Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Anna tries to ignore me, picking up trash and gathering the wine bottles.
I watch her.
She lowers the umbrellas and sets the trash bag by the door.
I watch her.
“Why are you here?” She parks in front of me, arms crossed. I don’t get an angry vibe from her. It’s a sad one.
I toss my book, along with a Sharpie, onto the table beside me. “Thought I’d ask B. Ashton to sign my book.”
“W-what are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” I grunt, resting my elbows on my knees and running my hands through my hair.
“How?” she whispers.
“Roseland Publishing. Roseland was my grandmother—a poet. My parents named their publishing company after her. My dad sent me some manuscripts from his slush pile to read through. Can you guess whose manuscript was in that pile?” I lift my gaze. “With a copy of the query letter and the author’s real name?”
Her eyes turn red with unharnessed emotion.
“Why?”
She slowly shakes her head. “I was afraid.”
“If you’re afraid, you don’t pick your own damn book for the book club. You had to have a certain level of confidence to do that.”
She continues to shake her head. “I wanted honest feedback, more than just a review online. But I didn’t want anyone to feel obligated to say nice things because they knew it was my book.”
“Bullshit!” I stand, forcing her to take a few steps backward.
She flinches.
“If you wanted honest feedback, you would have asked me for more of my thoughts on the book. You wanted your ego stroked, and when I refused to comply, you acted like a fucking child.”
“Screw you.”
“You did. You screwed me. Only I didn’t realize we were a threesome. Had I known beforehand, I might have slipped on my kid gloves and been slightly less honest. That’s what you wanted. Right? Sugar-coated honesty? Did you want to know about the two hundred and thirty-seven typos that your editor missed before you self-published? Did you want to know that your timeline is off? Or is that too much too? Because I can guarantee you that a publisher will not hold back. They will tell you exactly what needs to be changed to improve your story. They’ll probably take out all the parts that you love the most. They’ll ask you to rewrite entire chapters and frown upon your excessive use of passive tense. They’ll make judgments on your characters and suggest you do something to lessen the extreme bitchiness of your heroine. And you’ll get your back up because you know that deep down, that heroine is you.”
She tips her chin up. “The reviews online are excellent.”
I shake my head. “I looked—two-hundred reviews. Let’s talk about reviews when you have two thousand. Or more like twenty thousand, which will give us a better idea of what a hundred thousand might look like if you get published. For all we know, you have two hundred loyal friends right now.”
“None of my friends know it’s my book!”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You hate it, so you assume everyone else will hate it. Well, you’re wrong.”
“I never said I hated it.”
She flips her hip out and crosses her arms. “So you’re going to publish it?”
“No.” I chuckle. “You self-published, and you tested a small market. Good for you. The fact that you self-published at all makes you a little less appealing to publishers. Write another book and keep building your audience. Or write another book and submit it before you publish it.”
“But I already wrote a book. And I don’t care what you think … I left my soul in that book. I worked my ass off to write that book, and that could be my best work.”
“Well,” I shrug, “then I suggest you keep your day job. Good luck.” I brush past her toward the door.
“You’re an asshole.”
“Okay.” I don’t glance back at her.
“I’ll just send it to more publishers and agents. I’m not giving up.”
“Okay.” I keep walking.
“And you’re going to feel like such a fool when this is a bestseller, and you passed it up.”
“We’ll see about that.” I open the door and leave her behind with her gigantic ego.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Anna
The next few days are a blur. I need to move past this. I need to move past him. However, I don’t need to hear Freya’s sex chants the second I open the apartment door. I gave them plenty of time alone to work that shit out, but she has no self-control. Dare I knock on the door and ask Adrian to shove a pillow over her face?
Thank you, God.
Her bedroom door opens, so I stay hidden in the kitchen. Last night I got to see all of Adrian, which I never want to see again.
Little man. Big dick. It’s too weird.
“Anna?”
Thankfully it’s Freya. I close the fridge and face her robe-wrapped body, red hair a mess.