The crowd claps.
Some women whistle.
I’m shell-shocked to do anything else but to stand there like a marble statue.
A devastatingly handsome, rugged, and intoxicating man steps on stage, and my heart stumbles then stops altogether. He’s wearing the hell out of a navy-blue suit accompanied with a white shirt sans tie look.
Jaw meet floor.
“Thank you so much, Laura,” Kaz says.
She responds with an enthusiastic wave and a shoulder shimmy.
Kaz swings his gaze toward the crowd, our eyes colliding.
I shake my head.
He winks in response. “Thank you so much for coming out for my debut book. I’ll read a few passages from it. Please be kind, I’m no audiobook narrator, but Laura assures me, and I quote,‘Readers eat that shit up’.”
Laura points at him, her grin taking over her face.
Chuckles echo around the bookstore.
“So, now that my identity has been revealed, it’s time for you to rip off the craft paper.”
Tearing sounds bounce offthe walls.
With frantic hands, I pull off all the bookish frills and stuff them in my tote bag before tearing the craft paper.
Oh.
My.
God.
I stare in shock at the illustrated cover of a tall blue-eyed hockey player and a short blonde who looks a lot like me.
“Pucking Perfectisn’t a novel… it’s an illustrated book,” Kaz says. “Turns out, writing a book is fu—” He rubs a hand behind his neck. “Sorry about that. Hockey players swear a lot.”
There’s a collective chuckle.
“What I’m trying to say, is that it takes some skills to write a novel because it’s hard work.”
“It’s damn hard,” someone says from the back.
Kaz nods. “Thanks to the generosity of some of my girlfriend’s favorite romance authors who were so kind in guiding me in my journey as a rookie author—their names appear on the acknowledgement page—I decided to tell my epic love story in a way that would ensure I do it inthiscentury. The words, although not eloquent, are my own. I commissioned an artist for the illustrations. I tried drawing them myself, but after a focus group with a bunch of five-year-olds who convinced me I had zero artistic talent, I gave up. I tried my hand at stock illustrations, but the end result wasn’t to my liking. My girl deserves the best. So, I turned to a professional.”
“Your girl is a lucky bitch, Kaz,” a woman says.
“I agree,” someone else says.
I laugh.Yes, I am.
“No.” He shakes his head and smiles over at me. “I’m the lucky one.”
Emotion swells my chest and my ovaries nearly explode.
“Please open the book to the dedication,” Kaz says.
