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)
But she only had the one back then. And, unfortunately, I kinda forgot about her until I saw her name on the cancellation waitlist and decided to send her the invite.
I wonder if Essie put her behind us in the signing hall so Cordelia and I would have ourselves a little meet-cute?
I wouldn’t put it past her. Essie hasn’t said anything about me not dating—not the way the parents have—but she’s concerned about me. Everything about me seems to be concerning these days.
“Steve?”
“Hmm?”
“You were saying? Inspired you to…”
“It inspired me to tell my sister to rewrite the ending of Slay Me Wild.”
“Stop it.”
“I swear.”
Cordelia’s mouth drops open. “Wow. Ya know, I thought the ending rang out with familiarity. I mean, not that her book is anything like my book—”
“No, of course not.” I don’t mean to chuckle here, but come on. Cynthia Lear, aka Cordy Serendipitous, writes some highbrow shit.
I write… well, sex scenes.
Really, really good sex scenes, and of course, I nail that happily ever after each and every time. But you can’t even compare the two of us as far as style goes. She’s… literary. And her romances are mostly sweet, which I find refreshing. There’s nothing I want to read less than a fucking sex scene after I’ve been writing them all day.
Not that I write all day. Not that I write at all, these days.
While I’ve been musing on our complementary differences, Cordelia’s face has morphed into an expression of… confusion. Then quickly turns to… disappointment?
Did I insult her with my chuckle? Should I explain further? Tell her how artistic her voice is and how her natural ability as a writer would make the hacks cry?
But I’ve missed my chance. Because Cordelia huffs, bends down again, and resumes looking for whatever it was that she didn’t lose. Then her face pops back up, eyebrows knitted together. “Hey. How did you know my real name?”
“You did an interview on a blog called Hot, Sweaty Reads once and spilled all the beans.”
“Oh, wow. I had forgotten about that.” She pauses to look at me again, her eyes dark, and mysterious, and unexpectedly sexy. Her full lips tremble a little as her tongue peeks out. She’s taking me in, sliding her gaze down my body, then back up again. She locks eyes with me.
Holy shit, am I writing a salacious scene in real time in front of a classy woman? What the hell is wrong with me?
“Hey,” she says. “I’ve got a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“What do your parents think of Essie’s books? I only ask because my parents don’t know I write romance.”
“Well, our parents love Essie, so of course, they also love Essie’s books.”
“Oh.” Again, I have confused her.
I seem to be good at that. Of course, it’s pretty easy to confuse people when you’re lying to their faces and leaving out all the important details. So I elaborate. “She’s the favorite. She can do no wrong.”
“Hmm. I’m sure that’s not true. You’re… you. But do they read them? Wait. Do you read them? You don’t. Tell me you don’t.”
“Because that would be… awkward?”
“Gross?”
“Right. Well, I’m a sci-fi guy.”
“Yeah, what’s your favorite book?”
“Well, actually…” Should I tell her about the books I wrote under my own name? They are damn good books. I don’t care what the critics say. I’m a sci-fi book expert and I loved them.
I’m just about to open my mouth and spit out the title of book one when my sane inner voice intervenes. Steve, that’s a big fat no. Two-point-five-star rating. Any chance you have with this lovely creature would be gone the moment she looked that book up on Nile and figured out you’re a meme.
“Starship Troopers.”
Her face lights up. “Oh, my God. Heinlein? I love him.”
“Really?”
“He’s a classic.”
“He is indeed.”
We smile at each other for a few awkward moments. And I’m pretty sure she’s about to get up and be on her way, so I say, “What are you looking for?” to stop that from happening. “Maybe I can help you find it?”
“A book. Well, an ARC.”
My eyebrow shoots up. “Advance copy?”
“Not even. It was a beta copy of my latest book. I mean, before I changed it to… whatever it is now.”
I’m confused. So I say that out loud. “I’m confused.” I make a face to emphasize this.
She sighs. It’s long too. Very dramatic. “I wrote a book. Like… the best book ever. Even my assistant loved it.”
“OK. So what’s the problem?”
“The problem? I can’t publish it.”
“Why not?”
“Apparently, killing the hero of your story and letting your strong, female main protag walk off into the sunset by herself doesn’t qualify as a HEA.”
“Ooooooh. Yeah. That’s a big fat no, Cordy.”
“Cord. I really hate Cordy.”
“Can I give you some advice?”
“I know, I know. I changed the book. Instead of my dramatic ending filled with personal growth and self-acceptance, they fuck on a mountain and get rescued by the National Park Service.”