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Monday, May 3, 2010

#2 Sorbet Guy

Dear Secret Agent,

If love is a buffet, then Joss Keel has food poisoning.

Each first date is an intoxicating scent from the kitchen.  Each first
kiss like the first taste.  But so far, she can’t get through a meal
without finding a hair—there’s the jealous jerk, the freaky fetishist,
and the guy who can’t stop talking about his collection of wooden
ducks.  Joss might not be able to ask for the manager, but she can
cleanse her palate.  That’s where Matt comes in.  He’s the Sorbet Guy.

Joss and Matt have a contract.  Lovers for a night, but always back to
being friends.  They can handle it, as long as they follow the rules.
Rules they wrote themselves.  Rules that bend without breaking
whenever they need them to.  Because as long as it’s in the contract,
it’s okay.  Until one of them breaks the only rule they never had the
guts to write down.

I am seeking representation for my Adult Romantic Comedy, THE SORBET
GUY, complete at 80,000 words.  Filled with bad dates, sex and all the
tools you could need to start your own Sorbet relationship, this book
will appeal to fans of Megan Crane, Liza Palmer or Meg Cabot.

Thank you for your generous time.

* * *

Matt Lehrer’s college roommate was a politician above all else.  I
figured that out halfway through his obviously-not-spontaneous visit
to my dorm room, which was located directly above his--just a few
hours before he was planning to haul a quarter-barrel of Coors Light
through the window.  All he wanted was to make sure my roommate and I
wouldn’t narc on him.  We wouldn’t have, but he didn’t know that, and
I wasn’t going to turn down the invitation.  I was out on my own and
determined to have my first taste of freedom.  Or Coors Light, in this

My roommate Rachel came along for the ride, and the two of us somehow
ended up wedged on the short end of one of the twin beds between a big
guy from central Wisconsin and the cinderblock wall.  The position
made it hard to lift my plastic cup to my mouth, which was okay with
me.  I’d figured out that A: I didn’t like the taste of beer, and B:
it was getting worse the longer I warmed it in my hand.

Our host was also playing bouncer, shuttling people through the door
in small groups.  His roommate was perched on a desk just a few inches
from Rachel’s knees.  He seemed bewildered by the number of people
that were parading through his room after only two days of living
there.  He glanced down at my cup, still half-full, and met my eyes.
I took a self-conscious sip.