Another warm and tranquil night in LA, and I'd finally finished the first draft of my novel.
After the triumphant snap of my laptop closing, I treated myself to a luxurious bubble bath, because let's face it, every writer knows that's where the real magic happens.
So there I was, soaking in lavender-scented bliss, when my mind couldn't help but waltz back to my latest creation.
This masterpiece was about to make my grand debut on the platform, where alpha males reign supreme, and my previously idle evenings were spent drooling over their fictional exploits.
After binging on more romance novels than my heart could handle, I decided to throw my hat into the ring with a story featuring not one, but multiple male leads.
Our heroine this time, Joey, navigates the treacherous waters of romance among a sea of devastatingly sexy men with egos as big as their...well, you get the picture.
But the twist? Joey ends up getting these guys to realize and admit they're all vying for the same heart - hers.
As I drifted in the bath, the faces of these fictional hunks floated before me, shrouded in steam like some kind of sultry mirage, each whispering, "Joey, submit to me."
Then, however, reality crashed the party.
The bathtub was suddenly gone, replaced by a shadow looming over me. My eyes snapped open to a towering figure pinning me down, his hands clamping mine above my head, his legs entwining with mine in a not-so-dance-like manner.
For a split second, I caught a glimpse of his eyes - cold, dangerous, like the edge of a knife.
"Who are you? Wait...what are you doing? Do we even know each other?" I muttered.
Panic replaced drowsiness, a primal fear kicking in.
Wasn't I just in the tub, soaking away my troubles? How did this mystery man invade my spa-like sanctuary? Did he slip me something while I was daydreaming of my hunky characters?
I glanced up at the man towering over me, half expecting him to be some kind of modern-day Zorro minus the charm.
No mask, just a shock of dark hair and a nose that could give the Greek gods a run for their money.
I could've sworn his eyes twinkled like stars in the night sky - or maybe that was just the concussion talking.
As my thrashing subsided, so did his grip, allowing me a moment to admire the chiseled landscape of his chest revealed by an unbuttoned white shirt.
Seriously, who breaks into a room looking like they've just stepped off a Milan runway?
The fear of his midnight intrusion was momentarily eclipsed by the sheer absurdity of the situation. This guy could've wooed me in a million different ways, but no, he had to go full creeper mode.
And then, as if my night couldn't get any weirder, a unicorn - yes, a purple one- materialized in my bedroom.
He perched nonchalantly on my laptop like it was the most natural thing in the world. His purple mane shimmered, and he even had the audacity to 'Huff' at me, like I was the one intruding.
"Joey Camp, welcome to the world of 'My Male Leads Getting Back At Me,'" it announced, and my jaw hit the floor.
"Wait, you mean the novel I just finished? The one you're using as your personal stage?" I sputtered, incredulous.
"Exactly!" The unicorn tapped my laptop with its hoof, delivering the bombshell that I was now living in my own novel. "You need to walk in your heroine's stilettos and nail all the MLs before you can return to reality and publish your book."
"But...but I need to publish that book now!" I protested, visions of unpaid bills dancing in my head. "You've seen the size of my bills, right? They're practically a sequel to my novel!"
"Yes, I've seen them. They're more gripping than your plot, actually," the unicorn quipped, its tone dripping with sarcasm. "But complaining to me is just a waste of time. I'm just a messenger, got it?"
Reflecting on my novel, the prospect of dating each of those chiseled, drop-dead gorgeous male leads wasn't exactly a hardship.
I mean, who wouldn't want to be wined and dined by the embodiment of every romance novel fantasy? But the catch in the storyline – getting them to play nice and share their love, aka me – was a plot twist I hadn't fully thought through.
Seriously, what was I thinking?
"Sorry, just the messenger," the unicorn said with a snooty flick of his mane, clearly enjoying my predicament a little too much.
"So, I get the heroine's special powers, right? That...ability?" I clung to a sliver of hope.
"Oh, yes, your 'special skill.' My heavens, did you ever listen to yourself when you named it? 'Tight As New'?" The unicorn almost choked on his disdain.
I rolled my eyes so hard I feared they'd get stuck. Yes, my character had the miraculous ability to rejuvenate after each intimate encounter, making every male lead believe he was her first.
Looking back, I wished I'd endowed her with something more practical, like teleportation or mind-reading.
And don't get me started on the over-the-top possessiveness I'd written into these guys. If any of them caught wind of me juggling dates, I'd be in for a world of trouble.
The unicorn snapped me out of my regretful reverie. "You have three minutes to plan. After that, my time-freezing spell wears off, and you're on your own."
"As the clock ticks, so does my presence here fade. Farewell!" With that, the unicorn vanished into the night in a puff of purple smoke.
Tick-tock, tick-tock... As seconds slipped by, I scrambled to cobble together a game plan.
First up was Corin Camp, the 'brother' of my character – now me, apparently. No blood relation, thankfully, since I was the adopted child of Mr. and Mrs. Camp. He was my first hurdle in this bizarre dating decathlon.
Picture this: Corin Camp, the epitome of ice-cold allure, a man whose veins must surely run with antifreeze. Not just your garden-variety CEO, oh no, he's the whole package - a Mafia boss with the kind of power that makes both the lawful and the lawless dance to his tune.
He's the kind of guy who probably eats danger for breakfast and washes it down with a cup of steely resolve.
Then there's me, the proverbial rags-to-riches orphan who stumbled into the Camp family, trading in my hard-knock life for a shot at something resembling a fairy tale.
Our first meeting was like a scene straight out of a gloomy, overwrought melodrama.
It was cold, drizzly winter's day - the kind that chills you to the bone. I was this scrappy 14-year-old kid, all wide-eyed and wonderstruck, and there was Corin, 17 and already looking like he owned the world, casually toting a football under his arm like a scepter.
When Mom introduced us, hoping to spark some sort of sibling camaraderie, Corin gave me nothing but a frosty once-over before disappearing.
Talk about a warm welcome, right? It was clear from the get-go that melting this guy's icy exterior was going to be like convincing a cat to love swimming.