Page 1 of Down and Dirty Celebrity Edition

Chapter One

Amy Sandler was living the dream.

For someone who grew up in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town, waiting in line to meet her ultimate sapphic romance writer hero, Luna Manning, felt entirely impossible. And doing it as a published author with a Sapphire Quill Award under her belt? Well, fourteen-year-old Amy would think she was lying. That girl used to slip out the screened back door and sprint past the rows of low-slung Elberta trees heavy with fuzzy, sun-warmed peaches, dodging muddy tractor ruts and clouds of buzzing fruit flies. She would race all the way to the edge of the property, scramble into the branches of an old blackjack oak, and lose herself in every word of Jane Austen’s Persuasion.

And for good reason. People didn’t usually leave Porter, Oklahoma. All the girls in Amy’s class had stayed, married the boys they’d known since kindergarten, and spent their twenties learning how to hem formal church dresses, bake perfectly crimped double-crust peach pies, and procreate, as if that required any sort of learning. And if they did get out, they usually moved a few towns over, usually to Muskogee for a retail job at Arrowhead Mall or to Tahlequah to type up invoice logs for a natural gas company.

Possibly they would move to Broken Arrow, like Amy had done after getting a job as a librarian. She’d spent two years stamping due dates before Luna’s book, Gone Are the Wildflowers, had landed on her desk. Within a minute of flipping it open, amused that a lesbian love story could end up on the conservative shelves of the Schusterman-Benson Public Library, a half-closeted Amy had been so utterly taken aback by the lyrical prose and high-level heat that she’d immediately joined a creative writing class. Amy’s knees had nearly given way right there in the self-help aisle when she’d read what Francesca had done to Jean with her fingers. Not only did she want to read more of Luna’s books, but she also wanted to write ones just like them.

Which was why, every Friday evening for six months, Amy had listened to her smoker-voiced teacher, Viola, rip into her character studies. It was only when Viola had brought both palms down hard on Amy’s desk and told her to write what she truly desired that her prose finally came to life. What Amy had actually desired at that time was a very good orgasm.

In a way, Luna had been the pebble that started the avalanche. She was the reason Amy had written her debut novel, Spurred and Spanked, submitted it to literary agent Urma Vance at Over the Horizon Literary, and somehow walked away with a moderate five-figure book deal. It hadn’t been enough to quit her job at Schusterman-Benson, but it was enough to move out of her shared apartment and sign the lease for a one-bedroom unit at The Greens. There would be no more finding the last of her peanut butter scraped down to the plastic or discovering that Julie had added water to her oat milk, so it looked full in the fridge, or listening to Julie’s lovemaking noises through the paper-thin drywall. Amy even had her own private balcony, where she sipped her morning coffee while looking out over a neat row of parked pickup trucks.

Winning the Sapphire Quill Award for Best Debut Steamy Romance four months later had just been the gleaming cherry on top. So too was being cast on Outlast Her Season Ten, which had been the inspiration for Outlasting Love. And now she was about to meet her hero in person, and in Manhattan’s Barnes & Noble, no less.

Eek!

Amy took a deep breath and mentally rehearsed her opening line. Hi, Luna. I’m such a fan of your work. Gone Are the Wildflowers is literally the reason I became a romance writer myself. You might have read some of my books...

Amy had even stashed Outlasting Love in her tote bag in case Luna asked for her autograph in return. The thought made her feel dizzy with happiness.

Suddenly, a tall woman with hair the color of cream swirling into coffee slid directly into the two-foot gap between Amy and the young woman ahead of her. Amy had pegged the young woman as a college student because of her laid-back demeanor, oversized NYU sweatshirt, and scuffed Sambas.

The blonde woman didn’t look back, nor did she apologize for cutting in so rudely. She just checked the gold Cartier watch on her thin wrist as if she had more important places to be.

“Excuse me,” Amy said. She couldn’t help herself. In instances like these, the librarian in her flared to life. No one cuts in line in her library. Especially not when Amy and all the people behind her had been standing on their feet for an hour. “The back of the line is about three aisles that way.” She pointed to the true crime section and felt incredibly smug. Amy tolerated line cutters the same way she tolerated people who dog-eared book pages. She didn’t.

The woman turned around. Slowly. If this were a scene in Amy’s book, she’d describe her as turning through muddy water.

What the holy hell! The woman was Savannah Rigsby.

Amy had spent countless nights tucked under a blanket, MasterChef Australia playing in the background, while she scrolled through Savannah’s Instagram book reviews. Savannah didn’t just review books; she literally helped decide which ones became global phenomena. Her regular segments on Reese’s Book Club could launch a debut onto bestseller lists overnight or leave it dead on the shelves. Publishers courted her. Publicists panicked over her. Authors refreshed their phones, waiting for her verdict as if they were waiting for their SAT results.

Amy had spent several agonizing weeks after Outlasting Love came out holding her breath, waiting to see if Savannah would review her book. In the end, Amy wasn’t sure if she was sad or extremely relieved that she hadn’t. Especially after hearing how Savannah picked apart Helen Beard’s historical romance Wild Summer Roses. The last Amy had heard, Helen had stopped writing and had moved in with her parents in Grafton, Vermont, to work at a pottery studio.

What on earth was Savannah doing here? Didn’t people like her have advance copies couriered in velvet boxes by tuxedo-wearing men? Standing in line at a Barnes & Noble with the rest of them felt pedestrian.

“I know where the line ends, babe,” Savannah said, her tone smooth, dry, and completely unapologetic. “But I’m a little short on time.” She turned back around and flicked her hair over her shoulder as if that was explanation enough.

It sure as hell wasn’t.

“We’re all short on time,” Amy said quickly. “We all have places to be.”

Savannah snapped her head back just as she said, “Really?” Then she cocked her head in a way that had Amy’s breath hitching. Literally. She swallowed air down just as Savannah added, “Because last time I checked, you haven’t written anything new. Unless you’re referring to your day job?” She raised an admittedly beautiful eyebrow skyward. “You’re a librarian, right?”

But Amy was barely listening. The condescending tone didn’t even register. “You know who I am?” she muttered, stunned. No, not stunned... shocked. Which didn’t even make all that sense because Amy had built up quite a following after Outlast Her Season Ten. Her exit from the game had apparently been memorable and entirely unfair. According to the podcast Outlast Her Unpacked, Amy had been one of the favorites to win. Maybe Savannah recognized her from the show? Or...

“You’re Amy Sandler,” Savannah said. “You were on Season Ten of Outlast Her.” She said it like she was listing things off a grocery list. “You’re also the author of Spurred and Spanked, You’re My Problem, and your recent novel, Outlasting Love...” She paused, as if searching for a polite word in her vocabulary, although from everything Amy had seen of Savannah’s Instagram critiques, she probably wouldn’t find one.

Amy felt a warmth creep up behind her ears. Being an author was like stripping your soul bare on the page and then welcoming anyone to tear it apart. “You didn’t like it?” she asked, her voice sounding just a bit softer than she would’ve liked. Fine. Much softer, as if she were too scared to speak.

“It was a masterclass in purple prose,” Savannah said, delivering the blow so casually she could’ve been talking about the weather. “The pacing felt like wading through wet cement, the writing was bloated, and the emotional stakes felt so artificial I actually checked the copyright page to see if ChatGPT wrote it. Honestly, it wasn’t even worth doing a review on.”

The warmth behind Amy’s ear suddenly turned into a scalding flush that traveled all the way down her neck and chest. If she were to look in a mirror right this moment, she’d see her skin turning fire-engine red.

“But don’t be discouraged; you can always write another book,” Savannah said, flashing a toothy smile. “Have you been working on something recently?”

Amy’s tongue felt thicker than a slab of stale cornbread. It was stuck to the roof of her mouth. For an entire minute, she couldn’t speak and just watched Savannah’s arrogant frown turn into something that bordered on concern. But was that even possible? From everything Amy knew about the critic, Savannah could happily watch an author’s career burn to the ground. Maybe she was just worried Amy would vomit all over her knee-high leather boots.