Chapter 2: Deadlines and Desires

by Roxanne Rene

Jewel Marino was in hell.

A special kind of writer’s hell, reserved for authors forced to collaborate with a man who looked like a fallen angel but had the temperament of a smug, self-satisfied devil.

She had managed to survive the first week of co-writing with Griffin Royce. Barely.

But now?

Now, she was seated across from him in his ridiculously aesthetic penthouse apartment, trying to focus on their manuscript outline instead of the way he sprawled effortlessly on his leather couch, long legs stretched out, fingers drumming idly against the armrest.

Why did he look so unfairly comfortable while she was one coffee away from an existential crisis?

“This scene is missing tension,” Griffin remarked, flipping through her latest draft. His deep, velvety voice carried zero urgency—as if deadlines weren’t looming and her stress level wasn’t skyrocketing.

Jewel stiffened. “The scene has plenty of tension.”

“Not the right kind.” He tapped a line in the manuscript. “The heroine just told the hero she can’t trust him, but there’s no undercurrent of heat. No longing. It reads too… friendly.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not every romance needs to be drenched in ‘undercurrents of heat,’ Royce.”

Griffin’s lips twitched in a lazy smirk. “Tell that to our publisher.”

Jewel groaned, flopping back against the couch. “Remind me why I agreed to this again?”

Griffin pretended to think. “Your editor bribed you with the promise of an exclusive marketing campaign. And, of course, you wanted the privilege of working with me.”

Jewel sat up and shot him a look so deadpan it could have ended careers.

He chuckled, the sound low and infuriatingly attractive.

Jewel inhaled deeply, gripping her coffee mug like a lifeline. She refused to let herself notice how his laugh curled through the air like smoke or how he watched her with a glint of amusement, like he enjoyed seeing her unravel.

Nope. Not happening.

She was here to write a book, not fall for the Paranormal Prince of Romance.

“Alright, fine,” she muttered. “How do you suggest I ‘fix’ the tension?”

Griffin leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and for the first time that day, he looked serious.

“Make them want each other, even when they think they shouldn’t.”

Jewel’s breath hitched.

Because Griffin wasn’t just talking about the characters.

The way he was looking at her—like he was testing her reaction, waiting for her to challenge him—made her stomach tighten in a way she didn’t appreciate.

She cleared her throat and forced herself to focus. “I write contemporary romance, Royce. Not… whatever brooding supernatural intensity you specialize in.”

His brows lifted slightly. “You don’t think contemporary romance can have tension?”

“I think it doesn’t need to rely on broody looks and stolen touches to be good,” she shot back.

“Mm.” He tilted his head, as if entertained. “Maybe that’s why I outsell you.”

Jewel’s jaw dropped.

Oh, he did not just go there.

Griffin’s smirk grew. “I’m just saying—there’s a reason readers love tension.”

Jewel’s brain short-circuited between indignation and reluctant agreement. Because damn it, he wasn’t wrong.

She had read his books—secretly, of course, because admitting it felt like betraying herself—and there was no denying that his romances simmered.

“Fine,” she muttered, snatching the manuscript back. “I’ll add more tension. But if my characters suddenly start brooding under the moonlight, I’m blaming you.”

Griffin chuckled. “Duly noted.”

And just like that, the storm passed—for now.

But, Jewel knew better than to let her guard down.

Because Griffin Royce was a walking, talking source of tension, and she was starting to feel every damn bit of it.

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