Title: “Just My Type: A Love Script Gone Rogue”

I wasn’t supposed to be checking my email at 11:47 p.m. I had wine. I had my pajamas on. I had a promise to myself that I’d stop working past 10. But there I was—glasses slipping down my nose, a mouthful of cold spaghetti I couldn’t be bothered to reheat—clicking into my inbox like some kind of editorial gremlin. And that’s when I saw it. Subject: First Draft – You Asked For It! From: Chase Navarro To: Me. Apparently. It was supposed to go to someone else. Had to be. Because attached was a Word doc titled: “Love Me, You Fool: A Romance That Shouldn’t Have Happened.” What followed was a message dripping with overconfidence and exactly one typo that would hijack my entire weekend: “Hope you’re ready to make this manuscipt sparkle. You’re just my type.” I blinked. Then blinked again. Manuscipt. My left eye twitched. But the part that really got me? “You’re just my type.” It was bold. Flirty. Maybe even romantic—if it wasn’t directed at the wrong person. Clearly, this wasn’t meant for me. Probably for his agent, or some poor soul he was wooing with his… wordplay. Either way, I should’ve ignored it. I should’ve. But here’s the thing about me: I’m Max Rivera. I’m an editor. And editors don’t let typos—or egos—slide without a red pen. So I replied. Hey Chase, Think this was meant for someone else. Also, “manuscipt” is missing an “r,” and you’re possibly missing a sense of subtlety. Cheers, Max Rivera I hit send, popped another forkful of spaghetti into my mouth, and figured that was the end of that. It wasn’t. The next morning, I woke up to a reply. Because of course I did. Chase Navarro wasn’t just a bestselling author—he was the Chase Navarro. Charming. Cocky. Creator of chest-thumping male leads who called women “sweetheart” way too early in the book. I opened the message with one eye open, still tangled in my sheets. Max, First of all, ouch. Second of all, you caught my typo AND roasted me in two sentences. I’m both impressed and slightly afraid. Third, now that we’re talking—are you the Max Rivera who edits for Indigo Ink Press? Because if so… My agent just assigned you to my next book. Surprise! Let’s make this manuscRipt sparkle. (See what I did there?) • Chase I sat up so fast I nearly concussed myself on my bookshelf. Assigned. To me. I scrambled for my planner, flipping through emails. Sure enough, buried between royalty reports and a reminder to update my taxes was one from my boss. Max, You’re taking on Chase Navarro’s next book. He specifically requested someone with a spine and a red pen sharp enough to kill a man. Good luck. –Jonas I groaned into my pillow. Monday came too quickly. I showed up at the Indigo Ink office still annoyed at myself for replying. My best friend Jonas—senior editor and eternal supplier of iced coffee—was already at his desk. “Guess who’s editing the ego with abs?” I announced, dropping into the chair across from him. Jonas didn’t even look up. “You? Obviously.” “How’d you know?” He slid an iced caramel latte toward me like he’d been waiting for this moment all weekend. “You’re the only one who’d reply to a typo with sarcasm and survive.” I narrowed my eyes. “He said I was both impressive and scary.” “High praise. From a man who once signed a book with ‘Keep it swoony, ladies.’” “I’m not a lady. I’m a caffeine-fueled chaos gremlin.” “And yet, he’s still flirting.” “He’s not flirting,” I said, sipping my coffee. “He’s just… like that. Smooth-talking. Probably signs his emails with winks.” Jonas smirked. “Bet you ten bucks there’s a wink in the next one.” That afternoon, I opened the manuscript. It was… not awful. The story had heart. It was about two writers who fake-date to promote their book, only to fall in love for real. Very meta. Very Chase. The writing was solid, if overly dramatic in places. Dialogue that sounded like a Hallmark movie on steroids. At least three references to eyes “darkening with want.” I started marking up the margins with comments. Suggest rephrasing. His eyes can’t literally darken. Unless he’s a demon. Cut. Too many heartbeats in one chapter. Would love to see her say no once. Give the girl some boundaries. By the time I was halfway through, I realized something disturbing: I was enjoying it. I hated how charming it was. I hated that the banter felt… familiar. Like something I’d write if I let myself believe in love stories again. I hated it even more when Chase emailed me again. Max, Got your comments. 1. Fair point on the demon eyes. 2. I’ll dial back the heartbeats. Maybe. 3. What do you mean she should say no? Saying yes is hot. P.S. Let me take you to coffee so you can yell at me in person. Chase Jonas leaned over my screen and read it. “Told you. Flirting.” “I’m his editor.” “And he’s trying to rewrite the script.” I rolled my eyes, but a tiny, traitorous part of me wondered… Would it really be so bad to grab coffee? I’d been single for… a while. Most of my romantic history could be summed up in three bullet points: • Dated a poet. He tried to rhyme “love” with “shove.” • Dated a barista. He ghosted me for a girl named Hazel. Yes, like the coffee. • Dated myself. We broke up when I started working 70-hour weeks. Besides, coffee wasn’t a date. It was… a professional meeting. With a very pretty man who thought I was funny. So, I replied. Fine. One coffee. But I’m bringing my red pen. – Max He replied within minutes: Can’t wait. I’ll even bring my best typo. And that’s how it started. With a typo. With a red pen. With a guy who wrote love stories and a girl who edited them with a scalpel. I didn’t know it yet, but that email thread was the first line of our story. And trust me… the edits were far from over.