Be My Babygirl A Billionaire Romance - Jane Henry Page 0,1
there’s not even a chip on them yet. Most likely from lack of use.
Somehow, I hoped fancy red nail polish would make the keys in front of me magically work again, but nope. I’m still staring at my laptop like it’s a rattlesnake ready to strike, only now I’ve paired yesterday’s yoga pants and messy bun with a manicure.
I’m just as stuck as I was when I started, still with a zero-word count on my screen. No suspenseful plot or cheeky heroine pricks at my imagination. I lower my head to my desk and press my forehead to the cold wood. I don’t even have a title. I lift my head, ready to literally bang it on the desk, when I realize what I’m doing. My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I lift my head and focus on the blank page before me. What have I not yet written about?
I can do this. I mean, I graduated summa cum laude already. Love Under the Stars, my debut series, did great. I can do this again. A few months ago, my publisher, Sarah told me, “No more cowboys, they’re too real.” I’ve been floundering at my keyboard ever since.
Ten days out from my deadline and if I don’t make it, I will lose my advance for my book, and my rent will be left unpaid, my apartment gone, and I’ll be sleeping in the back of my tiny car.
I have to get the juices flowing. I’ve got to write this story. Interlocking my fingers, I stretch them before me, like a boxer readying to go into the ring. “Come on, Katie. You got this. You just need a little romantic inspiration. Let’s start by finding a panty melting hero.”
Gone are the days when characters would flood my mind, demanding their stories be written. I’d often juggle two, even three storylines at a time, having so much inspiration I had difficulty keeping everyone organized.
And the sex scenes—my God, the sex scenes. I swear they were so hot; they were the reason my old laptop’s hardware burned up, letting out a whirring noise followed by a strange smoky smell as it died.
The last book I wrote was on that computer.
Maybe writing has an element of luck to it, a cause for superstition. Like a baseball player losing the game because he’s missing his lucky glove. Am I losing in the writing world because I no longer have my trusty dusty laptop?
Opening my browser, I type in hot Hollywood men, inwardly groaning at how pathetic it is that I’ve been reduced to finding inspiration by cruising through thumbnails of movie star hotties.
As I flip through images, I mutter to myself. “Too tall, too cocky, weirdly shaped eyebrows, too young. Plus, all these guys look like their skin’s been filled with Botox. Not a wrinkle or smile line in sight.” I’ve been reduced to objectifying men. Sigh.
Maybe I’ll look up celebrities closer to home. Get that rugged, billionaire desert vibe. Is that a thing? I type in Top fifty eligible bachelors, Nevada. To my surprise there’s an article covering the single male power players of my state.
Deep brown eyes stare fixedly at the camera with not a glimmer of a smile. his features arranged into a slightly no-nonsense look, his gaze firm as it holds the camera. His dark brown hair’s tinged with silver, and a short beard covers a tight, chiseled jaw. He wears a perfectly tailored suit, but even beneath the fabric I can tell he’s... big. Massive. Built.
As I stare into his eyes, I feel a little stirring between my thighs. One I’ve not felt in way too long, especially considering my line of work.
I’ve never before written an older man, younger woman, age gap story and this could work.
The arrow of my mouse hovers over his face. “He’s perfect,” I mutter to myself. For the book, I mentally amend.
He owns Vegas, Baby, the swankiest place on the strip, Las Vegas’ most prestigious hotel and casino. He’s the perfect billionaire hero to be the inspiration for my next book.
I need more than just a picture if I’m going to write a bestseller. I need to be knee-deep in the trenches. I need to see the lights, to feel the energy.
To live the lavish night life of the strip. But that life is expensive, and all my cards are maxed out.
I don’t need to be the part; I just need to act the part. To rub elbows with the rich