I hold out my hand. She drops it like it’s a particularly disgusting, dead worm.
Turning toward the waste basket, I check it out to see what the problem was.
“Fucker split right down the side.” I step next to her at the sink, pushing my hands under the stream of hot water. “This is the first time that’s happened to me. It must’ve been defective.”
She glances into the mirror and mumbles under her breath, “Something was defective.”
White knuckling the steering wheel, I bang my head against the center of it. I ignore the throb this causes at the stitched place at my hairline. I deserve a headache.
A car honks. I pop up.
Crap. Green.
I step on the gas, and my car shoots forward. I gnaw my bottom lip the rest of the drive home from Jackson’s place.
It’s fine. It’ll be fine.
Damn.
Well, it’s only been two months since I had my last pill. I wonder how long they stay in the system.
Why, oh why haven’t I renewed my birth control prescription?
I was too busy not having sex, because I was trying to have my book ready to publish before Valentine’s Day. That was my sole priority.
I was writing a book and trying to tell other women how to catch the man of their dreams.
Today, the anti-man of my dreams fucked me until I could hardly breathe, brought me ten times the pleasure any other guy has even wanted to give—much less delivered—and now I might be pregnant.
And he’s a confirmed bachelor.
Please, God, don’t let me be fertile.
TEN
Shouldering my large carry-all filled with colored permanent markers and the beautiful bookmarks I had made just for this purpose, I head inside.
Excitement bubbles in my chest, almost too much to contain. My cheeks already hurt from all the smiling I’ve done this morning. And the only person I’ve seen so far is Shay.
The bookstore manager shows me where to set up my small folding table and gives me the low-down on how things usually go. As I tie my brand new banner across the front of the table, the bubbles in my chest turn to lead weights.
What if no one wants me to sign their book? Will anyone want one of my books? What am I doing here? No one’s even going to speak to me.
The store is sparsely populated at the moment. Maybe things will get busier as lunchtime approaches.
I breathe into my palm. Okay, my breath is fresh. I check my nails; no chips. I pull the small mirror from my bag and reapply my lip gloss, smiling to make sure I don’t have spinach in my teeth.
What am I thinking? I don’t even eat spinach. Deep breaths. Relax. It’s all right.
I arrange and straighten the books and bookmarks for the fifth time before the first person comes over. If no one is interested, it’s fine. No different than if I’d have just stayed at home. Except at least then I could have gotten some laundry folded.
There she is. And she’s smiling. A reader. Someone who’s actually read my words. The petite woman saunters over, her gaze darting around the table at my books.
When she looks up at me, she says, “Do you know where the ladies’ room is?”
I slump.
“I think it’s over in the far corner.” I smile. “Have a nice day.”
Damn.
The next person who stops by the table actually picks up a book, but then lays it back down without even making eye contact.
Foot traffic does pick up not long before noon. Several people stop by, pick up the book, check the back cover copy, and lay it back down, walking away. Finally, someone who’s read my book stops by.
“Oh, I saw you on Jackson Tremaine’s show and picked up your book. It was great.”
My heart soars. “Thank you. I’m so glad you liked it. Have you caught the man of your dreams?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it. That chapter on respecting his drive to protect his woman—that was amazing. I’d never really thought about that. But I think you’re right. I used to think men were just being knuckled-headed jealous types, but now it makes all the sense in the world.”
We chat until another reader comes up. And another. And the lead weight lifts so I can breathe again. There’s a line forming. An actual line.
Shay bumps the table with her hip, handing me her book, smiling. “I really need you to sign my copy.”
I roll my eyes. “Your copy is already signed, silly woman.”
“I know, but not at a for real book signing.”
And this is why she’s my best friend. Even though she doesn’t even believe in love, she believes in me.
I sign book after book. Apparently, a lot of people watch Jackson’s show. The excitement builds in my chest. I can’t wait to take a look at sales figures. Maybe things have finally started to take off. Maybe someday, I’ll be able to afford a place of my own. A new car. A vacation.