I purse my lips. “Can you learn to stop booking such fascinating guests? I can’t help it if I’m interested in what they have to say.”
“Can we skip the thing where you try to refute me five or six times and just get to the thing where you realize I’m right? I don’t have the energy for your…energy right now.”
I heave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine, but just this once.” She wouldn’t be much of a brand manager if she wasn’t so great at keeping me on track.
Maral taps her phone with a prettily manicured finger. “Shanthi says the setup for tonight is almost complete.” She turns the screen to me and I’m greeted by my own giant smiling face on posterboard, erected on an easel by the door to the Rare Book Room. “That’ll draw a crowd.”
“Let’s just hope it’s a friendly crowd,” I say, theLitCritreview slithering back into my mind before I banish it, sliding open the soundproof door so I can go get dressed.
“It’s ticketed to max capacity,” Maral calls after me. “It will be.”
With events where every attendee has reserved a ticket, like at the Strand, where my book launch is taking place, we know that whoever is therewantsto be there. So I have every reason to believe tonight will go off without a hitch. But some of the events on my upcoming tour are only partially ticketed, with additional space available for general admission, so it’s possible we’re in for some walk-in haters over the coming two weeks.
I’m grateful I even get the opportunity for a book tour, given how rare they are these days. My publisher is bankrolling part of it because I’m a public figure whose national speaking engagementsprove that people will turn up in droves to see me, which translates to sales. My publicist, Meredith, has arranged for various interviews and bookstore events, and Woodsworth Press is sending her along to deal with setups, book and swag shipments, stock signings, and all the thankless grunt work she’s assured mewill be a joy if it’s in service of your book(god love her, the liar). Maral and Shanthi are accompanying us on my dime, since Mar set up the rest of the speaking events at various conferences and symposiums along the route, and as my ace content manager, Shanthi has the dubious honor of recording my every public move for followers to enjoy.
I already did my makeup for the podcast and changing only takes a minute. I spend the balance of time before we have to leave finishing up a Q and A I was due to turn in to Meredith by end of day.
After pressing Send, a new email crops up. From the last name I expected to see in my inbox today.
Today, 4:47 p.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Congratulations
Ana,
I wanted to wish you a happy release day. Your book is going to touch a lot of people. Congratulations on your achievement.
Best,
Ryan
“I’m so fucking sure,” I mumble, scoffing at the sheer audacity. All at once, every bad review since the start of the book’s publicitycampaign comes rushing back to me in a montage of newsclips, many of them engineered by the man who’s dared to sully my inbox.
Woodsworth Press’s director of publicity, Ryan Grant.
When my agent, Nadia, and I were first meeting with publishers two years ago, many industry professionals were champing at the bit, lauding my as-yet-unwritten book as the next Big Thing. Most members of the team at Woodsworth felt this way. All except one—Ryan Grant.
To say Ryan wasmarkedly disinterestedin that first meeting would be an understatement. Sure, the weight of his unwavering gaze practically thickened the air when we first entered the boardroom, but his imperious posture, his bone structure, and the deep timbre of his voice were giving stern daddy. Not to mention the man looked like his smiling muscles had never been exercised a day in their lives—despite the rest of his body more than making up for that.
By the time we sat down with the full team to go through my book proposal, I could practically see the skepticism dripping from the man.
“So, it’s not a memoir?” Ryan asked, leafing through the pages my agent had provided.
“No,” Nadia said in her signature cool, husky voice. “It’s more of a how-to.”
“But do you use your own experiences as a framework?” he asked, his attention on me.
“I’ll be using stories from people I’ve interviewed over the years,” I said, “but the overall structure is more of a guide to becoming your own inner champion when you’re not getting encouragement from external inputs like family.”
A single dark brow rose. “Butyou’rethe brand. Readers will be disappointed not to see you in the pages.”
“I’m giving voice to something my community has long beenhungry for—validation, encouragement.That’swhat people connect to.” For good measure, I added, “I wouldn’t be nearly as interesting subject matter.”
Ryan held my gaze for a long moment, jade-green eyes twinkling in the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. “That so?” he murmured. Then something shuttered over his expression, a deep frown overtaking it as he closed the booklet. As if to say,I’ve read enough.
