I’ve been content these past five years, living my life the way I want. I like not having to answer to anyone, and I don’t need a man to make me happy. Yes, my mom hasn’t dated anyone since my dad walked out on us, but that’s her choice. And this is mine.
I try to lighten the mood by laughing when I say, “Coming from the girl who’s never liked guys.”
Charisse throws a strip of lettuce at me. “Totally different, and you know it. I just hate seeing you not even trying to get back out there.”
I play with my glass, pretending to think about it even though I’m not really. I have no interest in dating. Not anymore. My book boyfriends are all I need. This one just isn’t talking to me yet. I know he will eventually.
Melody nudges me and says with a sweet tone, trying to lift up the mood, “Come on. You’ll like Tommy. He’s really sweet, and he totally understands what it’s like to have a broken heart. His girlfriend walked out on him last year. I have his number. I can set you guys up.”
It’s not that I haven’t ever wanted to meet someone and fall in love. Being married and having children have always been the end goal for me. I love love, and I love children even more. It’s just hard to explain to others who are living the blissful life how I feel about the possibility of experiencing heartache again.
A telephone rings in the distance, and I realize it’s coming from my cell phone in the foyer. I jump out of my seat, anxious to get out of this conversation of a potential blind date.
Taking my phone out of my purse, I see Wendy Walcott—my agent—on the screen. Ninety percent of our conversations happen over text or email, so the fact that she’s calling me at seven on a Saturday night is not a good sign.
“Hi, Wendy.”
“So,” she sings out, “how’s it going?”
“Everything’s good. Really good. The manuscript is coming along,” I say, sliding my hand in my jeans pocket.
Then, I hear Charisse cough out from the kitchen, “Liar.”
I walk around the corner to give her the evil eye, and they both laugh, so I walk back down the hall to get some privacy.
“That’s awesome because I have huge news for you. I’ve been shopping you around to a bunch of publishing houses. Winston Arms just returned my call, and their editor read your books and is loving this series. She said they’re looking for a new author to sign on, and she thinks you might be a perfect fit for their readers.”
My hand flies to my mouth as I take in the magnitude of this moment. Winston Arms is one of the premier publishing houses in the country with an imprint dedicated to the romance genre. Anyone who signs with them becomes an instant New York Times best seller.
“Oh my God, Wendy, this is huge!”
“Honey, this is beyond huge. If you sign with them, you’re talking a massive signing bonus and royalties that will make you drool.”
I pump my fist in the air as the excitement builds up in my body, making my eyes well up. Being a self-published author has been amazing, but I’ve been dreaming about being signed to a publishing house. I could extend my reader base and get my books on the shelves of bookstores.
“What’s the next step? Do they want to meet me?” I ask.
“They want to read you. They’re looking to sign you to a three-book deal, but all is contingent on how you close out this series. If you can outsell the first two books in the series and show you have the stamina, then they’ll sign you on the spot. I told them that’s a no-brainer. Talked you up big time. I said I’ve already seen the pages and that the writing is brilliant. Now, don’t make a liar out of me. When can I see the first half of the book? Can you get it to me by the end of the month?”
I inhale a sharp breath and pull on my bottom lip. If I thought disappointing my readers was giving me writer’s block, this monumental moment—in which my entire career is riding on—is sending me into writer’s shock.
“Three weeks? I don’t think I can—”
“Girl, this is the big leagues. They’re looking for a writer who can do the work and do it fast.”
Fast. Well, I have always thrived under pressure. Maybe this is the boost I need.
“Sure. Yeah, I can make that happen.” It’s a lie. There’s no way I can get forty thousand words out by the end of the month. Maybe if I had a story, but right now, it feels impossible.
“I’m so excited for you! I know it’s crazy to call on a weekend, but I just had to let you know. I can’t wait to read this one. The youngest brother has been such an enigma in the first two books. I loved the secrecy of him, and I can’t wait to see what you have planned.”
I smack my palm to my forehead.
He was an enigma because I didn’t know who he was either.
“Yep, you’re going to love him. He’s the best yet,” I lie through my teeth.
“Great! Okay, well, I’ll let you get back to your writing. Have a good night.”
“You too.” I hang up and drop my head to my chest.
When I walk back into the kitchen, Charisse and Melody are staring at me with a mixture of excitement and curiosity, wondering what my phone call was about.
While I want to laugh—and cry—about the opportunity that is within arm’s reach, I throw my hands up and declare, “I’m so screwed.”
Chapter Three
Another day passes, and I have a document with only five thousand words total. Sadly, most of it is a recap about the first two books in case someone jumps in now and hasn’t read the previous two. It’s total crap because no one wants to open a book and reread old stories. I’m resorting to bad habits in storytelling, and I know it.
I’ve written six books in my short writing career, and I’ve never had writer’s block like this.
I’ve tried everything to get out of it.
My day started with music while I cleaned my kitchen. Often, if I do something mindless, like scrub the floors, I can clear my head, and ideas come to me like magic. After my entire apartment was spotless, I still had no clear picture of who this guy was going to be.
I tried going for a jog, and then I tried centering myself with yoga. Neither helped.
As I hopped in the shower, I was sure the premise would come to me. I’ve had my most amazing plots pop in my head while I lathered shampoo through my hair. Not today though. I stood there until the water was cold and my freshly shaved legs were getting goose bumps from the shivers running over my body.
With my coziest writing clothes on and my hair in a high, slick bun, I light a candle and decide I need to immerse myself in research.
Authors are always posting about how if their computers were ever stolen, people would be sure they were serial killers. It’s true. In my career, I’ve looked up how to pull off the perfect murder, unique sex positions, and how to commit money laundering. Us authors need to make sure there are no holes in our plots, and the dark World Wide Web leads the way.
I open my browser, like I have a million times before, except, today, I’m not searching how to hide crimes. I’m looking for bad porn—the kind that actually has a story line that most people will fast-forward through to get to the good stuff. Not me though. I’m dying for any twists or turns that could spark an idea.