Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
And… big, long sigh.
I open the door grinning like an idiot.
“Oh, my God! Steve! What the fuck?” Essie has a frantic look on her face. “We’ve been calling your phone for thirty minutes!”
“We thought you were dead.” Mike is already rearranging the subject.
I hold up the book. “Holy shit, you guys. This book is amazing.”
“It’s almost six, Steve!” Essie is holding her phone out so I can see the time. “The mixer starts in an hour!”
“Right.” I turn back to my room and leave them at the door. “What should I wear?”
They follow me in. Right into the bedroom where I open the closet and consider my wardrobe options. “I want it to say ‘serious,’ but not ‘threatening.’ Does that make sense? What do you think?” I pull out a hanger holding a dark blue button-down. “This with jeans?”
“What are you doing?” Essie is looking at me like I’m crazy. “Why weren’t you answering your phone? And did you realize we’ve purchased an executive suite for an author called Cynthia Lear?”
“Oh, yeah. That charge came through, huh?”
“A thousand dollars a night, Steve!”
“Oh, my God, Essie. She deserves it! Her writing!” I’m still holding the ARC in one hand. “It’s… so good.”
“But why are we paying for her room?”
“We”—I stress this, even though I shouldn’t, because Essie isn’t paying, I’m paying—“are paying because she was a last-minute add, there were no rooms left, and she got stuck staying at the Siegel Suites.”
Mike makes a face. “Eww.”
“Right? It’s gross.”
“That’s not even true! I know there was a room left when I invited her. It was the room reserved for the author who cancelled!”
“Yeah, but Cynthia Lear is so altruistic, and generous, and… and… noble that she gave that room to her assistant!”
“Well, that’s dumb.” Mike says this without heat. He’s not wrong, but he’s missing the point. As he usually does.
“It’s not dumb.” I explain the whole story and by the time I’m done, Essie is agreeing.
“Wow. That really was generous of her.”
“Right? So I got her a room. Who cares if it’s a thousand dollars a night? This is her first signing. She’s going to remember this for the rest of her life. We’re already making memories.”
Essie makes a face at me. “What’s that mean?”
“I’m enthralled with her.”
“This is real?”
“Yes. Her talent is…” I sigh. “I’m so jealous.”
“Yeah, but…” Mike is shrugging with his hands. “You’re jealous of like… every single writer you know.”
“No. I’m jealous of writers who write their story, and not the story they’re told to write.”
Essie sighs. We’ve had this conversation at least twenty times. “No one is telling you what to write, Steve. Every story has been your choice.”
She’s correct. I know this. But it’s not that simple. People have expectations of SS, so SS needs to write stories that meet those expectations.
It’s a lot of pressure to put all the beats in. Use up all the popular tropes. Drag my characters kicking and screaming to that final happily ever after even though they’ve got years of therapy ahead of them.
“What Cynthia Lear did with this story here”—I hold up the ARC again—“was courageous.”
Both Essie and Mike look bored. This is their practiced reaction to my drama these days.
I never used to be dramatic, and I have resisted that description. But the longer I write, the more I become part of the drama. It’s hard not to get caught up in it. I mean, drama is the point of writing.
I am, maybe, after all, turning into a cliché writer. A grumpy, reclusive, rich, unsatisfied genius. Which both delights me, in a certain way, while simultaneously makes me cringe.
“Anyway,” I continue, “I’m gonna make her swoon tonight. So can you two please keep the assistant occupied?”
“Did you just use the word ‘swoon’ out loud?”
“Mike. I’m a romance writer. Purple prose is my one and only superpower. Cut me some fuckin’ slack, OK?”
“Fine,” Essie says. “We’ll do our best.”
“You mean… you’ll do your best.” Mike is pointing at Essie. “I’m bowing out after introductions, remember? The ‘husband night out?’”
“Oh, right.” Now Essie looks pissed. She even stomps her foot. “So I’m stuck with a stranger all night?”
“Trust me, Essie. You’re gonna love Britney. You two are like… twins, or something.”
This makes her smile. Because, obviously, she and I are twins.
I choose the white button-down instead of the blue button-down. Essie picked it up from the dry cleaner just yesterday, so it’s fresh, and crisp, and white enough to blind a person. This shirt is for my suit look, which I was going to wear tonight. But I’ve changed my mind.
Suit Guy is hot. No doubt. But work-is-over-now, sleeves-rolled-up guy is even hotter. His hair is sexily messy, there’s stubble on his jaw after a hard day’s work, and he’s a little bit weary.
Not tired. Weary. Big difference.
Tired is… ‘I need to go to bed early tonight. Alone.’