It sounds exactly like us because I wrote it about us.
Macy launches into a story about her weekend, something about her roommate, and a dating app disaster. I let her voice wash over me while I go through the motions of opening. Straighten displays. Brew coffee. Update the staff picks board.
Anything except thinking about the local book club reading my book.
Except my phone keeps buzzing like a ticking time bomb. Macy gives me the entire plot ofWildfire Summer, including all of the heart-string-tugging quotes that she’s apparently memorized and the NSFW sex scenes that caused her cheeks to color pale pink. And she tells everyone who walks through the door about the book, even though it’s not on our shelves.
Maybe no one will notice it’s set in Sierra Rose Ridge.
Readers won’t connect the dots. There are so many authors who write about small towns and bookshops. Viral or not, the premise isn’t new.
“And get this—“ Macy’s still scrolling through her phone. “Someone on BookTok is doing a whole theory thread about which real Southwest town inspired the book. They’re analyzing landmarks and everything.”
Oh, no.“What?”
“Yeah! It’s kind of fun, actually. Like a scavenger hunt. People are guessing everywhere from Sedona to Tucson.” She grins. “Wouldn’t it be funny if it were actually Sierra Rose Ridge?”
I force a laugh that sounds strangled even to my own ears.
I need air.
“I need to run an errand,” I tell Macy.
“Want me to go?”
“No,” I squeak. “I’m just picking something up. I’ll be back in twenty.”
I slip out before she can ask questions.
The November air hits me the second I step outside, cool and crisp against my flushed face, with a hint of warmth from the still-blazing sun, and the Red Rock Cliffs glowing amber in the distance. I start walking with no real destination in mind, just needing to move, to breathe.
To think.
Owen knows I write romance. The thought hits me like a slap. He used to mock me for it after he found out—called it my “little hobby,” asked when I was going to write something “real.” But I never told him my pen name. Never let him read a single word.
He’s not going to figure this out.
Right?
Except what if he does? What if someone else does? What if the BookTok theories spread?
Why the hell was I so stupid to use my book as a love letter to Sierra Rose Ridge?
I pull out my phone and call Jess.
She answers on the second ring. “Please tell me you’re calling to scream about hitting number three.”
“Book club is readingWildfire Summertonight.”
Silence.
“Jess?”
“Book club. Your town’s book club that meets weekly at your bookshop. Discussing your book.Tonight.”
“Yes.”
“The book you set in your town.”
