CHAPTER ONE
The thing about being a best-selling romance author is how everybody thinks your life is nothing but one big romcom. Or a nasty, filthy erotic story.
My life is neither of those things. Why? Because I’m a best-selling author—obviously—and therefore, I have no time for anything but writing. It’s sort of an ugly cycle.
Don’t start feeling sorry for me anytime soon though. I do make an attempt every so often to venture from my Upper West Side apartment and pretend to be an actual human being. You’ll see us sometimes—the writers who occasionally venture from their caves, squinting up at the sun like they’ve never seen it before and asking a random passerby what year it is.
Like at this very moment, as I line my blue eyes and apply a little mascara in preparation for a rare daytime excursion. I then pull my long brown hair into a sleek bun at the nape of my neck. Nothing fancy. This isn’t a date or a release party or anything like that.
When was the last time I put on makeup and did anything with my hair? Last Thursday maybe? No, Wednesday—when I met up with my best friend, Hayley, for drinks. Before that? It’s a mystery wrapped up in a pair of yoga pants.
Once again, don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t need an internet fundraiser set up in my name—besides, you can’t create a fundraiser to get somebody a life. And I’m not deliberately a recluse. I’m fine when it comes to self-confidence, and I do enjoy the feeling of sunshine on my skin every once in a while.
But writing, especially one or two books a year, means a lot of time spent with my butt in my chair and my fingers on the keyboard.
Life as Kitty Valentine is an interesting balancing act between living up to my last name—honestly, with a name like Valentine, what else was I supposed to do with my life?—and living like a normal human person. Today, I’m doing regular human things because it’s time for me and my agent to meet up with my editor in her office.
This is an important day, which means I’m breaking out a new dress I purchased on a late-night shopping binge. A girl’s gotta do something with her evenings. By the time I lift my head from behind my laptop screen, it’s too late to visit a store. They tend to close at reasonable times. The navy-blue sheath fits me like a glove, just like the slingback pumps I bought during the same shopping session.
My latest book, Candy-Coated Love, released recently. It’s a heartwarming story about a couple who meet in their apartment building when his golden retriever jumps on her. I always meet with my team to celebrate hitting the New York Times Best Sellers list. My agent, Lois, gets an advance copy of the list, and while she could easily email it to me, she likes to maintain our special tradition.
Though she hardly looks like she’s in a special sort of mood when she meets me in the publisher’s lobby after a brief cab ride.
Everything okay?” I ask with a smile, which she doesn’t return.
Granted, she’s had enough work done on her seventy-year-old face to make smiling a difficulty, but I don’t even get the permanent smirk her mouth seems to have settled into. More like a scowl.
“How’s the next book coming?” she replies.
Yeah, that’s the Lois I know and wish I could love. This is pretty much the extent of our relationship. I write; she sells. There are no flowers or rainbows.
But that’s okay. I get enough flowers and rainbows in the books I write. Besides, she’s a force to be reckoned with in the publishing industry. I know how lucky I am to have her in my corner.
My editor isn’t in there when her assistant escorts us to her office, so we have to wait. And wait.
And then, just to keep things interesting … we wait.
I’m starting to get nervous. That nervous energy propels me out of my cushioned chair positioned in front of Maggie’s desk. There are fantastic views of the city from this high up, and I decide to take a look out there. As I progress across the room, the framed articles hanging on the wall catch my attention.
Because they’re about me. Wouldn’t you be distracted by articles written about you?
Phenom writer hits number one NYT Best Sellers list with debut novel, Sweet Love. The wholesome romance about falling in love over coffee and puppies flies off bookshelves …
Still in college when she wrote the story that was originally Harry Potter fan fiction …
Kitty Valentine is the hottest name in romance …
There are other articles, tons of them, charting a stellar career. Four of my books debuted at number one on the list. What can I say? I’m blessed, not only with good ideas and the ability to write them down, but also with an editor and agent capable of putting my work out into the world in a big way.
Maggie rushes into the office, making me jump in surprise as her heels click against the floor. My smile is wide, my arms lifting for a hug by the time she reaches me. This is our usual routine. Smiles, hugs, congratulations all around.
Routine doesn’t seem to be what Maggie’s in the mood for today. She rushes right past me with barely a glance and sits behind her desk. “Take a seat,” she invites, gesturing to the chair I just left.
Oh. This is new. Why are my knees knocking a little as I sit down? It’s just that, book after book, we’ve done the same thing. Heck, she didn’t even bring in any champagne. A cheap bottle of wine would’ve been acceptable. I’m not a snob.
“Ladies, we have a problem,” she says, looking from Lois to me and staying there.
“What?” I ask with my heart in my throat.
“You didn’t hit the list this week. The book is a bomb.”
Maggie has always been good at getting to the heart of the matter with little fanfare, but her abruptness is still a shocker.
“It didn’t? It is?” Look at me, the fancy writer, knowing so many words.
She shrugs her thin shoulders. “Sweet romance isn’t selling anymore. You’re going to have to write something on-trend.”
I look to Lois, whose very stiff face hasn’t loosened up any. “Do you have any idea what that means, agent of mine?” I whisper.
Maggie doesn’t give her the chance to explain, jumping in to do it herself. “The current tropes that are selling the best, I mean. The trends. You can’t tell me you don’t keep up with what the rest of the industry is doing.”
I could just about melt into my chair, and my face is about as red as my lipstick. I can feel it burning, like eggs-cooking-on-the-sidewalk levels of heat. “I don’t exactly have a lot of extra time on my hands with the pace I have to keep up,” I point out, but even to my ears, it sounds like a lame excuse.
She lets it go, charitable for the first time since she came in. “Her Stepbrother’s Baby. Balls Deep. His Wolf Highness. Those are a few titles that are selling well right now. MC clubs are still hot too.”
Those are the titles? “What’s an MC club?”
She blinks hard. “Motorcycle club. How men with tattoos who live filthy, dangerous lives, love fiercely, and are finally tamed by the only women strong enough to take them on.” Her eyes have a strange light that matches the tone of her voice. Is it excitement? “If that doesn’t turn you on, what about bears or beasts that transform into humans?”
It’s my turn to blink. “Like, sex with a hippogriff?”