Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
She changes her voice to imitate that of a TV interviewer, “What’s your daily routine like, Brooke?” Faux-flustered, she fans at her face and glides seamlessly back into her own voice. “Oh, you know, unwashed clothes and a cycle of self-loathing and talking to myself, mostly, followed by a bottle of wine in the evening. Sometimes two, if I’m on a deadline or feeling extra self-deprecating.”
She’s always so fucking funny. Still, I can tell behind her humorous façade, she needs something other than laughter to ease her nerves. She needs reassurance. She needs confidence, even if she’s not the one to display it.
Thankfully, I’ve got plenty of reasons to believe that the public is going to love Brooke Baker as much as I…Benji does.
“You’re going to do great, Brooke, I know it.”
“Thank you. I’m glad one of us believes in me.”
Benji woofs, and Brooke laughs. “Okay, two.” She leans down to scratch at Benji’s ears, and he leans in to the attention. “Thanks, Benj. Somehow you’ve always got my back.”
See? Benji’s unwavering love and support. That’s what I was talking about.
Just out of curiosity, how many astronauts on the International Space Station do you think saw everyone roll their eyes at you?
Desperate for a distraction, I glance out the window to see the black town car pulling up, and Brooke follows my gaze.
“There’s something strange about a fancy car picking you up from a campground to go be on TV, huh?” she questions on a snort. “I guess that’s why they had the planes and five-star hotels thing in mind when they initially planned this.”
“I think it gives it character. Just think, you could end up with a pine needle stuck to your shoe instead of toilet paper. Honestly, it seems better to me.”
“Better for a sequel to We’re the Millers, maybe. But better for a Netflix tour? I’m not so sure,” Brooke reassesses with a laugh. “It is what it is, though. So, I guess we better get to gettin’ on.”
I stand from my spot in the booth and take my mug to the sink to pour it out, offering, “Do you want me to make you a to-go cup of coffee?”
She nods yes, but her words don’t match. “No. No, I shouldn’t. I’ll end up spilling some on this blouse right before I go on air.”
“What if I make it, hold the cup at all times, and supervise when you take a sip?” I ask, giving her another chance. By the looks of things, she could really use a caffeine ally.
Her giggle is both sweet and satisfying. Some part of me feels summoned to re-create it over and over again. And it’s that part of me that’s undoubtedly in a lot of fucking trouble.
“I want to, but no.” Determined now, she shakes her head. “I don’t trust myself. I’m on a clear-fluid diet until I’m done with this thing.”
“Vodka?” I suggest, turning her giggle into a full-blown laugh.
“Stop it with the great ideas, Dawson, or I’m going to end up agreeing to one of them.”
I shake my head. “Okay. No coffee or vodka…yet. We’ll save them both for after the show.”
She shoots an adorable finger gun at me. “Now you’re talking.”
“I think we both know by yesterday that I’m an excellent planner, Baker.”
“When you look at your dictionary for the word ‘planning,’ does it say be very tricky and slightly manipulative?”
“Oh, come on,” I insist, moving to the door, opening it, and then holding it there so it doesn’t slam into Brooke or Benji as they follow me down the stairs to the outside. “You can’t tell me you didn’t have the time of your life yesterday!”
“Between cardiac events, it was quite splendid. Even when you tricked me into working while I was up to my nostrils in deep-dish pizza.”
“All I did was talk about Accidental Attachment a little. I mean, that’s kind of why I’m on this trip in the first place, you know?”
“That’s a funny way to admit to ruining a day, but I guess editors are supposed to be creative with language.”
“You really are even prettier when you’re pretending to be mad.”
“Listen, sir.” She points one index finger toward my face. “That line was too smooth yesterday when you were taking pictures of me watching what felt like a hundred rabid readers come search for the signed book you hid on a windowsill in the middle of downtown Chicago, and it still is today. Not to mention, the look on my face in those pictures is probably straight-up fear that I was going to end up in the newspaper for inciting a mob.”
I can’t deny, once Brooke had taken to Instagram and posted the photo I took of the first Shadow Brothers book I’d hidden on the street, it was a fucking sight to see readers flocking to find it. A sight that I knew she needed to see. A sight she deserved to see.