As a romance novelist, I'm facing my worst nightmare-writer's block. No matter what I write, I hit delete, knowing it's not worth publishing. The future of my career rests on the success of this new book. So, here I am, looking at Tumblr, desperate for inspiration, when I hear a thumping. Annoyed by the music blaring through the walls, I barge into the hall and bang on my neighbor's door. My very hot, very naughty neighbor, Jake Morreau. Jake is romantic, charming, and the bane of my existence. I need to work, yet he refuses to let me. When he greets me in the hallway, ideas of a sinfully hot hero come to mind. When he takes me out on the town, the words flow as soon as I come home. The more time I spend with this entertaining and quick-witted man, the more I'm able to write. My neighbor is my muse, and before I know it, I slowly become the heroine of my own story, but I don't know how to end it. As I write the epilogue, I'm afraid our romance won't pan out as I've written. Jake Morreau is my hero. Then again, in my life, heroes don't exist. Contains mature themes.