That’s weird, right? You’d think an acceptance letter would come from an editor. Or an agent liaison. Someone whose job is actually dealing with aspiring authors. But no. CEO signature. In actual ink. Is that a good sign or a red flag?
I read it again, this time combing through for anything that could possibly hint that this is some sort of sick, terrible joke.
There’s none.
I let out a laugh. They want my book. They want more than that—they wantfivebooks! I laugh again. Pull out my phone to text Brody—and stop.
All that excitement rushing in my blood slows. Cools. Hardens to a pit in my stomach.
Here’s the thing. It took me two years to write and illustrate the first book. Two years of nights and weekends and lunch breaks, fitting it into the margins around jobs that barely paid enough to cover rent and student loans. To meet an eight-month deadline for five books? I’d need to quit my job.
Could I even do that?
Before the contract with Brody came along, absolutely not.
And now…? I don’t know. Can I write that fast when I know the money is dwindling? Oh, the pressure!
I tuck the letter back into the folder without looking at the official contract proposals. Stuff it back into the tote of doom.
I’ll deal with it later. After the wedding. When I can think clearly and not while sitting in a honeymoon suite that’s mocking my entire life.
My phone buzzes.
Brody
Just passed Elk River. Be there soon. Miss you.
Miss you.
Two words that shouldn’t mean as much as they do.
I type back.
Chloe
Drive safe. We’re meeting at the hotel restaurant at 7. See you there!
And my heart does that silly little flip when I hit Send.
But—complete transparency—I’m getting used to that feeling, because things have been different. Better. (So much better.) Since his game in Seattle.
We’ve been texting every day (real texts, not those one-word responses he was giving me before), talking about everything. His games. My new book idea. The crazy thing he overheard in the Starbucks line at the airport. Everything and nothing.
He’s playing better too. I’ve watched all three of his games this week (not obsessive at all), and there’s something different about him on the ice. Calmer. More focused. Like whatever was chasing him finally slowed down.
And after every game, he calls before bed. And we talk on the phone, filling in the gaps that we forgot to text about.
He’s the last person I want to talk to every day and the first person I want to talk to when I wake up. Which feels…really dangerous.
Because I can’t see the lines anymore, where fake-boyfriend Brody stops and Barcelona Brody begins.
And that’s?—
Yeah.
I’m not going to think about that right now either.
I shove it into the mental drawer, right next to the Stratton Publishing letter, and start getting ready for dinner.
