Knickers, maybe?”

“Too old-timey.”

“Foundationwear?”

“My heroine is a cook on a ranch in Montana; I doubt she wears Spanx.” I sighed and fell back against the lumpy futon in our

living room.

“What’s this one called again?” she asked as she resumed packing. “ The Rancher’s Sassy Fake Bride and the Doorstep Baby ?”

“Close.” I sighed. “It’s The Montana Cowboy and His Fake Fiancée’s Baby Surprise .”

Meredith zipped her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “And how many words have you written?”

I squinted at the screen. “Let’s see . . . As of this moment, one hundred seventy-five words.”

She let out a low whistle. “Okay, and when’s it due?”

“Two months. I have sixty days to write sixty-five thousand words.”

Admitting it out loud sent my stomach into a seasick dip. I had never, ever let a deadline get away from me like this. But then again, I’d also never tried to write a steamy happily ever after while

nursing a thoroughly fractured heart.

Meredith walked over to my makeshift office and perched on the edge of the chair opposite me, so as not to disturb the notebooks

piled there. Our brick-walled apartment was long on charm but short on space, which meant that the shared areas did triple

duty. Meredith could’ve easily tapped the Bank of Mom and Dad and moved out on her own ages ago, but she was determined to

scrimp and save her way to opening a Pilates studio all on her own. Which meant living like we were still in college even

though we were six years past graduation. It worked for me since there was no way I could afford solo rent with my by-the-job

lifestyle.

“Okay, that’s easy,” Meredith said. “A thousand or so words a day. You’ve got this.”

Her can-do, problem-solving approach to life was one of the many things I loved about her, but not in this moment.

I shoved my laptop to the side with a groan. “Sure, it sounds totally doable, but I just...” I flailed my hands around to try to convey my current helpless state.

The corners of her mouth turned down. “I know, and I’m sorry. What can I do to make it better?”

I frowned back at her. “Find my muse?”

Not being able to write was painful for me on a bunch of different levels, the primary one being the credit card bills shoved in the notebooks behind Meredith.

But it was more than just the terrifying financial implications of writer’s block.

I felt like I’d been born with a pencil in my hand.

I had diaries that dated back to when I was ten years old, detailing hot gossip like the weather

and how I did on my spelling tests. Writing was a way of making sense of my life and the world around me. I felt lucky to

consider it my career, even when my bills forced me to do the less glamorous stuff like write a press release for a new energy

drink called Heart Attack in a Can or edit an ebook about corporate HR policies.

My primary writing gig was ghostwriting cowboy romances for Liaison Publishing as Dakota Sinclair, which I’d hoped would eventually

transition into me finding the confidence to write under my own name. The drenched-in-family-drama book club read I’d written,

Truth and Beauty , had been good enough to score my agent, Celeste, but it had failed to sell, which basically crushed my spirit. In the meantime,

I needed to keep churning out books about lovestruck cowboys and their feisty fillies, both equine and human, without her

support, since I worked directly with Liaison. The books barely charted on Amazon, but Dakota was huge in Germany.

Meredith tipped her head. “Hold on a sec... You’re talking about ripping panties off, and you’re not even two hundred words

in. Does this one start with a sex scene?”

She looked a little scandalized at the thought. Meredith was Grace Kelly with biceps and undoubtedly the most prim and proper

bartender-slash-Pilates instructor in all Manhattan. The woman wore a slip if she thought a skirt was too sheer, and she’d perfected her “I’m so disappointed in you” look to deal with the pushy drunks

who hit on her at closing time.

“While I would love to open one of my books with hayloft cunnilingus,” I said for maximum shock value, “it doesn’t work in the genre.”

Meredith pretended to be scandalized even though she’d been subjected to plenty of spicy content as my beta reader.

“I was trying to jump-start myself by writing a sex scene,” I continued. “I thought it might help to at least get the first

one on the page since that part of the story is mechanics, you know? I can fill in the emotional beats later. His mouth goes

here, her hand goes there, sighs, flutters, penetration, orgasm, and scene .” I paused to consider my readership. “Or even sighs, flutters, fingers, mouth, orgasm, THEN penetration. But I can’t write

a thing. Have I even had sex? Because so far what I’ve got sounds like an Amish wedding night instruction manual.”

“Brooke,” she began gently. “It might help if you stopped being borderline agoraphobic and left the apartment, you know? Maybe

you can come to class with me a couple of times a week? It might get the blood flowing back to your brain.”

“I’m sorry but that’s never going to happen,” I replied quickly. “I know you’d make a huge deal out of me being there, and all your regulars would watch

me the whole time. Like, ‘Oh, I bet she’s super advanced because her roommate is an instructor. They probably do the hundred

every day before breakfast.’”

“And that’s why you’re a writer,” she mused with a smile. “You make up stories for every scenario.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I don’t own anything cute enough to wear to one of your classes,” I replied. “The answer will

always be no.”

“Maybe that’s the issue here?” Meredith said as she stood up. “You lead with no. Maybe you should try saying yes for a change?”

I opened my mouth to bicker with her, then snapped it shut. The woman knew how to drop a zinger.

“Is that really how I come across?” I asked tentatively.

“Not always, but ever since Leo...”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence.

It wasn’t like Leo and I had been together long, and we’d never even come close to admitting how we felt about each other

in the four months we’d hung out. But the man had outright wooed me like he’d studied romance novels. Not just the obvious stuff, like flowers and nice dinners. He was creative, like the

time he bought me the book about a French seamstress I’d mentioned in passing and tucked in a vintage postcard from Paris

as the bookmark. I’d used Google to translate the flowy script message on it and discovered that it was a love note from 1957,

addressed to ma moitié , “my other half.”

Four months wasn’t long enough to admit out loud that I was falling in love with him, but the words had been taking root in

my heart.

Until he ghosted me.

I thought I was going crazy at first, or he’d died and everyone knew but me. I was still mortified by how stalkerish I’d gotten

as I tried to put the pieces of his disappearance together. Finally, a photo on his Insta feed featuring a close-up shot of

his hand entwined with delicate, ballet slipper pink–nailed fingers solved the mystery for me.

He was alive and well, and I’d been replaced without an explanation. And now, weeks later, I was still questioning if anything

I’d experienced with him was real. Not exactly a great foundation for creating heartwarming HEAs.

“Mere, I don’t have the time to say yes to anything right now,” I protested weakly. “My deadline...”

“Yeah, but I’ve seen what happens when you’re inspired,” she replied.

“You plop down on that futon, go into the drone zone, and the next thing you know you’ve finished a couple billion words.

You can do this, Brooke.” Her eyes went soft as she watched me.

“You just need to find some sunshine, literal and metaphorical, and then your muse will find you.”

I hated the prickly sensation in my nose at her gentle coaching. Lately, my baseline reaction to anything emotional, from

reels with rescue dogs to feedback from my editor, was tears. I blamed Leo for leaving me feeling like the top layer of my

skin had been scrubbed off. Everything chafed.

But each day I rotted on my couch was another one lost to him. Leo was out there living his best life with a beautiful girl

I’d learned was named Isodora, and I was watching it unfold online while wearing a mayonnaise-stained T-shirt.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I finally admitted, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “Maybe I’ll take a break and go for a walk?”

“ There she is,” Meredith cheered. “How about right now, with me?”

She knew me—that my good intentions would probably flame out into me staring at my laptop screen and stressing about each

passing, unproductive minute.

“Okay.” I slapped it closed. “Look at me; I’m saying yes.”

I think we were equally shocked when I stood up.

“Where are you headed?” I asked, finally noticing her pink tank top and short, pleated skort. It was workout wear—no surprise

there—but not her usual leggings and sports bra for class.

“Colton convinced me to go to his little pickleball club in Chelsea,” she explained. “Which I guess isn’t so little because

the guest fee is sixty bucks.”

Meredith’s boyfriend, Colton, was a certified quilted-vest-and-navy-slacks finance bro who jumped on trends, like moving his dealmaking from the golf course to the pickleball court.

“He finally wore you down?” I asked as I stretched my arms over my head and rolled my neck like I was getting ready for a

marathon and not a stroll down the block.

“Yeah, because we made a bet. If I win, he has to come to my 7 a.m. rise and shine class, and if he wins, I have to play again.”

Despite her never having stepped on a court, my money was on Meredith. She was one of those people who could master anything

physical, from pole dancing to paddleboarding.

I changed out of my pajamas and into shorts and a stain-free T-shirt, and even shoved my hair into a semi-presentable micro-ponytail.

Leaving my bubble made me feel twitchy before I even crossed the threshold. I had to convince myself that all I’d miss in

the thirty minutes I’d be outside was beating myself up for not being productive. And maybe I’d luck into some inspiration?

We stepped outside, and the first few seconds of summer heat on my skin felt like a hug after being in air-conditioning for

way too long. Summer in New York was brutal, which meant that little moments of joy like this one needed to be celebrated.

“You were right,” I said, bumping my shoulder against hers as we set off. “Thank you.”

She smiled at me. “Happy to light a fire under my favorite author. You’re going to fly through those words once you get back.”

A car drove by blaring an ancient dance song.

“Of course ,” I exclaimed as I listened to the words. “She’s wearing a thong!”

Meredith frowned at me. “Huh?”

“Abby, the heroine in my book, is wearing a thong, not underwear or panties. How did I forget about thongs?” I muttered to

myself.

“See? Inspo is all around you,” Meredith said triumphantly.

“You’re right. I’m so mad at myself for staying cooped up. Sometimes all it takes is a single word to trigger—”

“ Watch out ,” a voice shouted from behind us. “Don’t walk there!”

Meredith squealed and jumped to the side right as I planted my sneaker in a fresh pile of dog poop.

So much for celebrating the moment.

Someone ran up to us while I hunched over and tried to figure out what bit of street trash I could use to clean the mess that

stretched from toe to heel.

“I am so sorry. I was about to pick it up, but Brutus got scared by the loud car and darted,” the deep voice was saying. “I have paper

towels—hold on.”

I finally glanced up from my ruined shoe to find a Rottweiler, yellow Lab, and Yorkie being held back by a guy wearing a T-shirt

that said “Call Me the Houndmaster” across the chest.

He smiled at me as he shifted the three leashes from one hand to the other and slid off his backpack. “Don’t worry. I have

a spray bottle with water too,” he said as he dropped to his knee and dug through the bag. “I’ll get you all cleaned up.”

He had the cheerful air of someone who was lucky enough to make a living hanging out with dogs all day and tanned tree-trunk

legs that showed off how hard he worked. He was decent looking in that “leading man’s best friend” way. I’m sure moms adored

him.

I glanced at Meredith and she gave me an encouraging look. He wasn’t the type I’d normally go for, but there was something very meet-cute about the Prince Charming glass slipper vibes of the scenario.

Minus the poop, of course.

“By the way, these are my clients Brutus, Star, and Bella. Brutus is very sorry for what happened to your shoe.” He smiled

up at me and nodded toward the remarkably well-mannered dogs. “And I’m Adam, Houndmaster and shoe fixer. Please hand it over.”

Yup, he was flirting with me. I kicked off my sneaker and hoped that he didn’t have a foot fetish.

Meredith spoke up before I could. “This is Brooke, and I don’t matter because I have to go meet my boyfriend. Bye! ”

She jogged backward and, once she was fully behind him, mouthed, “Say yes,” to me.

I considered it while Adam the Houndmaster got to work on my sneaker. Cute, good with animals, Boy Scout level of preparedness...

Sure, why not?

I was desperate for inspiration of any sort, so saying yes was about to become a way of life.