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)
“Let me see the full outline,” she says, holding out her hand. “You do have one, right?”
“Of course.” I reach for my glittery pink notebook and toss it to her. “It’s on the blue-lined pages.”
She flips it open, pulls on her reading glasses, and scans the page.
“Heather, there are three sentences and a bunch of mermaid doodles here.”
“The doodles calm my anxiety whenever I’m storyboarding.”
She snaps the book shut. “I’ll help you start applying for jobs.”
—
TWO & A HALF WEEKS LATER
THE CEO
ADRIAN
“How much would it cost our company if I put a five-year ban on signing self-published authors?”
“Seriously, Adrian?” My younger sister Theresa sighs over the line. “You ask me this question every three months.”
“Remind me of the answer.”
“We’d lose a minimum of fifty million in profit.”
“But would I have fewer headaches?” I ask. “And how many times would I have to read an article about how my firm has acquired another series that we haven’t delivered on?”
“The traditional authors miss deadlines, too.”
“They don’t post crying videos on TikTok about it…” I clench my fists against my steering wheel.
Today has been a day from hell, and the “Author Goes Viral After Receiving ‘You have one F*cking Month to Finish’ Email from Grey Wolf Publishing” headline is about to send me over the edge.
“All publicity is good publicity,” Theresa offers. “Right?”
“Wrong.” I shake my head. “Tell Marcia I’m not coming to the office tonight. If she needs me I’m at my favorite bar.”
“Take a shot for me.”
“I will.” I hang up and step out of the car, walking into Everly.
Inside, the place is empty and the only sound is the soft rain tapping against the windows.
I settle at the bar and wait for my usual service.
“There’s your first customer.” A soft voice echoes off the wall. “Go and greet him like I’ve taught you, and then I’ll walk you through the rest.”
Heels click against the floor as I scroll my inbox, pausing at a subject line.
Subject: Advance Repayment (Plan)
Dear Mr. Wolfson,
I’m sorry my client wasn’t able to produce the book on time and understand the need to repay the advance.
Attached is her plan to pay it back over the next three years, starting with $50 a month while she seeks proper employment.
Sincerely,
Joanna Parker
P.S. Aren’t you a billionaire? Can’t this be a tax write-off instead of robbing the poor?
I roll my eyes and reach for my typical whiskey, but it isn’t there. The bartender isn’t there either.
I turn around and spot a woman rushing across the room with a tray.
“Sorry, it’s my first day,” she says, sliding behind the counter. “I haven’t actually had to use my skills since college, so… What can I make you for tonight?”
“My usual.”
“I just said it’s my first day.” She shows me a lethal smile. “How would you expect me to know what you usually get?”
“I’m not used to talking to the bartenders when I come here,” I say, not in the mood for small talk. “You can ask one of your coworkers what their bar’s best customer prefers to drink.”
“Or, you can stop behaving like an uptight asshole and just tell me what you want.”
What did she just say? I take a long look at her lips.
“Macallan whiskey,” I answer evenly. “Do I need to show you what type of glass it needs to be poured in, as well?”
“That would honestly be helpful.” She lifts a glass. “Unless you’re okay with drinking from this one.”
“That’s a champagne flute.”
“So?” Her mouth quirks. “The shape of the cup doesn’t affect the taste of the alcohol. That’s just something out-of-touch people think.”
I blink. Either I’m stuck in an episode of the Twilight Zone against my will, or this woman has no business being a bartender.
She picks up a sheet that features pictures of proper glasses and taps her lip. “Ah, so it’s this one.”
Her perfume drifts over to me as she bends for the proper glass, and I can’t stop staring at her mouth.
She picks up the bottle of Macallan and fills my glass way too far.
“Here you go,” she says, sliding it to me. “I gave you a little extra since you walked in here like you owned the place.”
I do own this place…
She walks away without offering me a cigar, without a “Pleasure to see you again, sir,” without doing any of the things I’m accustomed to getting here.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir.” The manager, Mr. Tyler, suddenly appears at my side. “The chef has updated the menu for the season, so would you like to try one of our new desserts? It’d be on the house.”
“You know I’ll gladly pay for it.”
“Uh, well…” He smiles and signals for Terrible Bartender Woman.
“How may I be of service, Mr. Tyler?” she asks, coming over.
“Our top guest here would like to try one of our new fire-top desserts.” He smiles. “Since you took a class on making them this morning, would you like to make him one?”