Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
It’s surreal.
I'm convinced someone is going to jump out from behind the curtain at any second and say they're punking me.
Then take my career away.
“Actually,” TJ cuts in, deadpan, as is his MO, “It’s probably one thousand and five. That’s what the auditorium seats. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure no one charges you, Huxley.”
“Thanks, appreciate it,” I say, dryly. “Anyway,” I say, recalling Carter’s words as I fasten on a smile, sending it Luciana’s way. “It’s all good.”
With a nod that says the size of the auditorium convo is closed, she walks us through the event. “I’ll do a quick intro. Then it’s showtime. The focus is on the readers. They’re here to ask questions. But I’ll moderate and make sure the questions are acceptable. You’ve all sent me your list of off-limits topics, so we should be good to go.” She looks around, checks her watch. “Shall we head backstage and mic you up?”
“Sounds great,” I say with a smile.
See? This old dog can learn new tricks.
We leave and head to the wings. The crowd is buzzing with chatter. The noise and hubbub drift back here, and it’s heady.
And still hard to believe.
I peer around the wings at the packed room. There’s no way they’re here for me. Maybe everyone else. But not me. Not the guy who’s shitty with names. Not the guy who embarrassed himself at his first signing when he got the name of the bookstore owner wrong.
It’s one hour. Then you’ll see your friends, play some pinball, and grab a beer with the guys.
I head onstage, and Luciana introduces us, then points to the woman queued up at the front of the question line in the audience.
Ah, shit. She’s wearing a Ten Park Avenue shirt. She leans into the mic. “I’m dying to know what happens to the next couple at Ten Park Avenue. Will you and Hazel ever finish Lacey’s book?”
You don’t even want to know how painful that last story was to try to write. Trust me, you don’t want to know.
But Carter’s words flash before me.
Smile. Just smile.
My father’s snide comments flicker as they sometimes do. Have you ever considered, I don’t know, trying a little harder to help me pull this off?
And I smile, and I try. “We’re both really busy. Have you read Hazel’s latest sexy romantic comedy? The antics of sunshine Kelsey and broody Brayden when they’re stuck sharing a flat on a non-refundable trip in The I Do Redo, are so terrific,” I say, deflecting.
And multitasking too, as I heap on the praise.
Score one for the guy who’s picturing how the woman with the Ten Park Avenue shirt takes her coffee as she strips naked to screw some dude.
And just like that, no one will know who I really am.
5
HE LIKES TACOS
Hazel
Warring thoughts rush through my head as I sit straight and tall on the emerald-green dais in the middle of the stage, Axel on one side, TJ on the other.
Wistful ones like, I was dying to finish writing Lacey’s story. That plucky doctor had some bad luck in her past and needed some good loving.
Then, badass babe ones along the lines of Two can play at this praise game, Huxley.
And finally, kick-myself-in-the-pants ones such as, Why didn’t I put our previous writing partnership that went up in spectacular flames on my no-fly list?
Well, because I didn’t want to signal to my publisher, any of the publicists, or the entire Romance Reader Expo organizers, that it’s still a sore spot.
I try to erase Axel from my thoughts, but it’s hard with him so close. Harder still after he made that kind and witty comment about my new book.
I fight my own mind as audience members line up to ask questions about inspiration, writer’s block, and whether “you’ve ever gotten so turned on while writing a sexy scene that you had to take care of business?”
Dodged a bullet with that last one—the questioner addresses it to Kennedy. My fellow rom-com author, who looks the part with the artfully messy bun and red cat-eye glasses, blows out a long breath, then says, “That’s an occupational hazard of writers working in coffee shops, let me tell you.”
The crowd laughs.
Whew. Axel’s tactic worked. We aren’t stealing the spotlight with our private war spilling onto a public front.
When Kennedy finishes, Luciana fields a new question from a woman near the front. She’s sporting a T-shirt that says I claim all the book boyfriends. I like her already.
“Hi. I’m Melissa,” the woman says as an expo crowd runner hands her a mic.
“Welcome, Melissa,” Luciana says, then eyes the reader’s shirt. “And we might have to keep a schedule of book boyfriends, because I’ve got some claims to make too. But go ahead. What’s your question?”
Melissa dives in, gesturing to all six authors onstage. “First, I’ve read all your books, every single one, and I have a question for TJ.”