Page 170 of The Wild Card

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

“Language.” Rachel appears at my elbow, tablet in hand, looking far too calm for someone whose client is having a minor breakdown. “And stop staring. It’s unprofessional.”

“There are so many people.”

“Yes. That’s what happens when your book debuts at number three on the New York Times list and every food blogger in America won’t shut up about it.” She steers me away from the window. “Now. You have approximately ten minutes before we open the doors. Do you need water? A bathroom break? A paper bag to breathe into?”

“Maybe all three.”

“I’ll get the water. You handle the rest.” She disappears into the back, already typing something on her phone.

I take a breath. Then another.

This is really happening. After months of writing, editing, promoting—after pouring every piece of myself into these pages—it’s finally real. The book exists. People are buying it. People are lining up to buy it.

* * *

The signing starts at two. The first hour is a blur—faces and names and the same questions over and over. What inspired the book? Is the grumpy man real? Can you sign it to my husband, who is also grumpy?

I smile. I sign. I pose for photos. My hand cramps, and I shake it out and keep going.

Around three-thirty, I look up and see a familiar face in line.

“Mom?”

Linda Marshall is clutching not one, not two, but five copies of my cookbook, her eyes already welling with tears.

“Don’t mind me.” She waves a hand. “I’m just a regular customer. A regular, extremely proud customer who happens to have given birth to the author.”

“Mom, you already have a signed copy. I gave you one last week.”

“These are for the neighbors. And my book club. And the woman at the dry cleaner who always asks about you.” She sets the stack on the table. “Can you sign them ‘To Mom’s friend, with love’? That way it’s personal but also versatile.”

I laugh, my eyes stinging. “Sure, Mom. Whatever you want.”

She leans over the table and cups my face in her hands. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. Your grandmother would be so proud. You know that, right?”

Now I’m definitely crying. “Mom, you can’t make me cry. I have two more hours of signing.”

“Happy tears don’t count.” She kisses my forehead, takes her stack of books, and moves aside—but not before whispering, “Your man is here. He’s been watching you for twenty minutes. It’s very romantic.”

I look up.

Crew is standing near the back of the store, arms crossed, trying to look casual and failing miserably. He’s wearing the charcoal button-down I love, the one that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad, and he’s watching me with an expression that makes my stomach flip.

He lifts a hand. A small wave. Almost shy.

I wave back, grinning like an idiot.

“Next!” Rachel calls, and I force myself to focus on the woman in front of me, who wants to talk about the chapter on breakfast foods.

* * *

By five o’clock, the line has finally dwindled.

I’ve signed approximately four hundred books. My hand is a claw. My face hurts from smiling. I have to pee so incredibly bad. I’ve never been happier.

“Last one,” Rachel announces, and I look up to see Sadie bouncing toward me with a book clutched to her chest.