Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Every year I make my mom a big, colorful, rosette ribbon (like the kind you win in horse shows or at the fair) with the words ‘Official Rom-Mom of Sin With Us Romance Con!’ printed in big letters inside the center circle so all the authors will gush at her when she comes to their table. She loves it, wears it non-stop from the moment she arrives at the hotel until she gets home to Arizona, and when she finally takes it off, she puts that rosette next to past years’ rosettes, proudly displaying them on her bathroom vanity mirror like a twelve-year-old girl with show ponies.
And even though my mom can really push my buttons, it makes me happy to make her happy like that. Even if she thinks it’s Essie doing it.
Meanwhile, as I’ve been having this internal monologue, Leslie Munch has invited herself into my little familial circle. She thrusts out a hand. “You must be Phyllis! Official Rom-Mom!” Leslie points to Mom’s rosette.
And even though my mom hates Leslie just as much as Essie and I do, this delights her. She puts a hand over her heart. “Well, yes! I am!” She even shakes Leslie’s hand when it’s offered.
“What can I do for you, Leslie?” I’m not growling. It’s not a growl. But it’s definitely on par with a snarl.
“I’m gonna let that go, Steve.” Leslie is still shaking my mother’s hand as she looks me in the eyes to say this. “Because I’m nice.” But then she directs her attention back to Mom, letting go of her hand. “I’m Raylen Star. And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Smith. You must be so proud of your daughter.” Leslie side-eyes me as she says this.
What the hell is she up to?
“Is there a problem I can help you with?” I offer this up because she needs to go. In fact, I need a moment. I want to relish last night. That was my plan for this morning. Just stroll around, checking in on each panel room to make sure there are no problems, and relive what happened with the incredible Cordelia Sarantopoulos.
That bathtub of rose petals—kind of genius, if I do say so myself. I wonder if I can use that in my next book?
“Well.” Leslie is still here. “Now that you ask…” She glances at my mom. “I mean, I don’t want to sound like a complainer—”
“Since when?” Oops. This actually slips out.
Leslie ignores it, smiling at me with clenched teeth. “But I couldn’t help but notice that I wasn’t assigned to a panel this morning.”
“No?”
“No. I was assigned to the last one of the day. But… if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to join in on Hot Lips and Husky Voices.”
“Oooh, that’s Essie’s panel!” my ever-helpful mother says.
“It is,” Leslie agrees. “Up first. How nice.” Again, her eyes are locked on me as these words come out. “So what do you say, Steve? Hmm? It’s not too much trouble, right? I won’t skip out on Pen Names and Page Games.” She really emphasizes that title. “I’ll be there with bells on.”
My initial instinct is to say no. But honestly, who cares? I don’t want to have this battle here, in the lobby, with lurking BookTokers. So I smile and nod. “Sure, Leslie. Whatever you want.”
Leslie claps her hands together one time. “Excellent.” Then she toodles her fingers at us, grinning like a maniac, turns on her heel, and walks away.
“Oooooh. She’s not as bad as I thought she would be,” Mom says.
“No,” Dad mumbles. “She’s weird.”
“Yeah. But anyway.” I force Leslie out of my mind. “Do you two need anything? What’s your plan for today?”
“Essie’s panel, of course,” Mom says. “I just love the way she shines in the spotlight. My heart.” She places her hand over it. “It just… ohhhh, fills up when I see her up there on that stage, with all those hopeful, shiny-eyed newbie authors with stars in their eyes, gazing at her with admiration. I mean… it’s quite a thing to be Essie. She’s world-famous. And she handles it with such grace.”
“Right.” I ignore all that gushy shit. “That’s ninety minutes. Any other plans? Hit the pool? Gamble a little? Need some money?”
“Son.” My father turns to me. “Don’t try to be your sister.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You don’t have money to throw around like that. Essie will give us money.” Then he pats my shoulder like he feels sorry for me.
And this is the signal that I need to leave. Because even though this whole secret identity thing was my idea in the first place, a guy can only take so much.
“Ooooh! There’s Essie now!” My mother is immediately waving and yelling. “Essie! We’re over here, Essie!”
The lobby—which has built up a larger population now that it’s nearing seven o’clock—starts buzzing with whispers. Every face turns to look, first at my mother’s commotion, then at an approaching Essie. She gets stopped. And stopped again. And again. Smiling, chatting, signing things, nodding—until finally, ten minutes later, she and Mike have joined our little group.