You can’t control them. You can’t guide them. They simply birth their way onto the pages, pulling you in so many directions that you wind up going grey and gaining fifteen pounds by the time you’re done writing the book. (TRUE STORY, by the way.) BUT, every once in a while, these characters do something so freaking fantastic, so swoony, soooo hilarious, that you remember exactly why you wanted to write about them in the first place. This, to me, was my relationship with Maxwell Martinez—the hero in The Right Kind of Reckless. Let me start by saying that in Reckless Hearts, book one, Max was labeled (AND WORE THAT LABEL WELL) as a certifiable douchebag. He was a little chauvinistic, a whole lot degrading, and kind of annoying and immature, if I do say so myself. He’s flawed, bottom line. And I have no regrets writing him the way I did in that book. To me, though, Max is more than just those things I mentioned above. He’s a guy with a broken past. A guy with a whole lot of love to give for a woman he’s wanted for years, but can’t have. He’s goofy and playful and…