The Autograph Man

I fell in love with a cold, taciturn tattoo artist named Henry Kane. So I deliberately damaged my tattoo again and again, picking at the skin and reworking the design, just to see him a few more times. By the third visit for touch-ups, scrolling comments suddenly appeared before my eyes: “I’m dying of laughter. This desperate female lead literally destroyed her freshly tattooed skin just to see the male lead again, and she still didn’t dare confess her feelings.” “Henry Kane is actually the embodiment of an ancient ferocious beast who sat on mountains of gold and silver but refused to spend them, choosing instead to open a tattoo studio to experience mortal life.” “He looks icy and distant, but his possessiveness has long since maxed out.” “He was just afraid his violent nature would scare his woman away.” I looked at the man in front of me, who was lowering his head as he wiped down the tattoo machine, and he did indeed give off an unmistakable keep-your-distance aura. But the comments claimed that he wanted to possess me? “Um… Excuse me?” The man tilted his head slightly, and under the weight of his deep gaze, the confession lodged in my throat. My mind short-circuited, and I blurted out, “I… I wanted to tattoo it on my lower back this time.” In an instant, the comments exploded in joy. “Woohoo! We’re taking off!” “Lower back, you say? That’s a sensitive spot! Can this pure-hearted ferocious beast really hold back?” “Good grief, straight to the undressing scene! This cunning move by the female lead is operating on a whole other level!” The man’s hand gripping the tattoo machine jerked to a sudden stop, and the air seemed to freeze for a few seconds. Then he answered, his voice slightly hoarse and unreadable, “Alright.”

"Don't move," he trailed his kisses to my neck after saying it, his hands were grasping my hands, entwining his fingers with mine, putting them above my head. His woodsy scent of cologne invades my senses and I was aroused by the simple fact that his weight was slightly crushing me. ***** When a famous author keeps on receiving emails from his stalker, his agent says to let it go. She says it's good for his popularity. But when the stalker gets too close, will he run and call the police for help? Is it a thriller? Is it a comedy? Is it steamy romance? or... is it just a disaster waiting to happen? ***** Add the book to your library, read and find out as another townie gets his spotlight and hopefully his happy ever after 😘 ***** Warning! R-Rated for 18+ due to strong, explicit language and sexual content*

Harper Vance is stuck in a debt in blood—or marry the man who fired her in front of his entire boardroom three years ago. Xavier Hart needs a wife within thirty days, or he loses the empire his grandfather spent eighty years building. Not love. Not romance. Just a signature, and a woman desperate enough to give it to him. She hates him. He doesn't care. It should have been simple. “The offer's still on the table, Harper,” he murmurs, his breath warm against her ear. “Sign the contract, and I pay these men off right now. You walk out with all your fingers intact, and we start saving your father's estate. Refuse, and I leave you to your business partners.” “You absolute monster.” “It's called leverage. And right now, you have none.” Bound by paper, divided by hate, they strike a deal meant to last exactly 365 days—and not one heartbeat longer. But fake touches have a way of stopping being fake. And someone out there is willing to burn the whole arrangement down rather than let it become real.

For the fifth time this month, a delivery driver knocked on my door looking for an order that wasn't mine. Fed up, I taped a note outside: "I never order takeout. Whoever keeps using my address for pranks deserves a lifetime of bad luck." A few minutes later, someone knocked again. I yanked open the door and snapped, "I didn't order anything! Can you please check the address before bothering me?" The driver scratched his head, looking confused. "That's strange... I always deliver to this address." Not wanting to argue, I slammed the door shut. Moments later, violent pounding erupted from outside. Furious, I flung the door open, ready to curse out whoever was causing trouble. The words died in my throat the instant I saw who was standing there.

I was a sketch artist acting for the police. On a secret mission, I was discovered by a murderer. My eyes were gouged out, and my body was dismembered, unceremoniously dumped in a garbage bin. On the brink of death, I called my boyfriend, a criminal investigator. However, he hung up on me because he was busy accompanying his first love to a prenatal checkup. A few days later, he received a painting that was a vital clue to finding the murderer, but he thought I was playing tricks on him. In his anger, he tore that portrait to shreds. After he found out the truth, he spent the whole night searching through the garbage to piece it back together.

On Valentine's Day, as my girlfriend, Christy Lawrence, and I stroll along a tourist hot spot, a photographer asks me, "Care to take a photo? Oh, you brought someone new again!" I brush it off as a joke, but Christy stops the photographer and says seriously, "He told me I'm his first girlfriend. How can you make up a lie like that?" The photographer snorts. "This young man here brings a different young woman with him to take a photo here every six months. I still have the photos to prove it!" He brings out his phone and shows us a photo of a couple—the man looks exactly like me. All of the surrounding tourists start eyeing me scornfully. I take my phone out and make a call. "Hello, I suspect that someone has stolen my identity. Could you please send a police officer over?"