Ivy is now a published author, with the release of her third romance novel being just last week, hence the book signing. It’s her first one, and she was so nervous I had to bring her to the bathroom to take the edge off. By the dreamy look in her eyes, I’d say mission accomplished.
Her books are a really big hit in the paranormal romance world, and though I still haven’t completely wrapped my mind around it, I’m happy to be her smut guinea pig.
We casually exit the bathroom together, practically whistling our innocence, and make our way back to the front of the bookstore to get comfortable at her set-up. We have about ten minutes before the event begins, so I sit beside her, and grip her thigh.
I lean in and whisper into her ear, “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you, baby,” she whispers back.
My phone rings loudly in the quiet shop, and I hurry to slide it out of my pocket and accept the FaceTime from my mom, angling the phone so Ivy and I will be in the frame.
“Hi, Mom,” I greet her.
“Hi, honey. Lilah wanted to say good luck,” she replies, and hands the phone over to our chaotic seven year old.
“Hi.” She waves at the phone, and then angles the phone to show us what I think is a s’more.
“Hi, bug. Are you having fun at Nana and Papa’s? Are you all having a fire?” I ask her.
“Yes!” she yells, before dropping the phone, making the only thing visible the evening sky.
My mom picks up the phone, and hands it back, encouraging Lilah to continue our conversation.
“Say good luck,” my mom whispers to Lilah.
“Good luck Mama!” she shouts, grinning at the phone with a chocolate smile.
The smile that lights Ivy’s face is out of this world. “Thank you, Delilah. I love you. Eat a marshmallow for me.” Her voice cracks a little at the end.
“I love you. Okay,” she replies, then runs off, clearly done with the conversation.
It’s been years, but Ivy still gets sappy when Delilah calls her mama. When Delilah asked to call Ivy Mom on our wedding day, Ivy was beside herself. We had a good talk about Sarah, and what it meant for her to bring Delilah into the world, and how she’s still so important to us. At the end of it, she decided she wanted to call Sarah, Mommy, and Ivy, Mama.
We got married in the clearing where we watch the sun set, with all of our closest friends and family—Rose included. She refused to be a bridesmaid no matter how much my wife begged. I can still see Ivy in her mothers dress, walking toward me, hand in hand with Delilah like it was yesterday.
“Good luck, darlin’.” We hear Maverick shout in the background, and I roll my eyes.
Ivy laughs. “Thanks, Mav.”
My mom wishes Ivy good luck, and tells her how proud of her she is, before ending the call. I know times like these make Ivy miss her parents more than usual, so my mom being there for her means a lot.
The bookstore employee lets us know that they will be opening the doors in a couple minutes, and Ivy takes a deep breath, making her chest rise and fall dramatically.
“Your tits look amazing in that dress,” I tell her, then kiss her neck. “You’re going to be great. They’re all here for you. There’s no reason to be nervous, and if anyone is mean, I’ll just throw them out.”
“I know you mean that in the literal sense,” she says on a scoff, and rolls her eyes, probably remembering that night years ago when I tossed that douche bag out of Mav’s bar. “Most of them are most likely women, so good luck with that.”
Shit, I didn’t think of that.
The doors open up, and a line of people file in. I’m not going to say I’m shocked by the amount of people, because in my mind everyone in the world should be here, but for her first signing I’m pleasantly surprised by the hoard of people that barrel through the doors.
Person after person interacts with Ivy, and I open each physical copy, setting it just underneath her hand to sign so she can give her readers her full attention.
They give her gifts, treats, and art they’ve made themselves. There’s drawings of fangs and blood, along with a few very explicit NSFW scenes that are admittedly impressive, but I avert my eyes because I don’t think it's appropriate for me to ogle them at the moment.
Later.
Every single treat that she’s given, I ask my rehearsed question, “Do these have walnuts?”
