I'm Your Girl. J.J. Murray

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      Don’t be so sure.

      Now what am I really supposed to be doing?

      You’re doing fine.

      No, I’m forgetting something.

      You’re supposed to be writing another book, but don’t rush it. Live a little first.

      You call this living?

      I had signed a two-book deal. I have no idea what to write about for the second book, and I’ve been avoiding even thinking about writing it.

      You’re good at that.

      What?

      Not thinking.

      Thanks.

      It’s all a part of doing nothing.

      My agent and editor are expecting something similar to the first one. It’s supposed to be full of dramatic, guilty pleasures on every page. And I have a January 31 deadline for three chapters and an outline.

      I’m screwed.

      No, you’re not. You’ll think of something.

      I can barely function in my own wearisome life, and I’m expected to create other, more exciting lives?

      So, they’ll be as dysfunctional as the characters in the first book.

      What I should do is write the exact opposite of what they expect. I should give readers dramatic, innocent pleasures.

      Like a picture book for children.

      Yeah, like a—No. I write for adults.

      It’s not possible to write a book about innocent, adult pleasures.

      Well, I’m going to try.

      Your agent and editor won’t like it.

      What can they—or anyone for that matter—do to me that hasn’t already been done to me?

      Good point.

      I am going to the library to return these books tomorrow, and while I am there, I will read up on some of my competition.

      But you’re supposed to be writing.

      One step at a time, right?

      You’re the boss, chief.

      9

      Diane

      I pick up the fourth and last book, Wishful Thinking, by D. J. Browning. Nice, colorful cover photograph of an average sister in a hard hat with a Mona Lisa smile. Different. Opening the book to the first page, I read:

      1: Daniel “Dan” Pace

      I know I am in trouble when Beth says she wants to eat at Hooters on a Monday night.

      Asking a guy to Hooters has to be some kind of new test for men, and I’m failing miserably. I am trying not to look at all the reconstituted breasts and buttocks bouncing and all the pierced and tattooed belly buttons undulating around the restaurant. And all those tan legs! Pairs of them everywhere I look! How can a man not look at Darcy, his server, when the sun on her sunrise tattoo below her belly button has set somewhere lower? How can I not stare at the freckles practically staring back at me through Darcy’s tight

      shorts? How can I not stare at Darcy’s hooters at a place called Hooters?

      You could respect your date and look into her eyes, Dan. Uh-duh. And is this guy white or what? He’s staring at “tan legs.” This must be one of those interracial books I’ve heard about. I read on:

      “You remind me of my mother, Dan,” Beth says, her eyes following Darcy instead of looking at me, a plateful of shiny clean chicken bones in front of her and five empty bottles of Sam Adams guarding her side of the table.

      Back to reality. “Hmm?”

      “I said, you remind me of my mother.”

      I hope my one class in psychology will come in handy here. “I remind you of your mother?”

      Beth nods, sighing in Darcy’s direction.

      “Um, is that a compliment?”

      Beth glances my way. “No, Dan. I hate my mother.” Her eyes grab on to Darcy again, her tongue flicking over her lower lip. Damn, she’s sexy when she does that. “I’ve hated my mother since the day I was born.”

      Where’s this coming from? “So what exactly did you mean by that?”

      She guzzles more beer. “You’re pretty smart. You figure it out.”

      Beth is gay, Dan. She and Darcy are going to hook up and leave you hanging at Hooters. So predictable.

      “Figure out what?”

      Beth rolls her eyes and takes another sip, tossing her napkin on the table. “I’ll be back.”

      I watch Beth head for the bathroom and glance over at the semicircular booth across from us. Two black women sit on either side of a black man who either had to have played some football or had to have done a tour or two in the service. Lucky guy. He’s got two women, one on either side of him, yet he’s able to be hard staring at every implant in the restaurant. One of the black women, who has light brown eyes almost like a cat’s eyes, catches me staring, so I quickly return to picking at the label of my Sam Adams.

      Yep, this is an interracial book. I’m somewhat intrigued. “Cat’s eyes,” huh? They’re probably contacts.

      I have no idea why I’m here. I’m sitting alone at a table on my fifth date with Beth, and I’m still not sure why I’m with her at all. Nancy, a woman I teach with at Monterey Elementary, said we’d be “perfect” together. “She’s so outdoorsy and spunky,” Nancy had said. “And she is so into hiking like you are, Dan.”

      Hiking. Right. On two of our previous dinner dates, all she did was hike to the bathroom or talk our servers to death. On our other two dates, we sat in front of her TV watching college football on ESPN, the dramatic fall colors of the Blue Ridge Parkway screaming to be hiked through. And at the end of each evening, she rushed from my car or rushed me out the door of her condo without even saying good-bye. I have yet to find out if her tongue flicking feels as good as it looks.

      “Because she’s gay, Dan,” I say. “Now hook up with the sister, and let’s get on with this thing.”

      Beth returns. “You figure it out yet?”

      I sigh. “Well, I know you don’t like your mother.”

      “I hate my mother. There’s a difference.”

      “Okay. Um, so if you hate your mother, and I remind you of her, you must hate me.” I smile and wait for Beth to contradict me.

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