Growing up in a large Italian family, I was taught two things at a very young age. One, always say your prayers before you go to sleep. That one pretty much went by the wayside when I was kicked out of Catholic school at the age of six. Two, never date a man who considered sauce from a jar authentic. I’d been able to follow that one pretty closely. I didn’t date. Period.
Grabbing a candy-covered chocolate, I chucked it at the window across the alley, a smile building on my face as I continued my relentless badgering of the glass pane. Finally, a light clicked on from what I knew to be the bedside table. Seconds later, the shades were drawn and the window opened. A mass of dark hair stuck out.
“Morning, Mols,” my brother said groggily, running his hand over his face, which he probably hadn’t shaved in three or four days. He was two years older and had always been ruggedly handsome. Most of my friends in high school were probably only my friends because they wanted an invite to my house so they could have unfettered access to my brother. Teenage girls should be institutionalized. “Thanks to you, I’ll never have to invest in an alarm clock.”
“Whatever, Drew. Like those girls of yours wouldn’t wake you up soon anyway,” I shot back in the peaceful early spring air.
“You’re probably right about that.” He rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance, but I knew nothing could be further from the truth. Alyssa and Charlotte were his life. Being a single father to two precocious girls, aged six and four, was challenging, to say the least, but the love my brother had for those kids was unlike any I’d ever seen. “Another all-nighter?”
I sighed, reminded of the reason I wanted to talk to him. My brother was one of the few people who actually knew about my alter-ego, Vivienne Foxx, author of sinfully sexy romance. Everyone knew I was a writer, but they were under the impression all I wrote were situational humor pieces for a fashion magazine. While that was true, I could pull that shit out of my ass five minutes before it went to press.
“Yeah.” I tugged my sweater closer as a breeze blew through the alley, knocking long-forgotten beer bottles and coffee cups around the street two stories below us. I never understood why people littered.
“What is it this time? Bad boy billionaire? Tattooed biker? Tormented rock star?”
“Sexy boss.”
“That’s a new one,” he mused, a smirk on his lips.
“Isn’t variety supposed to be the spice of life?” I raised my brows.
“Touché. So what seems to be the problem?”
I grabbed a handful of M&M’s and shoved them into my mouth, not caring that it was barely six in the morning. In my opinion, the time to eat M&M’s was all the time. “What isn’t the problem? This book feels like everything else I’ve ever written.” I shook my head. “I have this girl jumping on her boss’ dick in less than twenty pages. I’m missing something, but I don’t know what.”
“Romance,” Drew answered quickly.
I rolled my eyes. “Romance is overrated.”
“Says the romance writer.”
Giving him an irritated look, I pinched my lips together, pulling my sweater tighter around my slight body.
“I love you, Molly,” he continued when I didn’t respond, “but your lack of love life has been apparent in your books from day one.”
“I have a love life!” I argued.
“Boinking meatheads when it suits you doesn’t qualify as a love life.”
“Did you seriously just say boink?” I stifled a laugh.
“You’re deflecting.”
“I can have a love life without picking out china and drapes. And one of those meatheads happened to be one of your teammates. I was writing a hockey book, so a professional hockey player was the perfect muse for me.”
“And I made sure to give him a black eye when I found out.” He narrowed his gaze at me.
It wasn’t that I slept around, although I was certain my brother thought so. I just preferred to keep my so-called relationships on the light and casual side. It was better for all involved.
“I’m in no rush to settle down. I’m only twenty-nine-plus-one—”
“Thirty,” he interrupted, just like he always did. I shot daggers at him for uttering that blasphemous “t” word.
“I’m not ready to give up everything I’ve worked hard for and achieved for a man who thinks I should just devote all my time to taking care of a dozen kids,” I explained. Throughout my twenties, I’d lost touch with too many friends to count because they wanted to settle down and have a family, forsaking all other relationships for one person and eventually a pack of screaming, puking, crying rugrats. I refused to be someone who would sacrifice everything for a guy and the promise of happily ever after.
“The right person would never ask you to give up your dreams just so he could live out his. The right person would encourage you to pursue those dreams, regardless of the cost.” A forlorn expression crossed his face. I could tell he was still hurt after what he had been through with his ex-bitch, as I lovingly referred to her. Actually, bitch was probably a compliment for the woman Carla was. “And I’m pretty sure you’re not going to meet him at a bar on Boylston.”
“Those places are a brilliant source of material,” I countered. “Do you know how many story ideas I’ve gotten just by eavesdropping on conversations? Hell, the book I’m working on now came to me after listening to some drunk chick tell all her coworkers she was banging their boss.”
He shook his head, laughing. “Whatever you say, Molly Mae, but I’ve seen you work on books based on something you weren’t familiar with. You do your research. You don’t stop until you thoroughly understand something. Maybe you need to do the same here.”
“Here?” I scrunched my eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“You write romance. Maybe you finally need to…” He paused, shrugging, “ya know, research that.”
“Like interview people about their love life? Sounds a little like When Harry Met Sally, if you ask me.”
Confusion wrinkled his forehead.
“You’ve never seen it?” I asked, almost in horror.
“I’m a guy. Unless there are boobs, bullets, or bombs…or we know we’re getting laid…we’re not all that interested.”
“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m pretty sure I saw some tears falling down those manly cheeks of yours when we watched The Lion King with the girls last month. You can act all tough if you want, but you’re a complete softie inside.”
“Having kids does that,” he reminded me, as he so often did. As if I didn’t hear it enough from my aunts, who warned me my ovaries were going to shrivel up if I didn’t have a baby soon.
I opened my mouth to respond when the faint aroma of coffee met my senses. It must have hit Drew, as well, because his shoulders slumped slightly. “Smells like Aunt Gigi’s down there.”
He groaned, running a hand over his stubble. “I suppose I should make an appearance. She acts like she owns the place instead of the other way around.”
“Do you blame her? She’s worked there since she was sixteen.”
Aunt Gigi, short for Giorgina, was our father’s younger sister. Our great-grandfather, Alfonso Brincoli — changed to Brinks when he landed on Ellis Island — started Modern Grounds in the early twentieth century. Back then, it was just a little cart he pushed to the waterfront where he sold coffee and cookies to the fishermen. It was now one of the few non-chain coffee shops left in the city and was located in the North End of Boston, the only place in town where Mom-and-Pop restaurants and coffee shops still flourished. The café had been passed down through the generations until our father took over several decades ago. It almost went belly-up a few years ago, but Drew stepped in and bought the place, keeping the family business afloat. More importantly, keeping Starbucks out of the North End.