Written by a Woman

Chapter 1

Chapter One

SIGNE: PRESENT DAY

“I’m just saying, women’s clothing sizes are arbitrary. None of it ever makes actual sense.” I shrugged as I slurped down my coffee and stared at my friend and co-worker. She was leaning against the breakroom countertop, mirroring me. Her blonde hair was in a messy bun, and her petite frame was dressed in a one-piece green romper that she elevated with wedges to make it look a little more business casual.

Not that this office functioned like other offices.

Casual was welcome here, as long as everyone was comfortable and appropriate. That was fairly normal at a tech company. It wasn’t like we were a hedge fund that had to put on an appearance in the workplace.

“I agree,” Jamie nodded, scrunching her nose as her dark blue eyes stared at the coffee in my hands, “But it’s still discouraging if I think about it for too long.”

“Maybe,” I shrugged again as she watched me tip my mug to my lips before continuing, “But you need to give yourself some more grace. You’re human, you’re allowed to lose weight, and you’re allowed to gain weight. Your body is allowed to change.”

She nodded, though I could tell her brain was struggling to make sense of my words. Jamie had just been telling me that she no longer fit in a pair of pants that she had kept around since high school. She had been in therapy for the last couple of years to help her with her unhealthy relationship with food, which was great, but the progress of that sometimes got to her.

The fact that she had been able to fit in pants that she wore in high school up until recently kind of blew my mind, though. She had gone up just one size.

“Who is gaining weight?” Mary asked as she entered the break room. Whereas Jamie Hansen gave off an aura of sunshine and flowers and rainbows, Mary Jiang gave off…whatever the opposite of that would be.

I sometimes liked to think of Mary as the office goth, but energetic and upbeat.

I had written some short stories about a character that was inspired by Mary.

Mary walked past both of us to reach into her stash of energy drinks I kept stocked in the breakroom just for her. They tasted like spray paint, though she’d fight you if you told her that, so nobody else drank them.

“Jamie,” I nodded towards the blonde in the room, and Mary’s dark brown eyes lit up as her grin spread across her face.

“Congratulations!” Mary tugged Jamie in for a hug, one that Jamie happily reciprocated, appreciating the immediate positive reaction. Mary was about an inch taller than Jamie, closer to my height, but she lifted the blonde woman up and shook her around.

“Thank you,” Jamie mumbled against Mary’s shoulder awkwardly before Mary set her back down, “I don’t fit in a certain pair of jeans now, and Signe is reminding me that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” Mary bumped her hip against Jamie’s, her studded belt poking Jamie’s side, and snapped her energy drink open, “That just means we get to go clothes shopping.”

“It does,” I smiled, “I want to get a pair of jeans like yours.” I nodded towards Mary’s black wide-leg pants, loving how they were snug against her butt and thighs, but flared out near her calves.

“Let’s go this weekend,” Mary nodded with one arm around Jamie’s shoulders. Jamie blushed as she looked back and forth between the two of us.

We sat in comfortable silence as we sipped our drinks. It was the middle of the workday, and we would be having lunch soon. I was grateful that I had found these two ladies to hang out with so easily when I started at Sun Steer. At first, Jamie and I were surface-level friends, meaning we only spoke at work and didn’t even go as far as to exchange numbers. After a few months though, Jamie and I started to chat more and more. Eventually, we dived deeper at a company party when she had a couple of drinks. Thus, how I learned about her struggle with body dysmorphia.

At first, she was nervous to share with me because I was, well, bigger than her. Taller and wider. She didn’t want me to feel uncomfortable about my body simply because she was speaking about her issues with hers. I, however, assured her not to worry about it. I was blessed with a mother who cared about what I was exposed to as a young child, so I never got to witness early two-thousands celebrities calling one-hundred-and-twenty-pound women “plus-sized” or anything else insane. My mother only ever spoke positively about her body and my own.

My mother was proud of her Scandinavian features, and now so was I. If anyone took a look at me and didn’t like what they saw, that was their prerogative.

“I’m not doing anything Saturday night,” I offered after draining my mug and setting it in the sink.

“Really? No dates?” Mary asked, pulling herself away from Jamie and smiling at the little woman. Her black tank top had the female symbol on it in white.

Nothing else.

Because Mary was iconic.

“Believe it or not, no,” I smirked at Mary, who loved hearing about my dates with men because she couldn’t believe half of the things I experienced as a straight white woman intentionally seeking out men for companionship. She was even more curious about my dating life since she broke up with her girlfriend about six months ago, and I had a feeling that Mary was distracting herself with my lack of a love life to fill the hole that her breakup left.

“Why not?” Jamie asked as she followed me to the sink to rinse out her mug.

“I don’t know, after the last date I went on, I gotta admit I’m not excited to go on another,” I replied.

Mary immediately started laughing, and Jamie gave me a sad smile as they both remembered what had happened.

The man took a hard look at my dark red hair, and somehow gained the confidence to ask me if the carpet matched the drapes.

Why, men?

My phone vibrated, and I pulled the device out of the pocket of my jeans to see the notification. I blushed and immediately pocketed the phone, not wanting Mary or Jamie to see it. I was a chicken, and I was worried that they would tease me if they found out how I spent my nights when I wasn’t out on dates with disappointing prospects.

“You gotta get back on that horse eventually,” Mary tipped her head back and drained her energy drink before tossing it in the trash can behind her.

“Only because eventually, I’ll get bored of my DIY box.” I agreed, staring pointedly at Jamie who I knew would blush at the mention of sex toys. She was a private person who wasn’t as forward about her sex life, unlike Mary and me. But she was still friends with us, so we couldn’t have been too immature for her to hang around.

As I expected, Jamie blushed again with an embarrassed smile on her face.

“God, you’re adorable,” Mary pinched Jamie’s cheek, who quickly slapped her hand away while I laughed at them.

“I have been thinking about downloading a dating app myself, actually…” Jamie bit her bottom lip as her eyes bounced between the two of us, and Mary and I gaped at each other in shock.

“Are we going to hear stories about Jamie going on dates?” I asked Mary.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this.” Mary looked genuinely distraught, but her laughter let me know that she was joking around like I was.

“Shut up,” Jamie flipped us both off, making us struggle to compose ourselves, “I’m just inspired by Signe’s tales and success rate.”

“I don’t know if I’ve had any real success.” I countered.

“But you, like…” Jamie flapped her hand in the way that she did when she was struggling with which words to use, “… go home with men.”

I stared at her.

Mary stared at her.

I broke the silence first with, “That doesn’t mean that I’m ‘successful’ with men. Half the time I fake it, I finish things off myself after they leave.”

“Oh my hell,” Mary palmed her forehead, “Don’t ever fake it with a man, that’s your first mistake.”

“But, like,” I quirked my lips to the side as I leaned a hip against the counter to explain myself, “If I know that I’m never going to see him again, and I am nowhere near close, I might as well just rip the band-aid off and get it all over with.”

“The attitude every woman wants with sex,” Mary lifted a dark eyebrow with her sarcastic remark, her piercing shining in the harsh light of the breakroom.

I smiled and shrugged, agreeing with her.

This is the part of my life that doesn’t quite make sense to me, which led me to believe that Mary and Jamie definitely wouldn’t make sense of it either.

I went on dates, I had consensual casual sex, but I wasn’t exactly going anywhere with any of it. Unfortunately, the last few men I had either gone out with or hooked up with had left me feeling…underwhelmed. I didn’t exactly have a lot of reason to keep dating at this point. And yet, I did. I couldn’t help it. I loved the excited feeling of getting ready, knowing that the chances of sex were high.

Sure, I only get off with my dates about fifty percent of the time, and if I knew they were just in it for a hookup or a one-time thing, I could almost guarantee that they weren’t going to be able to get me off. And yet, I couldn’t resist the possible creative inspiration I got by putting myself out there.

I loved romance. Anything from cutesy closed-door romantic comedies to the most toe-curling monster erotica anyone can think of. If it has a happily ever after, I’m in.

Mary and Jamie knew I liked to read, but neither of them knew that I wrote, or how far I’d gone with it.

Because I was both ashamed and excited about it.

“I’m not going to argue with you, because you’re right,” I replied to Mary, “But I think that a small part of me just likes to get off on the fact that all I really have to do is swipe right a couple of times, and then there is a ninety-nine percent chance that I am going to get laid that night.”

“Ahem,” a throat cleared behind me, and I straightened from leaning against the countertop at the same time that Jamie and Mary stood taller. Their eyes widened in surprise. I squeezed mine closed and took a few milliseconds to hate myself before I turned around to see who had just walked in on our very inappropriate conversation.

Zaid Ansara.

Our boss.

Well, kind of.

Not directly.

He was just high enough in rank that he could fire us if he wanted to.

“Let’s try to remember that we’re at work,” his low baritone voice rumbled throughout the breakroom, and I had two conflicting reactions to his words. The message he delivered made it feel like a cold bucket of ice immediately got dumped over the fun times my friends and I were having together.

However, because of how delicious his voice sounded, paired with his entire physique, I felt my skin start to heat in his presence.

Because Zaid Ansara was hot .

I know, I know. It was wildly inappropriate to say that about the Chief Technology Officer at Sun Steer, but it was true, nonetheless.

Zaid was taller than me, a feat that not a lot of men could pull off. I wasn’t bitter about being a tall woman and generally didn’t have any problems dating shorter men (as long as their egos weren’t incredibly fragile about it), but I would be lying if I said that seeing a man who was taller than me wasn’t an immediate plus one in the hypothetical, “This makes you hot” column.

Zaid’s tall. Maybe closer to six-three if I had to guess, but I digress.

His dark eyes were surrounded by thick, black eyelashes that he usually kept hidden behind glasses, but I still couldn’t help myself and made direct eye contact with him almost every time we came face to face.

He was always the first to break eye contact with me. Every time. Without fail.

He held an empty mug in his large hand. Two thick veins curved up his exposed forearm before hiding under the rolled sleeve of his button-down shirt.

Huh, he must have had an important meeting today to justify a button-down. Usually, he opted for a black T-shirt or polo. I was convinced that he had hundreds of black T-shirts that he cycled through. It was very Roy Kent from Ted Lasso chic.

Breaking eye contact with me almost immediately, as usual, he turned and nodded to Jamie and Mary behind me.

“Will do, sorry about that,” Jamie immediately apologized.

“Yeah, sorry,” I repeated. Zaid didn’t look at me as he walked past and set his mug down in the sink, rinsing it out and drying off the two mugs that Jamie and I had left in there. We both shared a panicked look as we watched the CTO dry the mugs that we left.

Well, Jamie watched him dry off the mugs.

I found myself staring at Zaid’s incredible ass.

Because of course his tanned skin and black hair and unnecessary height weren’t enough. He had to be physically fit, too. I swore his pecs always strained against his shirts. His butt probably never got sweaty in the summertime because the globes of muscle were raised and firm, something I was both turned on by and weirdly envious of.

I had yet to see him in a pair of pants that did negative things to his butt, even though he was usually in slacks.

One time I found myself staring at a picture taken of the two of us at a company holiday party, and even though an employee was standing between the two of us, I couldn’t help but notice that it looked like his bicep was competing in size against my thighs.

I loved my thunder thighs. I loved all of my curves, and how I could easily crush the heads of my enemies in between them if I needed to. How my thighs looked when I was sitting in underwear or short shorts, and how the meat of my thigh created that cute little thigh line against my hips. I loved the feeling of a man’s hand gripping the meat of my legs. And ass. And hips. Any part of me, really.

But Zaid could probably crush the heads of his enemies by flexing his biceps against his forearms in a strongman pose. Which my ovaries loved.

And because life isn’t fair, Zaid didn’t have one of those un-proportional upside-down triangle-like gym bodies men usually had when they focused on arms and shoulders too much. Nope. Zaid was tall, dark, handsome, muscled, and utterly perfect.

And also my superior.

Which made my silly little crush on him inappropriate.

Which, also, made my hobby outside of work wildly inappropriate.

“No worries,” Zaid replied as he set the last mug in the cupboard. He then turned to leave the breakroom as quickly as he came in, barely giving us a nod as he marched off to do whatever it was that he had to do today.

Probably something techy, or businessy.

“Thank god,” Mary wheezed, giggling a little as she rubbed her cheek in embarrassment, “If it was Jaqueline who had walked in—”

“Oh, that would have been horrible.” Jamie nodded in agreement.

Jaqueline was a stickler for proper office conduct, even though our office was pretty relaxed, and a lot of the time upper management needed to tell her to calm down. Sun Steer was fairly new, only about five or so years old. The company had only recently been labeled as a company in “rapid growth” as Mary explained to me one time. From what I gathered, Jacqueline only started working here less than a year before I started and was used to working in more established organizations that had much stricter and more professional work environments.

“Praise be,” I nodded as we all quickly sauntered out of the breakroom. We returned to our desks to wrap some things up before the three of us met again at the elevators for lunch.

My phone kept buzzing, making my anxiety rise in my chest just enough for me to struggle to focus for the rest of the day.

After wrapping things up at work and returning home to my studio apartment in Costa Mesa, I finally allowed myself to change into my comfy clothes and read my notifications. After reading a few comments left on my last post, the excitement I usually felt when readers gave positive feedback on my writing, flooded my system.

Well done!

I’m FERAL for this story!

I need more of Zayne and Sydney!

And at that comment, reading the names I gave my characters, a little bit of guilt came into play. I responded to a few comments, thanking everyone for the love and support they were giving the most recent chapter of the cute little romance I had posted, but I hadn’t posted anything else for a few weeks.

Another message popped up on my phone, reminding me to grab my laptop and settle in on the couch:

Ready when you are.

I clicked on the virtual meeting link my agent sent me and waited for the call to connect.

Soon a short, straight, blonde bob filled the screen, and the image of Michelle taking one last drink of her coffee before greeting me, made the corners of my lips tip up.

“Well, if it isn’t the one and only, Signe Lange,” Michelle grinned. This was the second time we had spoken over a video chat, all of our correspondence beforehand had been via email or phone calls, and I was glad to finally put a face to the woman who slid into my DMs and inquired about representing me for potential publishing deals.

“In the flesh,” I grinned, excitement buzzing in my veins because I had just signed with her a few weeks ago. Gaining a literary agent before I even had a formal manuscript to pitch was almost unheard of, and I resisted the urge to pinch myself to see if this was real life.

“Before we get started, do you have any questions for me so far?” Michelle asked, clicking on her mouse as her eyes scanned whatever else was pulled up on her screen.

Many, actually , I wanted to say, number one, how the hell did this happen?

I had just uploaded the twelfth chapter of my little story to that website I found a year ago, celebrating the little wins I had gained by the handful of likes and comments readers were leaving for me.

I was thrilled because I was gaining traction, slowly but surely.

What I hadn’t expected a few weeks ago, though, was to wake up to what felt like an endless number of notifications.

Because, somehow, romance readers from all corners of the internet loved the free drafts of my story and shared it with everyone and their mothers. I had created a new social media account, @ReadHeadedWriter, to update the small handful of readers who cared every time I posted a new chapter to the thread. My profile picture was just my name, Signe Lange, in fun colorful, seventies’ style font. My account wasn’t that interesting, yet; my posts only consisted of quotes from the manuscript, to entice new readers to give my story a chance.

And yet I had thousands of new followers.

“No,” I shrugged, “Not at the moment, at least.” I settled in, grateful that I could take a business meeting wearing my pajama bottoms, sipping on a warm mug of tea.

“Excellent, let me know if you do, but this meeting will be brief,” Michelle nodded. Michelle couldn’t have been more than a handful of years older than me, and yet she gave off this motherly aura with her kind eyes and soft smile that made me relax. As if she was in my corner, ready to support me when I needed it. To guide me through the clusterfuck that was traditional publishing.

“Alright,” I replied.

“Now that you submitted your first draft of the story—well done finishing it so quickly, by the way,” Michelle grinned at me, “The next step will be developmental edits, which Layla has already started on. She should be close to being halfway done with those.” I felt my heart flutter in both excitement and panic at the thought of a real adult, a professional editor, reading and critiquing the words that I had slapped together for a romantic comedy.

“Cool,” I nodded.

“Once she’s done with that, you’ll have a few weeks to provide feedback and make any edits you’d like after reading it over.” Michelle nodded once to herself, clicking on something with her mouse. I could tell that this wasn’t her first rodeo and that she had this conversation practically memorized at this point. Somehow, that knowledge made a spark of imposter syndrome bloom inside of my chest, an uncomfortable ache that made me want to slam my laptop closed in a panic.

But I wanted this.

This was always my goal, so I fought against my insecurity and listened in to what my super professional agent wanted to tell me, “After that, we will do another round or two of edits, including copy and line. That shouldn’t take more than a few months, but the goal is to make the manuscript as polished and pristine as possible. Once we feel confident there, that’s when we can start submitting the manuscript to publishers. See who is willing to bite.”

I nodded and chewed on my bottom lip, “And…you think publishers might want to bite?”

Michelle raised her blonde eyebrows at me, giving me a look that reminded me of my own mother when she thought I was being ridiculous, but cute about it, “I can’t say for sure, but based on how popular you already are, I’d say that publishers will be interested in getting in on your story’s success, yes.”

I tried not to wheeze at the compliment, even though my success was already a cause of my anxiety lately, but that had little to do with so many readers liking my story, as it had to do with why so many readers were liking my story.

The daily comments I was still getting made it clear that it was because readers loved the male love interest. I’d argue that the appeal of the male love interest was what originally hooked so many readers onto my writing and platform. The problem was, that Zayne Abdul was based on someone I worked with.

Someone with almost the exact same name because I was too lazy to come up with a name that didn’t sound like Zaid Ansara. I didn’t expect this story to be the one that took off in the online world. I had hoped, but also had realistic expectations. But now that so many eyes were on the story, on the characters and their backgrounds, I couldn’t exactly go back and change the name without possibly severing the connection between thousands of readers and my story.

Because readers were obsessed with Zayne Abdul.

If only they knew how very real he was.

Within a couple of days, after my story took off online, I received two unsolicited character art pieces from artists who dedicate their craft to visualizing characters in books and bringing them to life. Both times, because apparently, I describe people way too well in my stories, both pieces of art illustrated perfect cartoonish images of Zaid Ansara.

Whoops .

Weeks later, it’s only gotten bigger. I had more readers following me every day.

I was thrilled and nervous at the sudden attention, because I wasn’t trying to be the next Jane Austen or Ernest Hemingway, after all.

I just loved writing love stories.

“That’s…exciting and nerve-wracking,” I sipped my tea while Michelle hummed thoughtfully.

“Usually, the submission process can take a while. More than a year or so before we get a deal that’s worth taking. But I wouldn’t be surprised if someone wants to snatch you up much sooner than that.”

Would that mean I could quit my job within the next year or so? I grinned at the thought of not having to formally get dressed for an office every day, even though half the time I just wore jeans and sweatshirts. Michelle and I had spoken about what a good deal for me would look like, and we were thinking that a three-book series would be what appeals to publishers the most, unless they suggest otherwise after receiving my manuscript.

I didn’t expect to be offered millions or anything, but I liked the idea of being able to make ends meet with writing alone, even if that meant budgeting and being more frugal with my expenses.

You don’t become a writer to become rich, after all.

“That being said,” Michelle added, making me focus back on the present instead of a hypothetical future, “You should focus on being more present on your social media accounts. Scheduling regular posts, interacting with readers, that type of thing. Oh—” Michelle grinned as she gave me a look, “You might even want to consider doing a face reveal.”

I quirked my lips to the side as I thought about it for a moment before asking, “A face reveal? Really?”

“Yes,” Michelle nodded, “You don’t need to be posting selfies every day or anything. But it would be beneficial for readers to put a face to the name—speaking of, just wanted to double check, are you sure you want to stick with your real name and not a pen name of some kind?”

I frowned, “A pen name might have been a better idea,” especially since using my name potentially made it easier for people I work with to find my book, though I suspected I was the only person in the entire office who was into romance novels, and was really banking on that assumption to not fail me, “But I’m worried that I’ve already established myself with my real name, considering it’s been my profile picture this entire time.”

Michelle tilted her head side to side though, weighing the pros and cons, “It’s up to you, so if you’re comfortable sticking with your real name, that’s fine.”

I shrugged, because it was more of a lazy, passive decision at this point, “Sounds good.”

“But think about the face-reveal thing,” Michelle pressed, “If you’re already using your real name, there is no real harm in showing your face to readers, too.”

She had a point.

Might as well go balls to the wall if I really wanted to do this.

“It’ll be easier to promote and sell the books to readers if your social media following is already established,” Michelle added, “Publishers might also want you to have professional headshots to put in the back of the book. A photoshoot might be a fun thing to plan for in the future, too.”

“Hmm, I’ll sit on that and let you know,” was my non-committal response. The problem with plastering my face all over my author account was that, again, it wouldn’t be hard for anyone I worked with to find out I wrote a book, read that book, and immediately know who I was writing about.

Especially if future cover art depicts Zaid’s appearance as well as the fan art has so far.

Oh, dear god .

Perhaps I could hold off on revealing my face until after publishers wanted to sign with me, until after I could quit my job and try to blow off the Zaid/Zayne resemblance as pure coincidence, should anyone at work find out about it.

Double-checking that I had no future questions or concerns about the querying process, and lying to Michelle by saying I had no concerns at all at this point, Michelle and I ended the video call. I took a moment to internally squeal at the excitement of all this, the fact that I had an agent, that I had a big-kid editor combing through my story to make it better and did a happy little shimmy in my seat. I closed my laptop and turned on the TV to one of my favorite comfort shows to watch, knowing that my mind would be too all over the place to pay attention to anything new that night. After ordering dinner and blatantly ignoring my phone’s newest social media notifications, I finally called it a night and went to bed, lulling myself to sleep with made-up stories in my head about two people stumbling into each other’s lives at work and falling in love.

All while bending over backward to make the male love interest any other persona than the CTO at my job, and giving up hope, before finally succumbing to sleep.