🍯🌺 When your grumpy book hero disapproves of your pants...
Published about 2 months ago • 4 min read
Hey there, fellow questionable decision maker,
You know that moment when you're writing a grumpy hero, and you can practically HEAR him judging your life choices?
Yeah, so... I may have panic-ordered satin plum pants at 3 AM. For my son's wedding. In two weeks.
Exhibit A: Satin Plum Pants. Deceived I tell ya!
insert disapproving glare from Max here
Speaking of that judgmental hunk of fictional perfection, want a peek at what he's been up to in GRUMPFEST? He's been a little naughty. 😎
Start Scene (Lily)
Concealer wasn't gonna cut it.
Correction: It was cutting exactly shit, like spackling a vampire bite with glitter glue. I tilted my head, the judgy purple bruise on my neck mocking me in the locker room mirror, pulsing like a neon “Max Was Here” sign.
My fingers traced the tender spot, heat pooling low in my belly at the memory. His hands gripping my waist, his body pressed against mine, that gravelly voice growling my name—
I jammed the applicator sponge harder against my neck.
Classy, Lil, real classy.
Twenty minutes till puck drop with the kids’ clinic. Twenty minutes to stop smelling like spearmint gum and restraint torn to shreds.
Twenty minutes to scrub off Exhibit A of how thoroughly I’d failed at professional adulting this morning. Exhibit B being the persistent tingle in my lower back from where he’d pinned me against that damned water fountain.
Or was it Exhibit Q by now? Who could keep track.
Real professional, Lily-Lilac-If-Momma-Could-See-You-Now-Thomson. Hiding your star defenseman’s hickey before coaching preteens. NHL PR Manager of the Year material right here.
Then again, there was nothing professional about the twist in my gut every time Max Harrison tasered me with those wolf-in-sheep’s-flannel eyes. Or the way my pulse still thrummed where his teeth had grazed my collarbone an hour ago. Hockey Rule #1: Never let them see you sweat. Too bad my sweat glands hadn’t gotten the memo.
Tiana’s reflection materialized behind me like a vengeance demon in Lululemon. Her eyes dropped to my neck. Shit. "Need some help with that?" she purred, a knowing smile playing at her lips.
"It's not what you think," I blurted, snapping the compact shut. "Mosquito bite.”
"Uh-huh.” She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Big ol’ mosquito named Max? Because that looks exactly like what happens when The Grump forgets to be grumpy.”
“We were just... talking.”
“Talking. Sure.” She rummaged in her gym bag and tossed me a tube labeled Vampire’s Breakfast. Fitting. “Stick with the lies you can sell, girl. This’ll cover herpes and third-degree burns. Should handle Grumpzilla’s little love note.”
“He wasn’t–”
“–kissing your tonsils? Please. That thing’s darker than the Sunblades’ playoff odds.” Her grin turned wicked. “Question is... did the big kitty purr when you scratched his back?”
My face ignited. Being a walking tomato clashed magnificently with my Sunblades polo.
"Not helping, Tiana."
End Scene 🎬
And because apparently, I enjoy living dangerously (see: plum pants conundrum), I've gone and commissioned a bit 'o character art that's making me absolutely giddy.
The goal? Gorgeous hardbound editions of GRUMPFEST, coming to a future Kickstarter near you! My hope is to use the character art to grace the inside pages somehow.
And for those who love pretty extras, I'm thinking about offering the artwork as special rewards - maybe bookmarks or vellum inserts that'll make your collector's heart skip a beat.
But first, seriously.
I need your help with a way more pressing matter. Those plum pants I mentioned? They arrive TODAY. And I'm having pre-arrival anxiety on whether they will meet my visions of grandeur or be an epic fail.
So if you want to witness my humiliation (or better yet, help prevent me from making a terrible mistake by casting your vote: runway chic or bruised fruit)...
He’s the grump with a broken past. She’s the sunshine that might just save him—if his baggage doesn't destroy them first.
I don’t do smiles. I don’t do team bonding, calendar shoots, or charity events. I play hockey. I stay out of the spotlight. After what happened, I learned one thing: never get close enough to get burned.
Enter Wade James: rich, brooding, and as out of place in Emma's cozy world as a shark at a pool party. A rom-com cocktail of forced proximity and second chances, served with a side of beachside charm.
“I’d rather fight with you than make love with anyone else.”
— The Wedding Date
Psst! Okay, so you made it to the end, but... could you see any of the pretty pictures?
If not, you'll need to add my email, author@honeymavryck.com to your safe sender/contact list. If that doesn't work, hit reply and we'll troubleshoot together!
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