Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Essie would like to point out that she is calling Leslie by her name. But she’s not in the mood. “I’m busy, Raylen. Whatever it is, can we chat about it later?”
“No.” Leslie makes a snarly face at Essie. “I’m on the panel but I don’t have a placard.”
Essie is thoroughly confused. She is one hundred percent positive that she did not include Raylen Star on this panel. She put her on the last panel of the day, Pen Names and Page Games.
Leslie puts up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking… I did not put Raylen on this panel. Because no, you did not. Steve did. Just a little while ago in the lobby. By the way, your parents are lovely.”
Essie blinks. Why the hell would Steve put Leslie on her panel? They hate Leslie. She’s a complete bitch. But… Steve is the boss. And he did circle her name on the waitlist—that’s why stupid Leslie Munch is here in the first place. They had two cancellations, which meant they needed to fill two spots. Essie gave Steve the list that night at dinner a few weeks ago. He circled two names—Cynthia Lear, which didn’t raise any red flags, even though Essie had never heard of her, and Leslie. Which did raise red flags, but Essie didn’t look at the list until he was already on his motorcycle, revving it up. She called his name, but it got lost in the rumble.
Essie went to bed, making a mental note to ask Steve about it the next day. She never did.
Her brow furrows as she tries to recall how she dropped this baton.
Ohhhh, right. It’s starting to make sense now. Mike stayed up late that night to clean the kitchen and when she woke up the next day, he had already sent the invitations.
Mike is so considerate like that. If she cooks, he cleans. They are partners, after all.
But she had a teeny-tiny hangover that next morning. She might’ve had too much to drink the night before. And when she moaned about having to deal with the convention stuff, Mike—being the prince that he is—informed her that he had already taken care of it. Everything on her list for that day was already checked off because… oh, riiight. Right, right, right. It was late afternoon when she dragged herself out of bed, not morning. They had been burning the midnight oil for weeks trying to finish that last reno and that was her first night off in months.
Even in this moment, weeks later, just thinking about that last job makes her exhausted. Plumbing issues, a broken fridge, new electrical, permitting snags. It was a nightmare.
Also in this moment… this very moment when stupid Leslie Munch is staring down her nose at Essie, now she’s pretty sure that Steve never meant to circle Leslie’s name. Perhaps he circled her name as he was cursing it?
Something went wrong, that’s for sure.
Essie had forgotten all about Leslie being a signing author until yesterday when… there Leslie was. Making scenes.
Well, it’s done now. Even if Steve didn’t mean to circle her name and Mike did make a mistake by sending Leslie that invitation, it doesn’t matter. Leslie’s here. Literally, right in front of Essie. Tapping her stupid toe on the carpet, hands planted on hips like she’s about to make (yet another) scene.
So. Yeah. Looks like stupid, mean, witchy Leslie gets to invade Essie’s most favorite, most cherished panel.
Essie sighs—“Great to have you, Raylen”—and forces a smile. Then she shuffles her notes until she finds a blank page, folds it in half, then half again, takes a Sharpie out of her purse, and scribbles ‘Raylen Star’ on it. She offers it to Leslie. “There you go. Your placard.”
Leslie makes a tight-lipped smile, snatching the paper from Essie’s hand, growling out the words, “Thank you,” as she turns to the tables of already seated authors and narrators on the stage and begins demanding a chair.
So much for that seven-year record.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When I get inside the panel room I pause and take stock.
Is anyone unconscious?
Is anyone bleeding?
Is the place on fire?
No, no, and no. So I place my fingers on my tongue and whistle so loud that when it comes out, everyone in the room stops. All faces turn to me. Several ladies have chairs lifted, like they are preparing to throw them. I shake my head, tsk my tongue, and wag my finger at them. I do not raise my voice. “That will be enough, ladies. Put the chairs down.”
They stare blankly at me for several moments, so I feel the need to further encourage them. “Did I stutter?”
At the same time, the door bursts open and a team of security guards enter. I quickly scan the room, find those two troublemakers—who are, interestingly enough, huddled in one corner of the room—together and out of the fray. I narrow my eyes.