Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Almost like he’s… interesting.
He’s also grinning, and the way it exaggerates the lines around his eyes and softens the angles of his face makes a flutter happen up near my chest, too.
But the heart flutter is doused by a cool, reactive flush spreading across my skin, panicky and jarring. Wait, my brain screeches. I don’t want to actually like him.
“Who is that guy over there with Papa Chen?” a reader asks, and slides an impressive stack of books onto the tabletop. A quick inspection tells me the only ones she’s missing are from the High Seas series, which, honestly, is full of fantastically filthy pirates, and it is a truth universally acknowledged that pirates are not for everyone. I won’t hold it against her.
“He’s my dad’s new boyfriend,” I answer, and this earns me another oh, Fizzy laugh, especially because Dad chose this moment to come kiss my cheek and tell me he’s heading home. Clearly, if he heard me announce that he has a new boyfriend, he knows to ignore it. He gets an enthusiastic burst of applause as he ducks out of the bookstore.
“Who is he really?” the reader prods, leaning down so I can confide in her.
We haven’t announced anything about the show yet, so it’s not like I can tell her specifics. But saying he’s a friend would raise too many eyebrows.
“He’s on the publishing team.” I give an apologetic wince like I know she wants a juicier answer. But the time it takes to make my way through her stack of books gives me the perfect opportunity to work past my weird ew, emotions moment.
This is good, actually, I tell myself, signing my name with a flourish. This isn’t about emotions! You’re just experiencing a long overdue Fizzgina reawakening. You need to get the flutters back if you’re going to have any success on this show. You need to get the flutters back if you have any hopes of writing romance again! It’s okay that Connor is good-looking. The fact that you notice means you’re one step closer to being back to the old Fizzy!
The pep talk works. When I hand the hefty stack back to the woman, I feel the twinkle of a real smile in my eyes.
* * *
I find Connor after the crowd has thinned, standing alone in the horror section, awestruck as he turns a gilded hardcover over in his hands. He looks like he’s about to lick it.
“Do we need to run a DNA compatibility test between you and that special edition of ’Salem’s Lot?”
“I didn’t know they released this,” he says, running a long finger down the spine. “This was one of the first books I can remember being unable to put down. This edition is gorgeous.”
Why is it so sexy when he says gorgeous like that? Like he’s staring down at a lover, overcome? I was hoping the power of his attractiveness would lessen, up close—bad skin, weird odor, yellowed teeth that I’d somehow missed—but I’m irritated to discover that none of those things are true. He smells like yummy man and the trace of whatever deodorant he’s wearing. I bet it’s called Ice Zone or Sports Hero or Silver Blade, and I’m disgusted with myself for liking it. I can’t even locate the Hot Millionaire Executive archetype in Connor anymore. He is all soft and brawny. Soft Lumberjack is his new name. Why does he ever approach that head of hair with even a drop of gel? I might have to take one for the team and pretend I know him well enough to advise him on styling.
I wonder idly, on a scale of Get It Girl to Only If You Never Want to Work Again, how bad it would be to sleep with my reality romance show producer. Get back on the horse and whatnot.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I do a hard mental reboot. I’m glad to see the old Fizzy rearing her head, but she’s a bossy one, and even I know that hooking up with Connor Prince III would be not only professionally brainless but probably astonishingly mediocre. It would have to be, right? His hot lumberjack vibe today is likely a one-off while his suits and Lego hair are at the cleaners. My first sex after the dry spell should leave me walking with a limp and recuperating for an entire weekend with a giant bottle of Gatorade and Nancy Meyers movies for company.
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Like what?” I ask, immediately swapping out whatever my expression was doing for a relaxed smile.
He frowns, his gaze doing a brief circuit of my face, searching for whatever he saw a moment ago. “Never mind.”
Redirect time: “Did you have fun today?”
“I did,” he admits. “You’re funny. Your readers are so enthusiastic. I can tell you genuinely love being with them.”