Going home could be just the thing his muse needs and his heart desires.
Tristan Paulson needs the words to return. He loves his career penning novels of small-town love, but his muse has gone missing. Since he can't write, he goes back to his roots to sort through the items his recently deceased uncle left behind. Once in Sullavan, Ohio, he realizes just how much he loved the place. Then he sees the handsome librarian—Michael is just the kind of guy he's always wanted. How can he go back to the big city when Sullavan calls to him?
Michael Kane wants nothing more than to be surrounded by his books and the written word. He knows heartbreak and isn't in the mood to put himself out into the dating pool again...until he sees Tristan. He wants to be with Tristan, but he's too shy. A handsome man like Tristan wouldn't be interested in someone quiet like Michael...would he?
Reader advisory: This book contains reference to stalking, harassment, emotional abuse and attempted suicide. There is a scene of a hostage situation containing a gun threat.
|Publisher:||Totally Entwined Group|
|Sold by:||Barnes & Noble|
|File size:||594 KB|
About the Author
When she's not writing the stories in her head, Megan Slayer can be found luxuriating in her hot tub with her two vampire Cabana boys, Luke and Jeremy. She has the tendency to run a tad too far with her muse, so she has to hide in the head of her alter ego, but the boys don't seem to mind.
When she’s not obsessing over her whip collection, she can be found picking up her kidlet from school. She enjoys writing in all genres, but writing about men in love suits her fancy best. The cabana boys are willing to serve, unless she needs them. She always need them. So be nice to Javier or he will bite--on command. She also writes under the name of Wendi Zwaduk.
Read an Excerpt
Copyright © Megan Slayer 2018. All Rights Reserved, Totally Entwined Group Limited, T/A Pride Publishing.
“I’m so stuck it’s not even funny.” Tristan stared at his computer screen and groaned. He hadn’t written a word in more than a week. Writer’s block wasn’t his enemy and the occasional day without writing wasn’t the end of the world. But he hadn’t been able to work out an idea or even sketch a thin plot for anything.
He glanced over at the doorway. He hadn’t seen his butler in a while and didn’t like talking to himself. “Dennis?” He drummed his fingers on the desk top. “Are you there?”
The dry spells in his writing were getting closer together. He hadn’t produced a bestselling novel in the last two years. His last three books were well reviewed and had sold a good number of copies, but none were the fourth breakout book he needed. If he didn’t come up with a novel that sold well, he’d lose his contract with his publisher.
Part of him wanted to be angry. How dare they dump him? He’d sold over a million copies of his first three books and made the expected lists with all four. His publisher should have been grateful to have him on the roster.
Then there was the other part of him that never could quite come to terms with his ability to write. Throughout his life, all he’d wanted to do was make stories seem real. He could spin a yarn with the best storytellers, but he tended to downplay his talents. All the people who’d told him writing a book was easy would come to mind and he’d give in to his fears that he’d never produce another great work.
God, he needed a drink, a vacation and a good fuck. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any booze in the apartment, hadn’t gone away in a year and wasn’t in a relationship.
He’d have to settle for his hand and porn later. Damn it.
Then there was his muse…the uncooperative asshole. The muse wasn’t talking to him, which meant the characters weren’t either. Once he went down the rabbit hole of thinking about his inspiration, or lack thereof… That was when he got himself into trouble. If he didn’t write the next big thing, he’d have to dip into his trust fund to finance his career. He snorted. Most people wouldn’t think twice. If they were in his shoes, they’d use the money his parents had set aside for him and have a life. Not him. He’d prefer not to touch the surplus he’d saved up until it was necessary. But if he didn’t bring in cash soon, he’d have no choice.
Dennis strolled into the room and nodded. “Yes, sir.” He placed a stack of letters onto the desk, then clasped his hands together. “Did you need me?” If nothing else, his butler had great timing. Another minute longer and Tristan would’ve given in to another bout of depression.
“Thank you.” Tristan flipped through his correspondence. Dennis had been the father-figure Tristan hadn’t had often as a teenager. He knew Tristan better than anyone and tended to keep him on course. “Denny, I don’t know what to do about this writer’s block.” He scanned the return addresses on the letters. One from his publisher, one from a former boyfriend and three bills. He sighed. Bills sucked. He noticed the blank space on one of the envelopes. His address had been typed. “What’s this?” He turned the letter around. “I don’t remember signing up for mailing lists or anything that wouldn’t put a return address on it.”
“I saw that. Perhaps it’s one of the letters from a neighbor for one of the local fundraising groups.” Dennis cleared the empty takeout boxes from the coffee table. “I’ll be right back.”
Tristan waited for his butler to leave the room, then opened the odd letter. His chest tightened as he read the words. He should’ve guessed the plain envelope would contain a letter from his stalker-slash-fan.
Write about my town—Lewiston. I’m waiting.
He sank back in his seat and tossed the letter onto the desk. All of his stories were based in small towns. He’d picked the states at random and made up the names of his towns, but each was based on little burgs and crossroads he’d passed through during his various travels. He stated in the acknowledgments of each novel that the towns were fictitious representations of many places…never anywhere in particular.
He should turn the damn letter over to the police. But what would they do? He hadn’t been threatened. He’d been asked rather bluntly, yes. Threats? No. And he had no idea who the letter-writer was. How could he inform the cops if he had no leads?
Tristan closed his laptop, then scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. He couldn’t seem to put a foot right of late. Everything seemed to be disastrous—he’d lost his last boyfriend to another man, he couldn’t write for shit, if he didn’t write he’d be dropped, he had a bitching fan…what else could go wrong?