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)
I laugh. It’s very loud too.
She points to the box of books she’s been searching through. “That’s what all these are. The real ARCs. For my ARC team. Which sounds more important than it is, because there are only nine people on it. My team, that is.” She ends this with a powerful exhale that sends the hair around her eyes billowing up. “But I had one copy of the real book and now I can’t find it.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s a plain white cover with the title on it.”
“Filling the Gap?”
“Yeah, but not these.” She points to her box of books.
“Right. But what about that one?” I point to another book, sitting on the floor right behind her.
She turns, grabs the book, and squeals, holding it to her chest. I don’t think she meant to do this. I think it was a genuine display of relief because she immediately looks embarrassed. “Sorry. It’s just…”
“Your perfect book.”
“Yeah. It’s my perfect book. And even though I had to change it to satisfy the commercial nature of the business and meet my readers’ expectations, I will forever know in my heart that this is the real story.”
I smile. “Nice. Hey, can I read it?”
“What?”
“I’d love to read it. I’m a fan, remember? And if it’s your best book ever I’m very interested.”
“I don’t know. You might hate it.”
“So? I mean, I’m sure I won’t. I love that first one. Come on. You wrote the best book of your life and now you’re just gonna… what? Put it in a trunk and pack it away? Never to see the light of day again? Let me read it. Please.”
“What if you lose it?”
“Cynthia.” I shoot her a look that conveys a moment of shocked incredulity and trust-me-I’m-a-grown-up at the same time.
She giggles a little.
“Hand it over. I’m gonna read it cover to cover and report back to you at the mixer tonight.”
“Oh…”
“Stop.” I know what she’s gonna say. I can see it coming. She’s not going to the mixer.
Lots of first-time authors get too nervous to attend. It’s common. Hell, lots of old-hats get too nervous to attend as well. We are writers, after all. Well, I don’t quite fit the whole writer stereotype, actually—I’m sort of a social butterfly. Which is super ironic since I haven’t had a date in two years.
Regardless of my relationship issues, I decide to intervene so I can save Cordelia from an internal debate whereby she talks herself into room service and pay-per-view tonight instead of the fabulous mixer where she can bump elbows with romance giants. “You’re going, woman. You’re signing books at the biggest romance convention on the planet. You’re back to back with SS. She’s gonna be right there.” I point at the back of our banner. “You’re in the big leagues now and you’re not allowed to miss a single moment of it, understand me?”
She presses her lips together, then gives me a little nod.
“And I would be honored to read your book. Please.” A moment later, she hands it over.
CHAPTER FIVE
I have a hard time letting go of the unadorned, white paperback with the black lettering that contains within its pages what Britney called ‘a masterwork.’ As he grips it, I suddenly get a little… if not panicky, then breathless. It’s unexpected.
And while I’m used to little things triggering an unexpected reaction in me, I can’t possibly be prepared for when or what those things might be. That’s why they’re called ‘unexpected.’ Being prepared for them to happen would defeat the whole purpose of their stupid, annoying existence.
“You all right?” Steve asks. I nod. “May I… have it?” he follows up, raising his eyebrows and giving a tight-lipped smile that’s about fifty-seven percent more charming than I was anticipating it to be. I mean, he’s a handsome guy and seems nice, but the sort of aw-shucks, super-handsome but self-deprecating thing he just slipped into so insouciantly is disarming on a different level.
But still… I just met this guy. He rolled up on me all casual-like, knowing who I am, and just started talking to me. Which makes me reflexively wary. Not owing to anything about him specifically, but because of my well-documented lack of trust. And because I think I’m a little bit jealous of people who have that quality about them.
I don’t know if my natural tendency toward solitude is what actually drew me to the solitary art of being a writer, or if being a writer has fostered in me a tendency toward avoiding interaction with other humans. Probably a little from column A, a little from column B.
I try not to make a big thing out of it, just like I try not to make a big thing out of my anxiety or habits or any other part of my behaviors. Because I have decided that those things aren’t actually me. My idiosyncrasies are not the sum and substance of who I am. I’m wary of anyone who defines themselves as one thing or tries to turn the fact that they… don’t care how much charge they have left on their phone, or whatever… into a personality trait.