But what he didn’t love to see were the slightly more tetchy comments peppered here and there, and which demanded to know why Travis hadn’t liked or responded to what they’d posted.
Although he made no secret of the fact that an assistant helped him manage the social media accounts, it was clear that fans got upset when their posts were not acknowledged. With Ruth in the hospital, none of the responses had even received a ‘Like’, never mind a reply. When he’d added the post to Facebook on Friday, he’d assumed Ruth would pick up on the work generated through the comments and deal with them the way she always did.
He'd had no idea she hadn’t seen the post at all, never mind hadn’t responded to comments from the fans—and all those unopened notifications were the consequence.
After hurrying home from the library earlier, with the next sentences of the book scene he was writing already forming inside his head, he’d plonked himself down at the keyboard andgot to work. But he couldn’t ignore the social media pile-up any longer.
With a sigh of regret, Travis saved and closed his manuscript at his laptop and logged in to his Facebook account, then got to work, liking comments on his post, responding where required, doing his best to keep it brief and swift.
It took over an hour to work his way through the comments on the post he’d made a few days ago. And that was just one social media platform. Although Facebook was where his fans interacted with him the most, he hadn’t even logged into the other platforms yet to see what was going on there. If he did log in, he guessed he’d probably lose another half an hour, possibly more.
But it had to be done.
Hunched at the keyboard, Travis resigned himself to clearing up the neglected social media tasks. He enjoyed interacting with readers, the sensible ones at any rate, and he was grateful to have fans who read his books and took the time to get in touch. It wasn’t that long ago he’d been a completely unknown author, writing books and hoping that one day someone would want to read them. Travis understood how lucky he was to enjoy the success he had with his Maura Shaw mysteries, and that he owed it to the fans and readers who devoured his stories.
Acknowledging those readers by ‘liking’ their kind and thoughtful comments was the least he could do—even if it was eating into his writing time.
When he finally finished dealing with the social media work that had been inadvertently ignored all weekend, he’d lost almost two hours. As he fixed a late dinner in the kitchen, which he planned to bolt down before returning to his manuscript for the rest of the evening to catch up on lost time, Travis found himself hoping that the meeting with Courtney Flynn tomorrow morning would go off without a hitch.
Finding someone to take the social media work off his hands was more crucial than ever, considering how much time he’d just spent dealing with it himself.
“Please be everything I’m looking for, Courtney Flynn,” Travis muttered to himself as he wolfed down a sandwich and returned to his keyboard. “Please be the answer to my prayers.”
12
Courtney checkedherself in the hallway mirror for the umpteenth time, smoothing her hair and tightening her ponytail band and adjusting the collar of the tunic top she’d selected to wear over loose-fitting black trousers.
The tunic was the smartest top she owned in her small maternity clothing wardrobe, and last night when she’d been debating her outfit for today’s interview with Travis Stone, Rosie had assured her the tunic was perfect. Courtney wasn’t convinced, unsure whether the bright blue top set the right tone for a job interview and wishing she had something more demure but which was also smart.
But the tunicwassmart and well-cut, even if it was a little on the bright side, and it was the best quality item she had to wear. As Rosie had reminded her, it wasn’t like she was interviewing for some huge corporate job where there was a dress code. This was a personal assistant role she was going for, and what she’d chosen to wear was smart and appropriate and worked just fine.
Courtney hoped so. She knew she looked okay, just as Rosie had told her last night, but before she left the house she wanted to be sure she’d made the best of her outfit and her appearance,and that she was well-groomed and possessed the aura of someone who might just know what she was doing.
This personal assistant role might only offer a few paid hours a week, but Courtney wanted those hours and the money that came with them—she wanted them so badly it hurt. After the shock of yesterday’s redundancy, she needed a win to give her a much-needed confidence boost.
A soft kick from the baby told her it was time to go. If she stood faffing around in front of the hallway mirror for much longer, she’d have to use the loo again before leaving the house, and that would make her late for the interview.
She wouldnotrisk being late for the interview.
Grabbing her bag and the key to Rosie’s front door, Courtney stepped outside and locked up. It was another bright morning on Foxglove Street, the sun already high in the blue sky and the air warm. Feeling excitement building at the meeting she was about to have, Courtney set off along the pavement as she organised her thoughts and rehearsed the various answers she’d prepared for the questions she expected to be asked.
She wondered what it would be like to work for an author, and a hugely successful one, too. Last night, she’d done more research and looked up Travis Stone’s books online. Although his name had been vaguely familiar and she distinctly remembered her mother having read a couple of his novels, she had no idea the man had written so many books—thirteen in total, including the eight books that were part of his most successful series, the Maura Shaw mysteries.
The vast numbers of people who followed him on social media proved how much his readers enjoyed his books. Judging by all the comments his posts received, it was no surprise he needed an assistant to help him deal with his fan interactions online.
As Courtney walked along Foxglove Street, she thought more about the questions Travis Stone would want to ask and how she would answer them. Her biggest hurdle, as she saw it, was that she’d never worked as a personal assistant before, not of the sort Travis Stone probably relied on. She would have to convince him that, despite this handicap, she still possessed the basic skill set needed to do the job and that she would be a quick study for any tasks that might be new to her.
She was still rehearsing her answers inside her head when she found herself outside the gate of number sixty-one. It was a pretty house with red brick walls and bay windows on one side of the dark blue door and bright plant pots on either side of the front step filled with purple and yellow pansies. A cherry tree stood in the centre of the small front lawn, its soft pink blossoms shimmering in the gentle breeze.
Summoning her courage and confidence even as her stomach churned with nerves, Courtney walked up the front path and rang the doorbell. As she waited, her gaze fell to the potted pansies and she noticed they were wilting, and that the soil in which they were growing was hard and dry. It hadn’t rained for several days and the temperature had climbed, and now the poor pansies were paying the price.
She was mourning their neglect when she heard footsteps approaching on the other side of the front door. Pushing thoughts of the thirsty flowers out of her head, Courtney sucked in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and prepared for the job interview that lay ahead.
Travis strode towards the front door, keen to get this madcap interview out of the way. Last night’s optimism that the womanhe was meeting today might turn out to be exactly what he needed in a personal assistant had vanished in the cold light of morning.
Courtney Flynn might have sounded confident, capable, and personable on the phone, but Travis had resigned himself to the realisation that the chances of her working out were slim to none. She was the friend of an elderly lady who Travis didn’t even know, for crying out loud. The CV Courtney had sent through last night was decent but nothing spectacular, her job experience limited. At the library, he’d been caught on the hop by the old lady’s suggestion that her friend get in touch with him, and if he’d had his wits about him, he would’ve declined the offer.
But he hadn’t done that.
