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is you stole his fiancée from him because you were jealous and not whatever bullshit you told him that night to make him break off his engagement and take your side of things?”
    “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
    “If not that, then what big confession do you have?”
    “I’ve read your book. Your brother sent it to me.”
    Her eyes widened. Her face went white. “What? Why?” She looked like she might faint.
    Ian’s stomach lurched. He didn’t want to continue this conversation. It was going to get harder before it got easier. He did anyway. “Your brother asked me to read your book and to keep an open mind about becoming your agent.”
    “You read my manuscript? He sent it to you? Tell me he’s not trying to mend the broken fences between us by having you become my agent?”
    “Yes, I’ve read your manuscript. I won’t tell you he’s trying to mend our friendship. And I’m free to reject your manuscript.”
    “You’re free to reject my manuscript?” She nibbled her bottom lip. “He’s not twisting your arm?”
    “He thinks you’re perfect. Nothing’s changed there. But yes, I can reject you. As I explained to him, I have very high standards. I’ve only added one new author to my list in the past two years.”
    “And?”
    He took another sip of his drink. “And what?” He braced himself for the next question. Wishing like hell he didn’t have to answer.
    “You said you read my manuscript. Are you rejecting me?”
    Tension snaked around his gut. “Not you. Your manuscript. And not outright.”
    “What does that mean?” Her words were stiff as if they were weighted down with concrete bricks. Like she was trying to hold down her emotions so they didn’t attach themselves to the words coming out of her mouth.
    He really hated rejecting authors. He knew how hard they tried and how much they wanted the elusive “yes” from an agent. “It means you’re a damn good writer. Except for one thing.”
    “What’s that?”
    He placed a hand on her arm and then withdrew it when she jerked away. “Don’t take this personally, but you suck at sexual chemistry on the page.”

Chapter Five
    Kinley sat in the café with Ian Thompson—aka I. Hartley.
    “Excuse me?” she said in a remarkably calm voice.
    He sighed. “ I don ’t mean to be blunt, but I can only help an author if they can handle the truth.”
    She breathed in the fragrant aroma of freshly baked croissants and told her heartbeat to slow the hell down. “What do you mean I suck at sexual chemistry?” She prayed the salmon she’d just consumed didn’t come back up.
    “There’s no sexual chemistry between your characters. When they do finally hookup, the sex is bland. My dick didn’t twitch once when I was reading your sex scenes.”
    She clenched her hands into fists. Inhaled and exhaled a turbulent breath. “I didn’t write it so your dick would twitch.”
    “Maybe not. But no man is going to get laid as a result of his woman reading your book. And if you’re going to write sexy contemporary, then that is your ultimate end desire.”
    Were his eyes laughing at her? They were.
    “Well, I didn’t ask you to read it. It’s not even ready yet.” She wished her drink wasn’t empty. She’d throw it at him. How could her brother place her in this humiliating situation? If he were here, she’d throw a drink at him as well.
    Damn it, what was wrong with her? She was an adult. An accomplished professional. She didn’t whine or throw tantrums—or throw drinks at people. Or even entertain such immature thoughts. It was like Ian was her personal time warp, sucking her mind and body back to adolescence and rendering her a veritable teenager all over again.
    “This is a brutal business. If you’re going to be an author, you have to learn how to handle constructive criticism.”
    Her stomach rolled. How dare he lecture her? “Constructive? Constructive? You’re not being constructive. You’re being a