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)
He’s right, and in hindsight I’m annoyed with myself for being so nervous on the way over here. Sweaty palms, bursting, too-loud answers to his polite questions in the car, overexplaining as we entered the bookstore. Connor was calm and easy at my side, this steady, sturdy presence to my jittery stress. But the second the room filled, my pulse slowed and I came home.
“Romance readers are my absolute favorite brand of human.” I grin at him. “You see how much they love what they love. They show up—it’s a Monday, and see how many decided to leave their houses and fight traffic, maybe find child care, just to come here?” I gesture to the now-empty bookstore. “You had everyone here tonight. Homemakers, attorneys, hourly employees, scientists, retirees, students.”
He whistles, looking back at the checkout counter as if remembering. “I saw someone with two copies of every one of your books.”
“And I’ve signed those three times before, but she still shows up for every local event to say hi and get them signed again.”
“She didn’t buy a book?”
“She bought one tonight, but not one of mine.” Off his surprised expression, I add, “Fangirls show up, Connor. Those are my people.”
He nods, studying me. “I’m seeing that.”
With a smile, I say, “I’m glad you took a break from flirting with my dad to study your show’s demographic.”
Connor’s energy dials up a few notches. “I did, but it was hard. Your dad is great.”
“He’s literally the cutest human to ever exist.”
“By the way, I didn’t realize you hadn’t told him about the show yet. Hope I didn’t make that weird for you with your parents.”
“No, I was completely using you as a shield.”
He gives me a mock-stern look that I like more than I should. “He was into it,” Connor says. “But he said he’s not telling your mum.”
“Shit.”
Connor laughs. “We need to find a way to get him on.”
A cold flush spreads down my arms. “On—on the dating show? My dad?”
He nods, thinking it over. “Family visits with the final contestants, maybe.”
My stomach tilts. “Whew, that’s…” I’m about to say that’s terrifying, because just the idea of bringing multiple men over to my mother’s house for her to inspect makes me want to roll into traffic. But for the first time since we started talking about this, there’s a light in Connor’s eyes that looks genuine, and if hanging with Papa Chen did that for him, who am I to pour water on the fire? “That’s a great idea,” I say with a limp smile.
Connor laughs. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it all out. Right now, we’re just suggesting loads of things to see what sounds right.”
Adrenaline seems to dissipate all at once from my bloodstream and I lean against a shelf, exhaling slowly. Signings are the strangest paradox: the most energizing, fulfilling experience, but also the most exhausting. I want everyone who comes to the table to feel like the most important person in my life, because for those handfuls of minutes, they are. But keeping that energy up can be draining. Add to that the stress about not knowing whether I’ll ever release another book and I’m absolutely wiped.
And starving.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes and feel him lean in. “You okay?”
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I—Shit. I really, really like the smell of his Ice Zone Sports Hero Silver Blade deodorant.
“I’m great.” When I drop my hands, light pops into the periphery of my vision. The only tiny hit of adrenaline remaining is the one I get when I stare right up at him, towering over me, soft and lumberjacky and flashlight-eyed. “But I’m about to be even better.”
I tell myself not to be too interested in the way he flicks one curious eyebrow, saying, “Do tell.”
“If you trust me, then let’s go.”
twelve CONNOR
I get the strong sense that the types of directions Fizzy gives are the ones we warn our children not to blindly follow: trust me, sign here, eat this. And yet, here I am, following her out of the bookstore and into my car, where she directs me twenty minutes south to a taco joint in San Ysidro, just on the Mexican border.
In an unremarkable parking lot in front of an unremarkable building, she climbs out, stretches long, happily groaning, and then grins wickedly at me. “Are you ready to have your world changed?”
“Uh, sure?”
As she moves with ease toward the building in her black dress and heels, there’s something thunderous about her. Objectively slight, Fizzy has the ability to take up space in a way I’ve never mastered. I was always relatively tall growing up, but having been raised by a single mother, I felt conscious not to appear imposing in any way. It was this tendency of mine that drove my father insane on the rare occasions when he would visit. He would lecture me about entering a room with power, about the importance of claiming space. By the time I’d turned fourteen and was well over six feet tall, and taking up space was a foregone conclusion, he turned to other things to criticize: my lack of ambition, my deference to others, my protectiveness of my mother. Later it was my career choice, my shotgun wedding, my job title.