“Yes. But, Paisley,” I glance at the other two women as I rest my forearms on the desk. “Is your plan to talk about my book on social media? Because I really don’t see how this is all going to get off the ground and?—”
“Actually,” Cecily speaks up. “I have a different idea for how we should approach all this.” She raises her eyebrows at Paisley, as if she is asking for permission to share.
Paisley nods, urging her to continue.
“I think we should use your situation to gain interest in your book.”
I’m confused. What situation?
“Like, the fake dating situation you are both in,” Cecilysays, catching on to the fact that nobody is following her line of thinking.
Paisley raises her eyebrows. “You wantme”—she points at her chest—“on Klein’s social?”
“Sort of,” Cecily explains. “It doesn’t have to be your face. It could be your legs stretched out in the sand. It could be a far away shot of you swimming in the ocean. It could be your backs while you ride bikes.”
“This is why I hate social media,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes. “So damn contrived.”
Cecily shakes her head. “I’m not done explaining. You would be honest about what you’re doing. Be upfront about how you’re fake dating.”
I’m already shaking my head. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. This idea is as crazy as it sounded from the beginning. It’s better to put an end to it now. Paisley can tell her family she caught her new boyfriend cheating on her or something similar that I would never do. I’ll be the bad guy so she can save face, and we can both move on. I’ll figure out how to publish my book on my own. Authors do it all the time.
“Paisley—” I cut myself off when I see her smiling. No,beaming.
“I love it,” she says to Cecily. To me, she asks, “Klein, what do you hate about social media?”
“It’s fake.”
“Then don’t be fake. Be authentic. Honest. Be yourself.”
“Be honest about fake dating? That’s called an oxymoron.”
Paisley’s lip twitches, and I imagine she’s fighting the urge to use the word ‘moron’ in a different way.
Excitement glitters in Cecily’s eyes. “The investment in a story like that would be money. Think about it. Don’t you automatically want to know what’s going to happen?”
I already know what’s going to happen. I’m going to take my ass on a trip across the country to an island where there’s going to be a bunch of stuff to do, and out of it I’m going to get professional marketing help that will, in turn, make me more attractive to an interested publisher.
There’s still something tripping me up, though. “How does all this tie into my book, exactly?”
“You’re going to show that you can tell a story.” She waves her hand. “Spin a yarn.”
“Lie?”
“Isn’t that what writing a book is? The world’s longest, most intricate lie?”
I bristle. “No. It’s creativity at its peak.”
“Anyway,” Cecily says forcefully, “the point of all this wouldn’t be to talk about your book yet. We’ll state in your bio that you’ve written a novel, but we’ll save the book push for later, after you get a publishing deal. And how do you get a publishing deal?” Her eyebrows reach for her hairline as she waits for me to answer.
“I show up on social media.” Do I sound as reluctant as I feel? Yep.
“And how do you show up on social media?” She’s using a tone suited for a four-year-old who refuses to relinquish a stolen cookie.
“I exploit my personal life.”
Cecily blows out a hard breath, thumbing at me. “I can’t with this guy.”
“Klein,” Paisley says my name patiently. Too patiently. Once again, I feel like a four-year-old. “This is not exploitation. This is working with what you’ve got. And I have to agree with Cecily, what we’re planning to do is harebrained enough that it’ll pique curiosity.”
