Chapter Text
The sky above the port was the color of a cheap stock photo with the saturation turned up high. The world’s worst writer stood on a cliff and let her long hair whip around in the stiff breeze coming from the sea. She would have preferred something more dramatic in the background, like sunset colors, but as it was, she was already shivering in her low-cut dress. Her genre-verifying wrist implant protested at the very thought of returning to her hotel room to fetch her jacket. An aggressive yellow light started to blink and tiny letters scrolled across the monitor, almost too fast to read.
R-O-M-A-N-C-E H-E-R-O-I-N-E-S D-O N-O-T W-E-A-R S-E-N-S-I-B-L-E C-L-O-T-H-I-N-G. Oh well, then.
Unfortunately, there was no easy way to switch the annoying light off. The device merely informed her that the usual green glow was a sign to proceed, the yellow told her to slow down and reconsider the plotline, and the red… “End the scene immediately,” she muttered. “I know this from somewhere.”
The writer was somewhat relieved she had not completely broken the genre yet, but she was ready to chalk up this day as another failure. So far, she had not seen anything that would spark her newest romance. She had kept an eye on suspicious-looking ships on the horizon because being kidnapped by pirates was not her idea of a good time, but she thought she would not mind an attractive sailor tied to her bed. She had even practiced the most common sailors’ knots, just in case.
B-O-N-D-A-G-E A-C-C-I-D-E-N-T-S D-O N-O-T H-A-P-P-E-N, the helpful device had reassured her.
Nor did, unfortunately, supernatural encounters. Nothing but seagulls in sight.
She had not encountered any attractive selkies yet, either, and the beautiful voice she had hoped might be a siren turned out to be a talented but regrettably human street musician perched on the stairs that led down to the beach. The writer sighed and began rummaging in the far too small pockets of her impractical dress for spare change. She tossed most of it into the musician’s guitar case and used the rest to buy herself an ice cream. In this weather, she was the only customer at the stall, but that had never kept her from her favorite food! If there was not going to be a new novel, she could at least enjoy her walk on the beach.
A day without writing was fine, she reassured herself. Surely, she deserved that much after churning out three novels in two months! The writer found she quite liked her afternoon off – until someone snatched her ice cream cone and crammed it into his mouth. She yelled something her implant immediately edited into a much more acceptable “Excuse me???” with only a slight metallic tone to it and the censored words ringing faintly in her ears, like feedback from a cheap microphone.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the strange man said, not looking sorry in the slightest. “I simply can’t resist temptation. By the way, please let me invite you to dinner.”
The world’s worst writer rolled her eyes. What was wrong with this guy? She’d have to edit this into something resembling meaningful dialogue. Then again, she had been looking for a date anyway, and the man was handsome enough, even while incongruously wearing an expensive-looking suit with bright orange rubber boots his only concession to the beach setting. Surprisingly, her wrist implant did not mind this in the slightest, so she might as well have some fun. This still beat hanging out in the underbrush of European forests in the vague hope of encountering a pack of werewolves but finding only ticks.
“Fine, whatever,” she said.
Dinner turned out to be an awkward affair at a surprisingly classy seafood restaurant where the fries were a secret menu item, served only after repeated requests. The writer learned that her date was a billionaire with a tragic backstory he was obviously lying about, loved long walks on the beach, and was on the run from his family’s numerous enemies, which included minor foreign nobility she had never heard of, the mob, and the local association of snack stand owners.
“My family is in the guano production business,” he explained while shamelessly swiping another one of her fries.
P-E-C-U-N-I-A N-O-N O-L-E-T, the implant blinked cheerfully. The writer had no idea what it was trying to convey. “English, please”, she hissed in the general direction of her wrist. “This stupid thing sometimes just tries to switch to Romanian language mode ever since my vampire phase,” she added by way of explanation.
T-H-E W-A-Y B-O-O-K S-A-L-E-S A-R-E G-O-I-N-G Y-O-U N-E-E-D A R-I-C-H H-U-S-B-A-N-D. Thanks for nothing, stupid implant!
She was not happy about this little reminder and had to resist a forceful urge to bang her wrist against the table. When the strange man set his fork down with a deliberate clink and leaned forward, though, she was paying careful attention.
“Listen, I have a proposal.”
She winced, thinking of all the clichés that could follow this up. “If it’s marriage, I’m not quite that desperate. Yet.”
He grinned, seemingly unbothered. “A business proposition, actually.”
Her implant blinked approvingly. Apparently, it liked powerful, wealthy men brokering questionable deals over dinner, even when it meant the writer’s chances at getting laid this evening were rapidly dwindling.
“Go on,” she said, spearing a fry with unnecessary force.
“As I’ve already told you, I’m being harassed by some very irritating people. Especially – please don’t ask for details now - the International Fertilizer Marketing Board. It’s becoming... problematic.”
“How do you even manage to make deadly enemies in the bird poop industry, of all things?” She was surprised but intrigued at the same time. This sounded like an interesting plotline to follow. Did he, what, replace the actual fertilizer with glitter in order to cut costs, or something?
He ignored her incredulous laugh. “They think I’m too… let’s say, flighty… to do my job properly, but I am determined to prove them wrong. People will leave me alone if they think I’m... committed. To someone. You, for example.”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous.” A brief yellow flash from her wrist, however, clearly disagreed with that sentiment.
“Is it? You’re a writer looking for inspiration. I’m a businessman looking for a reprieve. If we pretend to be together for a while, that’s going to be mutually beneficial.” He flashed a disarmingly sincere smile. “At the very least, it’ll be interesting.”
Her implant went crazy, blinking bright, insistent green like it had found its holy grail.
“Of course, this dumb thing likes the fake dating trope,” she groaned. “Fine.” She glanced at her empty plate. “But you’re buying me more fries.”
“Deal.”