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“Yes, I am.”
“Good God. What are you doing?”
I surveyed my rubber gloves and poop-covered boots. “I’m writing, what else?”
“Good. You need to honor your contracts, even if you’re writing dreck. It’s a matter of principle. We share a fucking name, you know.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I know.”
“So I talked to my publicist about getting back at Curtis.”
I winced. “I don’t want to do that, Mom.”
“Good, because she said you fucking can’t. The man has blown up on Insta so big, he’s untouchable. How did that happen?”
“I don’t know. Maybe one of his multi-level marketing schemes finally paid off.”
“He’s so full of shit. I could put a hit on him—I met a guy in Costa Rica who knows a guy.”
I smiled. “Thanks anyway, Mom.”
“Well, it’s a shame you can’t do something to get back at that fucking con man—put a curse on him or something.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, I have to run. I’m having another meeting with that TV producer—I think he’s interested in turning one of my books into a feature film.”
“That’s great, Mom. I hope it works out.”
The call ended and I shook my head at her rant. She meant well.
Because as much as I fantasized about paying Curtis back for what he’d done, my thoughts didn’t extend to putting a hit on him.
Then I stopped. But her other idea… putting a curse on him.
I needed a witch for that.
Which in Irving, just might be doable.
August 16, Friday
THE TURNOUT for the booksigning exceeded my wildest expectations. The bookstore was fairly bursting at the seams with readers, all of whom seemed excited to meet me, and some who’d come from as far away as Florida to meet me.
When had I become so popular?
Or rather, my series.
When I’d sold my first Regency romance novel to Bruce, he’d made it clear it was unusual in a market where historical romances had fallen out of favor in wake of #MeToo and other movements. Women, he said, weren’t happy to be reminded of how confining and discriminatory history had been to them. Writing about a period in which a woman’s livelihood depended on how rich of a man she could ensnare did seem to be wildly out of step with the times.
He was wrong.
Sales of my books had slowly snowballed until I was pulling down really decent advances and royalties. If my new book, the last book on my contract, performed to expectations, I might possibly be elevated to the bestseller lists that my mother had dominated. If it didn’t, I might be working as my mother’s assistant again.
Wayne Blakemore introduced me with bouncing enthusiasm and announced I’d be reading a passage from my new book. The applause cinched the knot in my stomach tighter as I walked up to the podium Wayne had set up for the occasion. I carried my notebook, with a passage marked that was provocative while being safe for public consumption.
I opened my notebook and cleared my throat.
When Lady Kate Hilliard first noticed the man, he was dressed in stained breeches and had removed his shirt in deference to the searing sun. He was building a stacked rock wall around the fountain in the middle of the park, situating each stone so they locked into place. She couldn’t pull her gaze from his bare chest and powerful arms, slick with perspiration. Inadvertently, moisture dotted her upper lip and her tongue slipped out to whisk it away at the same moment his gaze locked onto hers. Something wildly inappropriate flashed through his eyes, something animalistic that made her breathing even more shallow in the confining corset.
