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)
But it’s gone.
Deleted! Probably by Essie herself!
“Shit. This is a conspiracy! They’re all against me!”
All this excitement is making Leslie’s head swoon. Luckily, there is a minibar. Not only will two or three tiny bottles of Jack and Absolute calm her, it’ll be an appropriate way to celebrate.
Because not only is she going to sue everyone, she is going to ruin the entire final day of the convention. And she is going to do it promptly at ten a.m. during the awards ceremony. And the award for Best Liar in the Romance Community goes to… Steve and Essie Smith.
Leslie Munch makes an evil cackle-laugh.
Because she has a secret—a very big secret.
After tomorrow, though, it’ll never be a secret again.
She drinks every bottle in her mini-fridge, snickering and snorting as she pictures what this little scheme of hers might look like in her head.
She could maybe even write a book about this, casting herself as the heroine. Oooh! An autobiography, of sorts.
And so Leslie Munch passes out dreaming about revenge and her face on a book cover titled Bitches (and Bros) of Romance: Reading Between the Lies.
Leslie cackles again. Her imagination is gold.
She’ll get that little dog yet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE FINAL DAY
The final morning of the convention has morphed into something of an awards ceremony over the years. It started out as a ‘best of’ kind of thing. I had little rosette ribbons printed up with different titles that first year, like the one I make for Mom. Only they would say things like ‘Best Kiss in an Elevator’ for authors. Or ‘Best Growl in an Audiobook’ for narrators. Or ‘Best Preorder Bag-Filler’ for assistants and helpers.
Readers and listeners aren’t invited to this final event. Their big night is the Saturday gala. Besides, they’re all sleeping in because the signing doesn’t start until ten a.m. on the last day.
There is also a breakfast for the authors, narrators, and assistants and helpers. The breakfast room is adjacent to where all the book signing happens and that’s where everyone gathers while Mom and Dad walk around the signing hall pinning the ribbons to each author’s table.
Every author gets one, but it’s not merely an appreciation prize or participation trophy, because each ribbon is unique.
Mom delivers them, not Essie. Because Mom makes it up as she goes and no one feels slighted, passed-over, or insulted should they win something like ‘Best Purple Prose,’ because while the Official Rom-Mom is cute, and sweet, and well into her sixties, she doesn’t have a mean-spirited bone in her body.
When I walk into the signing hall, I head straight for the staging room where we keep all the ribbons, just to make sure everything’s still going smoothly.
Mom and Dad are already in there, reading the ribbons and giggling.
“There you are.” I give my mom a kiss on the cheek. “Are you two all ready to hand out the awards?”
“Well,” Dad says, “your mother and I were thinking, son.”
Great. Here it comes. I brace myself for the car crash. “You were thinking… what? Is there something wrong with the ribbons?”
“No, hon.” My mom smiles at me. “We were thinking you should come help me pass out ribbons this time.”
“Me?” I point to myself. “Why would I want to go?”
“Steve. Your mother is trying to spend time with you. Why do you always have to be so defensive?”
I open my mouth to defend myself, realize ‘defend’ and ‘defensive’ are related, and change course. “Sorry. It’s just…” I stop again, then smile. “I’d love to, Mom. Come on. We’ve got three hundred tables to hit.”
She hooks her arm into mine and we go back out onto the convention floor. “Let’s start way over there in the corner and work our way around.” I’m pointing to a table in the corner.
“Sounds good to me, Steve.”
Unfortunately, the table I was pointing to belongs to Raylen Star. Mom and I look at each other and laugh.
“How did she get invited anyway?” Mom asks.
“I have no idea. But… tradition is tradition. Which ribbon should we give her?”
Mom flashes me a side-eye. “I don’t suppose you have one that says ‘Best Nasty Bitch’ in this basket, do you?”
I chuckle. “No, Mom. But I have to admit, Leslie really didn’t make any trouble this year. Let’s repay the respect.” I flick through the ribbons and pull one out. “How about this?”
Mom takes it out of my hand, slides her glasses down her nose to read the rosette, and then smiles up at me, nodding her head. “You’re a nice boy, Steve.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
And she pins the ribbon to Raylen Star’s tablecloth.
The rosette reads: ‘Best Author Profile Pic.’
Which is a lie. Raylen’s profile pic is a selfie, for fuck’s sake. But what the hell. I think it’ll make her smile.
And it would be nice to let bygones be bygones, even if her being invited here in the first place was a mistake.