Page 23 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

“It was unforgettable,” Forrest answers for me, squeezing my shoulder in a way that seems innocent to Daphne but feels like a private joke between us. “She’s a vixen. You would’ve thought it was my birthday last night the way she?—”

“Forrest!” I shriek, then proceed to choke on air. He softly pats my back.

“Easy there, tiger. Save your energy for round three,” he says to me before turning his attention back to Daphne. “She’s insatiable.”

I’m going to murder him. Slowly and painfully. Except Daphne is absolutely devouring this, her eyes sparkling with more joy than I’ve seen in months.

“Look at you, finally living a little,” she muses. “And here I thought I’d have to stage an intervention to get you to take a break from all that work stress.”

“Speaking of,” I say, trying to change the subject, “weren’t we supposed to be planning my next book today?”

Daphne waves her hand dismissively. “That can wait. I want to hear more about this,” she says, pointing between me and my fake new boyfriend. “So, what do you do, Forrest?”

“Financial consulting,” he answers smoothly, not missing a beat. “Mostly private clients.”

“How fascinating.” Daphne’s tone indicates it’s anything but. “And hey , did Sora tell you about her big book signing next week? Not to brag, but I pulled some strings and got her in. Nothing says supportive boyfriend like showing up to cheer on your author girlfriend.”

I freeze. No, no, no. He doesn’t need any more details about my life. Lines blurred and crossed. The messy pile of this situation is growing to Mount Everest proportions.

Forrest, of course, doesn’t join in on my mental panic. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Where is it again?”

‘‘It’s nothing—” I start, but am swiftly cut off by my way-too-eager best friend.

“City Nights and Novels in Brooklyn,” Daphne answers, looking pleased. “It’s going to be her breakout moment. All the big romance authors will be there. We’re a last-minute addition, so any support we can wrangle…”

“I’ll be front row, center,” Forrest promises, giving me another squeeze. “With bells on.”

“Perfect!” Daphne claps her hands together. “Now, let’s have some breakfast and talk tropes. Forrest, I got plenty for all of us. Do you like pastries?”

“Forrest has a meeting,” I blurt out. “Right…um…babe?” I could not sound more awkward if I tried. “You have to get going?”

Ignoring me, Forrest flashes Daphne a toothy smile. “I happen to love pastries.”

Daphne begins unpacking the box, and Forrest finally releases me to grab plates from the cabinet. How he knows where they are is beyond me—I’ve barely opened a drawer in this kitchen.

“So, what are tropes?” Forrest asks, setting the plates down.

“Romance novel conventions,” Daphne explains, slicing a chocolate croissant in half. “The reader catnip that makes a book sell. Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, only one bed—that kind of thing. We’re trying to beef up Sora’s next book to give her sales a fighting chance.”

“Your books aren’t selling?” Forrest asks me. His tone changes, lined more with concern than his playfulness over the past few minutes.

“Not well,” I admit.

“You know what I think we need for virality? Shock factor ,” Daphne says.

“So, we take what’s tried and true and up the ante.

For example, dark romance authors, we’ll see your masked tattooed stalker chasing a woman through the woods with a knife, and raise you a masked stalker with tattoos and a Prince Albert chasing a woman through haunted woods with a katana.

” Daphne nods at me with eyes wide like she’s possessed. “You see where I’m going with this?”

“I do. But I’m not following you down the unhinged path you’re on.” I turn to Forrest who has busied himself with a cherry tart. “I don’t write dark stuff.”

“What do you write?” Forrest asks.

“Don’t you already know?” Suspicion lines Daphne’s face.

“We’re new , Daph. I haven’t really gone into all that yet,” I add.

“She’s way too humble about her career. She thinks it’s going nowhere but she’s an incredible writer. This girl is going to be on billboards one day,” Daphne proudly declares.

I catch Forrest’s eye and subtly shake my head.

“So, Daphne, what kind of men does Sora put in her love stories?” Judging by the smirk on his face, his question is layered.

“Billionaires who are allergic to shirts,” Daphne says, raising her eyebrows at Forrest’s bare chest. “Art imitating life, perhaps?”

Forrest laughs, after helping himself to another bite of pastry.

“I’m afraid I fall short of the billionaire mark.

And I’m usually wearing a shirt,” he adds, briefly glancing at me like after the cherry tart, I’m his next meal.

“But even if sales are sluggish now, Sora seems to do pretty well for herself. This place is incredible.” He rotates his finger, gesturing to the luxurious kitchen.

“The brownstone is my dad’s.”

Forrest blinks at me. His jaw twitches ever so slightly. “Great. If I’m also meeting your dad this morning, I’m going to need my shirt back, sweetheart.”

“He’s not here. He lives in LA right now. He doesn’t need this house anymore, so he gave it to me for my birthday. I’m not even sure if I’m going to move in yet.”

“Her father is J.P. Cooper,” Daphne supplies helpfully.

Recognition flashes in Forrest’s eyes. “ Hell & Heroes ? That J.P. Cooper?”

I nod reluctantly. “That’s Dad.”

“Wow. I feel like there was a prime opportunity for you to mention that last night, Sora.” Forrest looks a little peeved, like I got caught in a lie.

But this entire morning is a blatant web of bullshit, so what’s he annoyed about?

“So, you’re a romance author who comes from literary royalty. Quite the charmed career.”

I narrow my eyes, not appreciating what he’s insinuating. Poor little rich girl with laughable problems.

“My career is far from charmed.”

“When it comes to author stuff, Sora’s dad is about as useful as a snail in the Kentucky Derby. He doesn’t support her career at all. Just calls her a couple times a year to make sure she’s alive, and flies in every now and then to buy her love with multimillion-dollar spare houses.”

I hang my head, accepting defeat in trying to control this conversation. “Forrest, if there are any other wildly personal and painful details you’d like to learn about my life, Daphne is at your service.”

“Good,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm. “Because I have questions, Daphne.”

“Fire away.” If Daphne grins any wider, her face is going to rip in half. I don’t like how much these two are already getting along.

I turn to Forrest, returning to my mission at hand. Getting him out . “Didn’t you say you had to get going soon? To pick up your daughter?”

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, that I had the gall to bring up his daughter.

“Right.” He nods, setting down his half-eaten pastry. “I should probably grab my coat. Daphne, thank you for sharing your breakfast. Very kind of you.”

He disappears upstairs, and Daphne immediately rounds on me.

“Daughter?” she hisses. “He has a kid?”

“Yes, a little girl,” I confirm. “She’s adorable.

” I don’t offer Daphne a name or age, because I don’t actually know it.

But I clarify what I can. “He’s a really good dad.

Not just the dote-on-her-to-shut-her-up kind of dad.

He’s trying to raise his daughter right.

It’s impressive.” Of all the lies I told this morning, that sentiment was genuine.

Daphne fans herself theatrically. “Hot, great in bed, and good with kids? Marry him. Immediately.”

“Don’t get too comfortable with him,” I urge, my voice low. “We’re probably not going to work out long term.”

“Why?” she counters, like she’s taking personal offense. “Unless he’s a serial killer feeding dismembered body parts to wild hogs, there is no excusable reason for you not to snatch that man up in a hurry.”

“We’re just not compatible, Daphne. His job is?—”

“My job is what?” Forrest asks, returning and once again unexpectedly interjecting himself into our conversation. How come I don’t hear him coming down the stairs? The man moves like a ninja when he chooses to.

Forrest stands a few paces away, dressed in his rumpled tux coat from the night before, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck. “My job is what , Sora?” he repeats.

“Complicated.”

The look he’s giving me is layered with emotions. He’s studying me like I’m a book written in a language he doesn’t understand. “That it is,” he answers shortly.

“The walk-of-shame look suits you,” Daphne remarks, raising her brows at me, forcing light humor into the tension between Forrest and me.

He relaxes, grinning, returning to his easy confidence and charm. “I prefer to think of it as the stride of pride. I’m not remotely ashamed about last night.” He shoots a playful wink my way, but compared to all the Forrest winks I’ve received so far, this one feels forced.

“Well, I should get going,” he adds, buttoning his jacket, covering as much of his chest as he can.

“Shoot.” I tug on his dress shirt that’s blanketing my body. “Do you want this back?”

“As much as I’d like to see you strip down…keep it. It’s just a plain white button-down. Easily replaceable.” He holds out his hand to my friend. “It was nice meeting you, Daphne. Sora, I’ll call you later?”

“I’ll walk you out,” I say, ignoring Daphne’s suggestive eyebrow-waggling.

Outside on the brownstone’s steps, the morning air crisp against my bare legs, I finally let my smile drop.

“Thank you for that,” I say quietly. “For not saying anything.”

“No problem.” He shrugs, adjusting his jacket. “My services come with discretion included.”

The mention of payment brings me back to reality with a thud. “About that. The money…”

“What about it?”