The moderator handed me a microphone of my own, then settled into a seat that was catty-corner to the rest of us and asked us to introduce ourselves.
On the far side of the line, a male romance author decked out in plaid flannel and suspenders kicked off the panel. “Good morning, folks. I’m Jordan Loft, and I’m not a morning person.”
The crowd laughed.
Wander was next. “Hello, I’m Wander Whitlock, and I recently tried to quit writing.”
There were nods of understanding as attention moved to Willow. “I’m Willow Winslet, and my hair is the color of the rosé I drink.”
I covered my microphone with my hand so it wouldn’t pick up my voice. “Really? I thought it’d be yellow, like those pineapple seltz?—”
“And I’m Whitney West. I fell in love with my bodyguard. Yep. It was a one-bed trope,” Whitney said, cutting us off with a sharp glare.
I uncovered my microphone. “I’m Ryan Ford, and I couldn’t write an entire book if I tried. Mad props to all of you.”
The moderator opened the floor to questions. The first few were for Whitney and Wander, asking about their careers and processes. Attention moved to Jordan Loft when he piggybacked off of something Whitney had said about marketing.
“You look nice, cupcake,” I said, just loud enough for only her to hear. “You should have told me I’d see you here.”
Whitney wiggled back in her chair like she was trying to remove herself from being the barrier between us.
“And let you tick off number one on your list of five things you have in common with a stranger? Absolutely not,” she hissed.
Whitney’s eyebrows rose as Wander and Jordan delved into the pen name versus legal name debate. “You didn’t know it was him?”
“He didn’t look like”—Willow discreetly waved her hand up and down my khakis, button-up, and sweater-vest combo—“a choir boy. And he was wearing glasses.”
“Really? My glasses are the only thing that disguise me?” I teased.
“My wig is the only thing that disguises me,” Whitney said amicably as her attention turned to the person in the crowd who asked about writing from real-life experiences versus writing from research.
Willow plastered on a smile and added her two cents to the more pressing conversation.
When attention turned to Wander as she agreed with what Willow had said, Willow faced me. “Buying a vibrator and a drink to have a relaxing night isn’t pathetic,” she hissed. “It’s called being self-sufficient.”
“Children,” Whitney whispered. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to bicker.”
“I never said you were pathetic. I said you’re missing out.”
“Missing out on what? Having some playboy Clark Kent wannabe tell me how to date so he can make a quick buck?” Her voice rose. “Stop pretending to be some kind of hero. You’re not a leading man. You’re a fraud.”
A distinct “ooh” echoed through the crowd. Willow’s face went ghostly white when she realized that the microphone in her hand had amplified everything she had said.
Dammit.
I liked the banter, but I didn’t want to wreck her reputation, even if she was intent on shitting all over mine. I cleared my throat and raised my microphone. “I’m not scared of a little skepticism. What makes you think I’m a fraud?” I asked, completely unbothered, like I had asked what her favorite kind of pizza was. “I’d think you, of all people, would believe in the existence of the kind of love you write about.”
A little of the color returned to her cheeks as fire filled her eyes. “Because it’s fiction. Because people can’t be manipulated the way that we manipulate characters and craft the perfect conditions for people to fall in love.”
“See,” I started, craning my head around Whitney to face Willow directly. “What you call manipulation, I call being intentional. That’s part of my course—teaching people how to approach others intentionally, rather than waiting for those fictional romance movie clichés to happen. It’s about empowering people to take charge of their future instead of just letting life happen to them. Call it whatever you want. Ninety-six percent of my clients are living happily ever after in whatever dynamic that looks like for them. The results speak for themselves.”
Jordan Loft tried to speak, but Willow cut him off. “I call it preying on lonely, naïve, insecure people and swindling them out of their hard-earned money.”
A lightbulb clicked on in my mind. “Tell me something, Willow. Are you single?”
“Yes,” she clipped. “Being single isn’t some kind of scarlet letter.”
“I agree. Some people thrive being single. Are you lonely?”
