CHAPTER ONE
The wheels on the bellman’s cart gave an ear-piercing screech, Murphy Chaykovsky stopped dead as every person in the ballroom prepping for the multiauthor book signing turned to look.
Murphy’s Law #1084: When trying to slip into an event, the noisiest thing possible will happen.
Her face turned hot. What was I thinking to agree to attend this event?
She knew, sure she did. An adventure, her first book signing ever.
Some adventure.
All she wanted at the moment was to back out of the room and run and hide in her little house. Heck, everyone could probably tell just from looking at her that she was a total newbie.
Prickles of anxiety skittered across her nerves as she got the heavy cart moving again toward where she’d be sitting.
Throughout the room, authors were decorating white linen-covered rectangular tables with books and banners with the same frantic activity of an overturned beehive.
Off in one corner, news reporters were interviewing some attending TV stars.
Around the perimeter were tables for the biggest bestselling authors. Including…
Oh my god, that’s Patterson. She barely managed to suppress a fan-girl scream.
God, she was such a dork.
Get to work. Turning away, Murphy pushed the cart toward her table, shared with four other authors. She was totally ready to sit down for a while. Her stomach burned from way too much coffee, and her arms and back ached from moving boxes.
Help sure would have been nice. But her brothers said they had more important matters to do today, which probably meant watching sports and drinking with their friends.
Why did I even bother asking them?
Her boyfriend, Ross, had turned her down, too, wanting to sleep in. In fact, he might not even show up today at all.
At her first book signing. Ever.
He said he didn’t like crowds, although he had no trouble dragging her to his company’s business parties.
Of course, a book event was different. She wrinkled her nose. Ross wasn’t a bookworm like her. His priority list consisted of his job, his appearance, and anyone who could help him climb the corporate ladder. Books were at the very bottom of his list, which was a complete reversal of hers.
The realization aroused a niggling worry.
And left her feeling awfully alone.
No. It’s fine. We’re fine. Ross was just busy today.
She paused to push a few dark brown strands of hair out of her face. Oh great. Her dignified bun was already coming loose. Her makeup was undoubtedly streaking too.
Near the door, another author wore shorts and a T-shirt pimping her books—a far more comfortable outfit. Really, suits should be forbidden in Florida.
Whyever did I think wearing a suit would make me look more like a serious author?
Moving down the correct aisle, she checked the alphabetical name tags.
There. ML Chaykovsky.
I’m a real author. So cool.
Even though this was her fourth year since being published, the thrill never faded.
Carefully, she unpacked and stacked the books she’d brought to sell then filled two baskets with fancy pens bearing her name. A line of colorful bookmarks went down each side of her area before she positioned her autographing pens, notepaper, and “Signed by Author” stickers.
Ready.
After a quick trip to return the bellman’s cart, she dropped into her chair and glanced at the clock. Only ten minutes left before the doors would open to readers.
Now what? Her foot jiggled as if she should be doing something. Anything. Instead, she moved each stack of her historical thrillers over by…an inch.
Did I bring too many books?
How humiliating would it be if nothing sold, and she ended up taking everything home? What if the authors on each side of her had lines of readers, and she had none? Did she have famous authors next to her?
She should have checked.
The person to her left was a sweet-faced, elderly woman with piles of inspirational romances. For a minute or two, they chatted, well, mostly Murphy asked questions.
Maybe big groups were anxiety-inducing, but one-on-one, she was a pro at getting someone to talk. People were interesting.
On her right was a redhead, a few years older than Murphy’s twenty-five and close to the same solid build although Murphy had a smaller butt and breasts.
Face it, she had smaller breasts than most of the world.
“Oh, dammit. Where are my autographing pens and stickers?” The redhead started frantically searching a box on the table. “Noooo. Carson, what have you done?”
Murphy’s next breath came easier. Maybe I’m not the only author who gets stressed out about this reader event kind of stuff. “Um. Hi.”
When the woman turned, Murphy offered a smile. “I have extra pens and signed-by-author stickers. Far more than I need. Let me share.”
“I…” The woman ran a hand through her pixie-cut hair and said with a Texas drawl, “My son is just shy of being a teenager—when the brain turns into mush. I think he might have hit that stage early.”
Murphy snickered. “When my younger brothers were that age, anything was a distraction. Like when Farran was filling the bathtub, heard something outside, and went to investigate…but left the water running.”
The woman winced. “Did the tub run over?”
“Oh, did it ever. Now, from a few years’ distance, I can find it funny.” Murphy pulled extra pens and stickers from her boxes and handed them over.
“Thank you so much.”
Still standing, Murphy glanced at the author’s books. They appeared to be young adult fantasy. And the name on the cover was…Josephine Collier?
Murphy’s jaw dropped. “Oh, wow. I love your books.”
The woman blinked, then grinned. “You know, I’m always startled when grown-ups say they like my stories, but I must admit, I read YA fantasy too. Just because it’s fun.”
“Exactly. And the teens in your books are”—how to say this politely—“aren’t too stupid or too whiny.”