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“I’ll get one,” I offer, jumping on my toes. I start toward the kitchen then think better of it and rush toward my room, hoping there’s a pen in my messy purse.
But on my way, I notice the door to Siobhan’s office is wide open. Rushing inside, I’m met with a tech wonderland. The room is a chaotic mess of papers, gadgets, and what looks like half a robot in the corner.
Magazines are stacked precariously on every surface, wires snake across the floor like electronic spaghetti, and there’s enough computer equipment to make NASA jealous.
“Pen, pen, pen,” I mutter, rifling through drawers and shuffling papers. “How can someone so smart not have a single pen?”
At last, I spot a mug full of writing utensils and lunge for it, knocking over a stack of papers in the process. Oops. I’ll clean that up later.
Just as my fingers close around a sleek ballpoint, something catches my eye. There, tucked behind a stack of scientific journals, is a familiar book cover. My book.Touchdown for Love.
At first, I think Sawyer must have lent Siobhan his copy. But then I spot an open box nearby.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I find myself drawn to the box. As I peer inside, my jaw drops. It’s full ofTouchdown for Love.
What in the name of Fabio’s flowing locks?
My pulse quickens as I notice more boxes, all from the same bookstore. With shaking hands, I open one after another. They’re all filled with my book. Not just a few copies, but dozens. Maybe even hundreds.
A sick feeling settles in my stomach. Why on earth would Siobhan have hundreds of copies ofTouchdown for Love?
I dash back to the living room, clutching one of my books like it’s a piece of evidence in a crime scene. My heart’s racing faster than it did during that one time I tried hot yoga (never again, by the way).
“Can someone explain to me why there are hundreds of copies of my book stashed away in Siobhan’s office?” I demand, waving the paperback in the air.
Sawyer’s face goes pale—which is really saying something considering how white he is naturally. “Uh, about that…”
I raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. “Go on. The suspense is killing me.”
“I bought them,” he admits, looking sheepish.
I blink at him, my brain struggling to compute. “You…bought hundreds of copies of my book?”
He winces. . “Yeah, I did. I wanted to support you, but I didn’t want you to know it was me.”
‘But…why?”
Siobhan jumps in, her face a mix of guilt and confusion. “I’m so sorry, Maggie. I didn’t put two and two together at first. I mean, the author name is Margaret Jones…I didn’t realize it was you.”
I turn back to Sawyer. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. “What on earth were you thinking?”
He takes a deep breath. “I wanted to help boost your sales. I know how much your writing means to you, and I thought…well, I thought this might give you a little push.”
“You’re telling me that my sudden spike in book sales wasn’t because I’m the next Nora Roberts, but because you decided to become my own personal Oprah’s Book Club?”
“You were so upset. I didn’t know what else to do.”
I’m touched, really. But also slightly horrified. “So you decided to single-handedly keep my publishing career afloat? Like…indefinitely?”
“When you put it that way, it sounds a bit crazy,” he admits.
“And, what exactly was the plan here?” I say to Sawyer, trying to keep a straight face. “Pay the mafia off in romance novels?”
Sawyer takes another deep breath. “I don’t have a plan, I just didn’t want you to be so discouraged you’d quit writing. And because…well, because…I…love you…Even if I’m terrible at showing it sometimes.”
I stand there, clutching my own book like a shield, trying to process this information. My fake husband bought hundreds of copies of my steamy romance novel. Because he loves me? Or is he just saying that to keep up this ruse in front of his sister?
I’m tired. So tired of this fake marriage, of not knowing what’s real and what’s not. The line between pretend and real has become so blurred, I can barely see it anymore.
