Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
“Are we sure this person actually exists?” I ask. “I’m getting fraud vibes.”
“She’s real.” She shakes her head. “But she’s writing under a pen name. I’d have to look at her contract to see her real name, if that’s what you’re after.”
“What I’m after is this goddamn book.” I glance at the dates on her latest social media posts; she’s posting at least five times a week about “how in love” she is with this story, how the “characters are challenging her to do her best work,” and how “you’re going to LOVE this next office romance,” and yet…
We have nothing to show for it, and she hasn’t sent us shit…
“Would you like me to request a few pages of the manuscript, or do you want to grant the extensions?”
“Neither.” I’ve had enough of this shit. “Get her agent on the goddamn phone.”
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
@Harriet Ledger
Omg! The SEX in this book is so FUCKING HAWT!
@Brianna Harmon
I LOVEEE this man and his filthy mouth! Give me more!
@Emily Hilton
Do you have a release date for your next book?
That last comment is always my cue to log off the internet for the rest of the day.
As much as the readers’ excitement should inspire me, it triggers heart palpitations, sweat, and guilt—and then it forces me to open my laptop and return to where I left off in my manuscript.
The cursor doesn’t even blink in anticipation anymore. It’s like it knows nothing is coming.
My document still features the same two words that have lived there for months: Chapter One.
As much as I want to believe the “There’s No Such Thing as Writer’s Block” and “Just Sit Your Ass in a Chair and Write” notes taped to my desk, my silence on the page speaks for itself.
“You can do this, Heather.” I refuse to surrender today. “You can totally write some epic words today.”
I take a deep breath and briefly shut my eyes, envisioning what this story is supposed to be about.
Alpha male boss who rules the real estate industry. Heroine who stumbles into his world somehow—maybe housekeeping?
She’s a maid, I think.
And then um… spice. Lots of spice.
Hot banter. More spice…
“I’ve got it!” My eyes flutter open and I face the screen, stretching my fingers before adding the first new words in months. A centered timestamp under “Chapter One.”
“The start of this story.”
“Welp, that counts!” I smile, glancing at another note taped to my desk: “Any progress is good progress.”
I close the document and log back into social media to read more comments from my readers.
My next romance novel, whenever I finish it, will be hot as hell and amazing.
I swear.
Later that evening
The walls in my office are lined with framed covers of every story I’ve ever published.
There are twenty-six of them, and the last one was the charm. An office romance that did something none of my other books ever managed. It actually sold.
At first, it was a hundred copies a day—a personal record. Then a hundred books an hour. Then a thousand.
Before I knew it, I was swept onto a side of indie authorland I never knew existed. Readers were messaging me. My newsletter was gaining subscribers instead of spam reports. And whenever I looked at the sales dashboard, I felt hope instead of regret.
But the more successful I became—the more books that sold and the more deals that came in—the tighter fear wrapped its hand around my writing hand and my heart. It has yet to let me go.
As I’m readjusting the frame that holds my favorite story—a romantic suspense saga that’s sold eighty copies to date—I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket.
My best friend and literary agent, Joanna.
“Hey there,” I answer, and her face instantly appears on my screen. “What’s up?”
“A lotttt!” She’s always super dramatic. “I have good news, great news, and some super awful news.”
“What’s the great news?”
“I finally got a stylist to give me a haircut I actually love!” She shakes her head back and forth. “The layers are perfect and the highlights are divine.”
“It does look great on you… What’s the good news?”
“I bought a bottle of your favorite wine. I have a feeling it might come in handy soon.”
“Um, okay… Thank you very much.” I hesitate, waiting for the real reason. “What’s the super awful news?”
“Your publisher is refusing to give you another writing extension. They said ‘hell no’ to every request I made.”
“So, they want me to turn in an unfinished manuscript next month?”
“No, they um… they don’t even want the book anymore.” She pauses. “They just want their money back.”
“Wait, what?”
“You can pay it in installments,” she says quickly. “They’re willing to accept it over a nine-month period. So, do you want to send me a check so I can submit part of it today?”
“Define ‘part of it.’”
“Like, ten thousand in good faith?”
“Um…” I blink, mentally calculating what I can spare. “What about ten dollars?”