My cheeks heat, and it takes a valiant effort for me to not pick at my nails. “Thanks.”
I’ve been writing for years, but still, nuclear physics seems easier than figuring out how to respond to a compliment when there are five hundred people sitting at home watching me from their phones. At least I’m in the safety of my living room, and not on a stage or something horrifying like that.
“I saw your post the other day that it’s now a bestseller, even though you published it months ago. You must have been so happy to see that.”
“It’s surreal.”
Surreal?
Really? That’s the best I’ve got? Fucking hell.
What’ssurrealis that I don’t have the slightest idea how any of this is happening. My posts aren’t going viral enough to get the reception I’ve received, so how the hell are thousands of people ordering the book thatflopped?
It doesn’t matter. I’m grateful that people are finding my work, and I’m grateful that people like Maddie are supporting me.
Even if I feel like I’m going to throw up from this interaction.
I wring my hands in my lap where the camera can’t see. There are only ten more minutes of this torture, and then I can go back to reliving the moment beneath his bed.
I make a conscious effort not to look at any of the comments that are rolling in as I attempt to have an “organic” conversation with Maddie, even though small talk is my worst enemy. Second to my mother.
If there’s a comment worth mentioning, I trust Maddie to bring it up. If I look and see anything negative, I can’t be sure how I’ll react.
Cry, probably.
“Oooh, someone asked who your celebrity cast would be for Blake?”
I spot the question “LIHna” left a second after Maddie reads the comment out loud. Why do I keep agreeing to do live Q&A sessions and podcasts? My social anxiety hates it, and each question always has me stumped when I damn well know what the answer is.
At least Maddie has been absolutely amazing at filling the silence before it has the chance to be awkward.
Shit, how do I answer? I can’t say Leo, because Lord knows who might be watching. Imagine if Jack has this playing in the background as he murders kittens. Or worse, what if people start messaging Leo saying that he looks like Blake? My whole plan would be ruined because he’ll remember the real me exists.
“I haven’t really thought about that,” I lie. “I’m terrible at celebrity casting because in my head they just... are. Maybe, uh, a buffer...”Leo, if you’re watching this, I don’t mean whatI say next.“Theo James.” He’s the first person that comes to mind.
Was that answer cringey? I think that was cringey.
Nine minutes.
If Mom were watching, the moment this ends, she’d tell me about every single mistake I made.
Maddie nods enthusiastically. “That’s literally how I pictured him! And the way you described his forearms made my mouth water. Just a little. And when he putthat...and used...you know.”
I force a laugh. My brain feels like it’s buzzing in an out-of-body experience. “I was sweating while writing that scene. Now I just need to find a victim willing to reenact it for me.”
Did I just admit that on the internet not long after a group of dudes harassed me? I’m a fucking idiot.
Somebody needs to end this call. Now.
“I told my husband about the scene, and he was positivelygobsmacked.” Maddie clutches her imaginary pearls, wearing a scandalized grin. “I had to reread it a couple more times just to relive that high.”
The blush burns my cheeks again. “Thanks.”
“The same person has asked about your casting for your current, unreleased sports romance that you’ve been teasing for the past few weeks. Who would it be for the next one?”
Leo Duval.“Some random person I found on Pinterest. I don’t know his name, but he’s just as beautiful as Blake.”
I catch sight of “LIHna’s” next question before Maddie gets the chance to read it out.
