Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
My brother cracks up. “Oh, Axel. How much time do you have?”
I roll my eyes as I reach the window, then stare out at the streets of Gramercy Park ten floors below. It’s a Saturday, so young families pushing strollers crisscross the block, alongside joggers with dogs. “Look, I’m sure a lot of natural charm has to do with the fact that your dad’s not a flaming liar.”
“That is true,” he acknowledges.
Carter’s five years younger than I am. We share a mother, a woman who thankfully realized her first husband was a dish made from charm, lies, and fiction.
I’m glad she got out of that toxic marriage to a grifter. I wish I could have gotten out of having the scam artist as my dad. At least my stepdad’s a good guy. Hence, Carter’s the consummate good guy.
“So, gimme some tips. You know public appearances are not my favorite thing,” I say.
“It’s hard to live down the broody, grumpy, stick-up-your-ass image you’ve created for years, isn’t it?”
“Damn straight it is,” I say, proudly. That image has served me well. It’s safe. It protects me.
The reality is my job comes with public appearances. Sure, readers don’t seem to mind if I’m a little salty.
But there’s salt and then there are bitter lemons. I prefer to be the first.
“Well, have you read her latest book?” Carter asks.
“Of course,” I say, incredulous. “Read it the night it came out. I even read it on my phone because the paperback wouldn’t arrive till the next day.”
Carter laughs.
“Why are you laughing?”
“You hate her, and you read her book?”
I huff. “I used to write with her. Obviously, I think she can write. It’s a good book. She’s a good writer. Plus, one should know their enemy.”
“Right. Sounds like that’s why you read it. Anyway, just pick two to three things about her story to compliment. And when the desire to throw rocks at her like she’s Johnny the Jackass from next door who called you a twerpy nerd overcomes you, remember—”
“The pen is mightier than the sword, and you can always make him your villain,” I say smugly.
And I did. Johnny the Jackal was my first villain. And it felt gooood to use his name, though like any good writer I varied it a touch.
“Also, Axel?”
“Yes?”
“Just smile,” Carter adds. “It takes less muscles to smile than to frown.”
“Actually a study debunked that,” I say. “Several leading plastic surgeons found it takes more but—”
“But men who smile get laid more often. And on that note, smile. Just fucking smile.”
That kid gives damn good advice. “All right. If you insist.”
“Nice! You sound like less of an asshole already.”
Twenty-four hours later, I’ve kept it up.
I’ve been smiling in the shower, smiling on the street, smiling as I do yoga with my buddy Bridger who lives in my building.
“Yoga makes you that happy, man?” he asks as we leave, mats on shoulders.
“The happiest,” I say with a grin. Practice makes perfect after all.
I refuse to lose this who’s nicer battle with Hazel.
I smile as I walk into the hotel, as I head to the auditorium, as I enter the greenroom backstage.
I smile as I say hi to Kennedy and Mateo and Saanvi, mingling by the coffee urn. Then I smile wider to TJ, who’s chilling on the gray couch next to the redhead I’m going to vanquish.
Hazel looks sharp in a red twin-set cardigan with black buttons, and a stylish pair of jeans and boots. Damn. She’s mastered the pretty-but-approachable-and-quirky look so damn well.
I glance down at my black polo and dark jeans, paired with my black glasses. Well, black is easy to match.
But I’m a romantic thriller writer, so I’m allowed to look dark.
Except today, I’m going to be dark and smiling. “Hello, Hazel. Lovely to see you,” I say.
With a laugh, she just shakes her head. “Nice to see you, Axel,” she says, then turns her focus back to TJ.
A few minutes later, Luciana strides in. She’s one of the publicists for the Romance Reader Expo. The olive-skinned brunette waggles her phone triumphantly, flashing gleaming white teeth. “The auditorium of the Luxe Hotel is packed with more than one thousand fans,” she tells the six of us.
Huh. That seems impossible to believe. That’s just…too many. “Are there really a thousand people here?” I ask.
Hazel whips her gaze to me, and I swear she’s holding back an epic eye roll.
Maybe I sounded like I’m in a courtroom. “It’s just a lot,” I explain, since I don’t want to look like I’m contradicting Luciana. But I guess I sound like I’m questioning her.
You can take the lawyer out of the law practice. But you can’t take the cross-examiner out of the lawyer.
But I didn’t mean it like I doubt her. I’m more than four co-written books and eight solo books into my career, and I still haven’t wrapped my head around the fact that I have readers. That people choose to read, or listen, to my words.