Page 2 of Down and Dirty Celebrity Edition

“Are you okay?” Savannah asked.

Was she okay? Was being slandered by the critic during what should’ve been one of the best days of Amy’s life supposed to feel okay? Was having a paralyzing case of writer’s block okay?

Amy would rather swallow a handful of fruit flies than admit to this woman that she hadn’t written a single word in months. Months! But before Amy could think up a lie, Savannah turned back again. The rest was a blur. The line moved and Savannah’s blonde head disappeared through the door before Amy could even find her voice to fight back.

And then, the next minute, Amy was standing at the very front of the line.

“Next.” A woman with ringlet curls waved her forward.

Amy clutched her tote bag close to her body. She was literally so close to her writing idol that she forgot all about Miss Book Critic and her attitude. She was so close that she could already smell the white roses sitting in a vase on the huge mahogany table and see Luna’s gorgeous wedding band on her ring finger.

Towering behind the author was a ten-foot satin promotional banner showcasing the cover of her highly anticipated new release, Apples and Pears.

Amy had pre-ordered the book ages ago, and two days after it had landed in her mailbox, she had read it from cover to cover. It might even be the sapphic romance of the century.

“Hi,” Amy managed when her thighs bumped against the desk’s edge. “I’m a huge fan. Your books are so inspi—”

“Thank you for coming, sweetie,” Luna interrupted, scribbling a swift, generic flourish across the title page. Then she shut the book and slid it across the table to Amy. Before Amy could even say thank you, a curly-haired woman was already waving the next fan forward. “Next, please. Keep it moving. Luna Manning is very busy today.”

Amy walked into the stifling New York heat, feeling sick with humiliation and disappointment. She hadn’t flown out all the way to New York from Broken Arrow only to pay an absurd amount for a shoebox hotel in Greenwich Village. It was only a four-hour flight, but still. Last night’s dinner at Buvette had cost her nearly a week’s worth of grocery money.

This day couldn’t get any worse. Amy’s life couldn’t get any worse. How could this be happening? And why did both Savannah’s and Luna’s dismissals of her feel like they had everything to do with her writer’s block and the fact that she hadn’t written a new book in almost two years?

Outlasting Love had literally gushed out of her like milk from a refluxy baby. She’d spent nearly two weeks locked in her apartment, only to come out of it with a complete manuscript, which she’d immediately sent off to Urma. Urma had loved it. She’d used the word fantastic so many times Amy had lost count and started crying tears of pure relief.

Despite what Savannah said, it was a fantastic book. There were over six thousand reviews on Goodreads that said so. Maggie from Little Rock, Arkansas, said Outlasting Love had been her gay awakening and she couldn’t thank Amy enough. Chrissy from Portland had called it a masterpiece that had mended her broken heart.

Amy just needed that kind of inspiration again.

She fished her cellphone out of her tote bag. She’d come terribly close to yanking out Luna’s autographed book and tossing it into the trash. Then she scrolled down to Elise’s number. The only reason she even had her number was that Elise had given it to her after Season Ten and said, “If you ever want to be back on the show, call me.”

Amy had laughed and said, “I don’t think I can ever willingly subject myself to that again.” But it didn’t sound so absurd anymore. Not when inspiration was at stake.

She tapped the call button before she could talk herself out of it.

Two rings in, Elise’s laugh barreled out of the speaker. “I had a feeling you were going to call. Did you see the theme for Season Twelve?”

Amy didn’t care about the theme. She didn’t care if they were dropping them onto a glacier next time or making them fight wild boars in Mississippi. She just wanted to write a book so undeniably brilliant, so loved by all, that Savannah fricken Rigsby and Luna Manning would choke on their own huge egos.

“I want in.”

“You’re in, babe,” Elise said, laughing.

Chapter Two

Savannah Rigsby dabbed at the sweat gathering along the back of her neck with a crisp white towel that had her initials stitched neatly into one corner. She didn’t wave back at Antonio, the resident tennis instructor, as he walked through the gate leading back to the country club.

Antonio, with his tousled dark curls, muscular tanned thighs peeking out of his white athletic shorts, and teeth so straight Savannah guessed they were veneers, had thought nothing of wrapping his hot, sweaty arms around her in an attempt to “fix her backhand.” Savannah had quickly stiffened and pulled away. Next time, she’d ask the club concierge for another instructor, and depending on how her day went, might just get Antonio fired for inappropriate behavior.

She sank into the green mesh bench, slid her Wilson into the racket bag, and fished her cellphone out of the front pocket. Then she tapped the screen, ignored the two hundred thirty-one Instagram notifications, and went straight to her emails.

At the very top of the list was an email from Helen Beard asking for a retraction of Savannah’s review of her debut novel. Savannah would rather cut off her own leg and tattoo I’m a fraud across her calf than take back a single line she had said. Wild Summer Roses was a historical romance so agonizingly slow-paced that it was like waiting for the last suitcase at baggage claim. It didn’t matter that Helen had attempted to capture the taboo nature of a lesbian romance in the Victorian era if there hadn’t been any actual romance. Two hundred pages in, Savannah had literally begged Tammy to snap the laces off Bromilda’s corset and pull her into a breathless tangle on the velvet settee. But nope. Tammy preferred the longing glances over lukewarm cups of tea. Unfortunately for Helen, Savannah did not.

Another notification came flying into her inbox. It was a follow-up to Elise Mercier’s email from the previous month. Savannah had expected it, yet seeing Elise’s name again made her stomach squeeze tight. And not in a good way.

“You really don’t give up, do you?” Savannah muttered, hovering her finger over the delete icon. But who was she kidding? Curiosity had the ability to drag her in by the collar.

She opened the email. Please reconsider. You’re exactly what we want on the show. Please, just think about it. What can I do to convince you?