I didn’t even turn around.
Fortunately, the walk back to the hotel was short, and the elevator was empty. After dealing with the chatty Kathys in the checkout line from hell, the last thing I wanted was to be stuck in a box with strangers. There, the options were to make more small talk or stand in silence and act like the elevator floor was the most fascinating thing on Earth.
The hallway was quiet as I made my way to my room and unlocked the door. I needed a sparkling beverage and an orgasm to turn this night around.
I dumped the bags on the spare bed in the room and pulled out the vibrator box. The tamper-safe seal on the top was pristine, but the bottom of the box was loose.So help me, if someone returned a used vibrator . . .
I opened the box and swore bright and loud.
Because it was filled with fucking rocks.
2
RYAN
THE LOVE WAGER
“It had rocks in it!” a feminine voice shouted from backstage. “Fucking rocks. Someone bought a vibrator, filled the box up with rocks, and then returned it. And the store put it back on the shelf!”
I chuckled while trying to focus on reviewing the notes on my tablet, but that voice...It was identical to the pink-haired woman from the convenience store who had kept me tossing and turning all night.
The voices faded as I cracked my knuckles and skimmed the final page of the presentation. Public speaking was usually a cakewalk, but I felt a little out of my element at Rom-Con. While everyone else had their list of industry giants to network with or friends to catch up with, I was the lone dating coach in a sea of authors, publishers, and marketing gurus.
I swiped back to the beginning of my presentation. It was an easy speech on the psychology of falling in love and what drives two strangers to make intimate connections. I talked about this stuff all the time, but I tried to tailor it to be applicable to the audience. It should have been easy as pie. I blamed the nerves on the fact that I was fucking exhausted.
A woman with auburn hair strolled down the hallway, flanked by two other ladies. Their arms were linked together as they laughed and sang an off-tune sea shanty while they collapsed onto a loveseat in the makeshift backstage lounge.
Their pink badges identified them as authors. The teal ribbon hanging from the bottom meant they were also panelists or speakers. I couldn’t make out the names, but I did know one thing: the pink-haired woman was one of them.
This would either make the opening of my speech hilarious, or it would piss her off. For my sake, I hoped she had a good sense of humor. My eyes glazed over the tablet screen as I sipped my coffee and tuned in to their conversation.
“I still can’t believe we have to sit on a panel with that guy,” Pink Hair said as she tore into a croissant.
The woman with dirty blonde hair looked around. “Has anyone seen him this morning?”
“He’ll probably show up late and hungover, like everything revolves around him, just like every other bro podcaster who likes to hear the sound of his own voice.”
Okay. So Pink Hair had opinions about me. Apparently, she didn’t realize I had been the one behind her in the pharmacy. Interesting.
The redhead laughed. “What is with you? You always assume the best in people.”
“Unless that person is Ryan Ford,” Pink Hair countered. “Is it assuming the worst if my assumptions are formed from the previous words and actions of a person?”
I swiped out of my presentation and opened the email from the convention that listed all the panelists who would be on stage for the forum after my presentation. Thankfully, the organizers had included headshots.
Jackpot.
The redhead was Whitney West, the dirty blonde to the left of her was Wander Whitlock, and my future wife was Willow Winslet. In Willow’s headshot, she sported purple hair. The pink must have been a recent change. I returned to my notes, feeling satisfied that I knew more about her than she knew about me—for now, at least.
“I’m just saying. Who claims to be able to make people fall in love? That’s obnoxious. There are so many other people they could have brought in to give the keynote speech,” Willow said.
She may have had a point. I was a little obnoxious online, but that was because I had to speak in the language that my target demographic used.
Which was . . . a little obnoxious sometimes. She had me there. But it was a means to an end.
If I could make one douchebag turn into a productive, respectful member of society, then my work was a success.
“Mr. Ford.”
