“Unbelievable,” I say. It’s the only thing I can say.
“Believe it,” Ryan says. “You did it. Congratulations.”
The floor feels like rubber. The overwhelm is real. Postcoital hormones coupled with a TV spot sure to garner Craig Waters’s attentionandmy book hitting the bestseller list? I steady myself with a hand on Ryan’s forearm, and I don’t know if it’s elation or the solidness of him beneath my fingers that makes me do it, but I sway forward and kiss him hard on the lips. He reacts immediately, his mouth opening, tongue swooping in like a conqueror. His arm wraps around my lower back, keeping me upright and slightly bowed back, and in the headiness of the moment I forget that, while we are tucked into a recess in the wall, we’re still in a public place.
I pull back, dizzy. We’re both breathing hard, and from the glimmer in his darkened eyes, I know his thoughts are identical to mine: that if we didn’t have to be at a regional radio station in an hour for my next interview, we’d find the nearest private space—office, bathroom, janitorial closet—and tear into each other.
He exhales sharply, dropping his arms to his sides. “Let’s get through this next interview. Then we’re going to celebrate.”
“Oh yeah?” I coo. “What did you have in mind?”
“Dinner. Dancing. Champagne cruise around the bay. Anything you want.”
“Hmm. None of that is very discreet,” I say. “And what I want can’t be done in public. At least, not without breaking several indecency laws.”
Amusement twinkles in his eyes. “What kind of man would I be if the only thing I gave you to celebrate this achievement was some dick?”
My inner walls clench at that word on his lips. “Your dick is not justsomedick.”
His lashes obscure his irises, amusement supplanted by desire. “Oh no?” he breathes.
“No, it’s…pretty special.”As special as it gets.
“You sure treat it that way.” His gaze roams down my body. “It’s never been so spoiled.”
I bite my lip, and his eyes zing to my mouth as though pulled by a string. “Let me spoil it again tonight.”
He swallows hard. “There is no world in which I’ll turn that offer down. But, Ana…” He pauses, his expression grave, like he’s about to drop a truth bomb that could blow the solid ground beneath us wide open.
He takes my hand, calling up the memory of him reaching for me under the blankets in his sleep. Like his body was moving on autopilot, the gesture inevitable. Essential.
Everything about him screamsserious,and he seems to really like you.
My pulse speeds up, the tag in my collar suddenly itchy against my skin, words rushing up my throat to stop whatever it is he’s about to say.
“Incoming, six o’clock,” I blurt, casting a pointed look over Ryan’s shoulder at a tech hand approaching this not-so-hidden nook, an interruption so blessedly timed it’s as if the universe is conspiring to save me.
Ryan registers the crew member as he passes us and drops my hand. Presses his lips together, gesturing silently for me to precede him down the hallway.
My palm tingles all the way back to the green room.
Chapter 14
The bestseller list goes public that afternoon, and my phone blows up. Social media notifications curtain the screen as I answer calls from friends and associates. Laura is over the moon, and Meredith exclaims that this is the best way to celebrate her last week at Woodsworth. I wish we could celebrate together in person, but that will have to wait till I’m back in the city and can shower her with the adulation she so thoroughly deserves.
Nadia is a blur when she video-calls me while dancing around her agency with her assistant, Quinn, and an hour later, a bottle of champagne and a glaringly yellow flower arrangement is delivered to my hotel room with manyxoxos on the notecard. Maral pops the cork and sloshes uneven pours into four plastic tumblers from the coffee bar, which we all cheers heartily together.
The sense of satisfaction hits deep. After all that hard work, all those sleepless nights poring over draft after draft,So Proud of Youhas achieved a designation that, for better or worse, validates its existence within the publishing sphere. Whether or not the book meets Mom’s standards of success, whether or not literary snobs believe in its value, it has reached people—the people for whom it was written. The whole point of this venture was to help a huge community of individuals feel a sense of validation andempowerment, to make them feel less alone in a world that often denies them. If this book can make them feel some modicum of acceptance, of pride, for who they are and what they do, then the more copies that get into people’s hands, the better.
We polish off the champagne, and Shanthi declares that we should keep the party going, brooking no arguments from Maral, Ryan, or me. We get as far as the hotel bar, where she orders a round of shots and another bottle of bubbly. Our cheerful, too-loud-for-the-space banter keeps getting waylaid by my phone’s chirps and rings, and eventually Maral slides it out of my hands, effectively taking over its management. I’m flying so high that I practically launch it at her before demanding, politely, that the bartender play strictly Beyoncé power jams for the rest of the night and yanking everyone to a space I claim as a dance floor. Including some hapless patrons who, if you ask me, are only too happy to get caught up in our celebrations.
We are midway through botching the lyrics to “Run the World (Girls)”—not knowing the verses doesn’t stop us from shrieking them at full volume—when I notice Mar pulling off to the side to check my phone. Her eyes go wide, a smile blooming across her face.
My pulse leaps. Is it Nadia? Did Waters hear the news? Maybe he’s decided we don’t need to even have a meeting—he’s green-lighting the show!
I squint—oh wait. That’s her phone. Nadia would likely send any news to both of us…but doubt niggles at me. Mar’s smile isbig. Bigger than it’s ever been when we’ve discussed the show.
Come to think of it, she’s been on her phone a lot lately, more than usual. And that morning we left Chicago, she was being cagey about me seeing her screen.
