Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Lilah stares at me for a long moment and then shakes her head. "I cannot wait to say I told you so."
"You won't get to say it," I mutter, and then decide to change the subject. "He said something today…"
"Did it start with 'I'm calling the police'?"
"No." I shoot her a dirty look, which just makes her smile. "You have no faith. He said that he didn't meet readers because he isn't interested in being meat at the market."
"Makes sense," Lilah murmurs, quickly folding the Kraft paper around the book and then finishing it off with a single piece of tape.
"What? How does that possibly make sense unless you have an inflated ego and think you're way cooler than you are? Just because he's hot does not make him God's gift to readerkind."
"Uh…have you been to a bookish event in the last couple of years?" Lilah cocks a brow at me, setting the wrapped book aside. "There are reports out of too many events about readers behaving badly. Models and authors are being touched without consent, sometimes inappropriately. People are stealing from authors and other readers. And just generally not acting like they have sense. He wouldn't be the first author who has opted out of events because of bad behavior."
"Oh." I process this, my stomach churning a little at the thought of him being traumatized or assaulted at an event. That shouldn't ever happen. "You think something like that happened to him?"
"It's possible. Or it could just be that he's a rare man in what's traditionally viewed as a woman's space. Most readers are amazing and behave themselves, but I'm guessing the ones who don't can make it uncomfortable very quickly for male romance authors…just like it gets uncomfortable very quickly for women in spaces men view as theirs," she says.
She isn't wrong. I've wanted to throat punch far too many men for catcalling me just because I dared to walk by worksites. It's gross, and it's damn near a universally shared experience for women.
"Not to mention," she continues, "people can be dicks in general. They say things they shouldn't, ask inappropriate questions, and pry for information they have no business knowing. When you write spicy romance, I'm guessing the questions can get invasive sometimes. Imagine being the lone man or woman in a crowd, being asked what sexual experiences in your past helped you write one scene or another."
"Oh, gross."
"If it's happened to Cassia, you don't think it's happened to him?" Lilah quirks a brow at me. "People do and say all kinds of shit they shouldn't, especially when they're hiding behind a keyboard or think they're a faceless number in a crowd."
I nod thoughtfully. "Maybe I should talk to him, let him know this won't be like that."
"You can try," she says doubtfully, "but if he doesn't want to come because of past experience, you probably aren't going to change his mind. Maybe you should just accept the date instead."
"Oh, hell no. Not happening."
"Liar." She grins before cutting off another piece of paper.
I stick my tongue out at her, but she's too busy folding to notice. Which is probably a good thing since it's the most immature response ever. But I've got nothing else.
Dammit.
I watch her fold for a moment. "Hey. Is Loralei acting weird to you?"
"What?"
"Loralei," I repeat. "Is she acting weird to you?"
Lilah pauses what she's doing, her brows furrowing. "Maybe a little. Why?"
"I don't know." I shrug. "She was here yesterday for a while after you left, but she just kept checking her phone the whole time. It was weird."
"Maybe she's waiting for news on her car? It's still in the shop."
"No. I think she's seeing someone. At the library the other day, she was almost…giddy? She kept smiling and humming. When has Loralei ever been the humming type? She's almost as shy as Sarah."
Lilah turns slowly to face me, her eyes narrowed. "I know that tone, Jazz. Whatever you're thinking about doing, do not do it."
"What? I'm not thinking about doing anything," I protest. "I was just curious if you noticed it, too."
"Uh-huh." An exasperated smile flickers at her lips. "Leave the woman alone. If she's seeing someone, she'll tell us when she's ready. Don't stick your nose in it."
"Ugh." I scowl at her, pushing away from the bench. "Fine. You're no fun." What am I supposed to do with my life if I can't be nosy and pry into what my friends are doing with theirs? Harass River, right.
"Where are you going?"
"To see what I can dig up on River!"
"I'm not bailing you out!" she calls after me.
"I'm not going to jail!" I shout back.
Bright and early the next morning, I pull up outside the 1920s-era Spanish Colonial Revival at the very end of the block, two miles from the bookstore. The house is gorgeous, with a gabled roof and Terracotta pavers lining the driveway. River's Lincoln Navigator is parked out front where he left it yesterday.