Page 150 of Unwritten Rules

I smile broadly. “I’m proud of you, Mum.”

She preens like a peacock, making me smile even wider. “I’m damn proud of me too!”

* * *

When I’d told her I needed to get out of the U.K., she’d wholeheartedly agreed that I needed a change of pace. She’d driven me to Heathrow the following morning, where we’d cried like jackasses, and she’d promised to be vague with anyone who’d asked where I was.

After all, Zara had stipulated that I needed to be untraceable. At least until after their wedding.

My stomach dips.

I wonder if they’ve already said their “I do’s”…

Throwing back the covers almost violently, I jump from my bed and push all thoughts of Nate and Zara to the furthest recesses of my wormy little brain.

“Els, are you home?”

My voice rings through the apartment I’m sharing with my best friend. Sure, with my finances, I could afford something a lot better in a nicer neighbourhood, but Els likes it here, and when her roommate bailed on her two days after my surprise arrival, it seemed like fate.

I almost collide with my pint-sized blonde bestie in the hallway as she flies out of her bedroom, shoving her huge, hot pink glasses further along the bridge of her button nose.

“I’m late, I’m fucking late. Fausto is going to flip his lid.”

Fausto is Eliza’s acting coach, who has been on her case since she started at Pearson. He needs a sharp kick in the bollocks, and pronto.

“Fausto’s a douche. Don’t let him ruin this experience for you, Els—”

She spins about. “He’s not. He won’t. I just want to do better, and these extra sessions with him are my ticket.”

I shrug, making a mental note to chat about this again later as she grabs a muffin and beelines for the door.

“Don’t forget, you have that meeting at Yankee Stadium tonight!”

“Stop! I’m so damn nervous, I couldn’t possibly forget!!”

She grins while she throws her coat over her shoulder, holding a hand up in farewell before tugging the door closed behind her.

A shiver of anticipation zips up along my spine at her reminder.

In the first weeks of my impromptu trip to New York, I’d wallowed in a puddle of self-pity and gallons of Ben and Jerry’s Cookie Dough. But I’d thrown all that pity and angst into my writing, finishing my manuscript within seventeen days.

Seventeen days!

Having tweaked and re-tweaked, I’d begun to send samples to agents at the behest of Eliza, who claimed it was the best book she’d ever read.

I’d had lots of interest, which had simultaneously blown my mind and boosted my lagging confidence to no end.

When I’d caught the attention of Daniel Aves, a big fish at Samson & Fritz Literary Agency, I’d just about died. Daniel only reps the best in the business.

All too aware of how well-known the DeMarco name is, I’d used a pseudonym, M. Wetherby, and when I’d met with Daniel, he offered me a contract on the spot.

Now, one month later, I’ve had two meetings with average-sized traditional publishers, with my first big meeting later today. With one of the top five publishing houses on the globe!

Stay calm. Keep your cool!

I check the time and realise I’ll be late if I don’t get my ass in gear. So I throw on black wide-legged, high-waisted pants with a black three-quarter sleeve scoop neck top tucked in. I pull my hair back in a low pony, and I’m ready to go with one coat of mascara and a streak of deep pink lipstick across my lips.

Luckily, a yellow cab is passing just as I exit our building, and he pulls over the moment I lift my arm.