Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I walk over to the table where all the unsigned stock has been neatly placed, ready for my signature. I sign each book robotically, and even though I want to punch Nora square in her fucking face, she stands next to me and stacks each book neatly into a pile as I sign them.
Nora and I are staying at the same hotel, and the publisher has one driver scheduled to take us back to that hotel, but at least we don’t have to share a room. I’d probably choke her in her sleep.
When the last book is signed, I thank the staff and head for the exit. As Nora follows me out of the bookstore, toward the Escalade waiting out back for us, I hear her whisper, “I’m sorry.”
I climb into the car, but all I can do, after we’re both seated in the back seat and heading toward the hotel, is remain silent in my betrayal as I stare out the window, holding tears at bay.
This has more than likely broken trust in our friendship forever, but it isn’t Nora’s fault I let things go as far as they did. She didn’t set out for me to cheat on my husband.
That’s something I’m realizing I was perfectly capable of doing with or without her help.
God, this is the worst night of my life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
This is still the worst night of my life.
I haven’t been able to sleep since we returned to the hotel a few hours ago. I still don’t know how to feel, even after four hours of tossing and turning and poring over every second of the last two years, and this book, and my friendship, and my marriage, and every single lie Saint has told me.
I don’t even know if I can stay mad at Nora forever, because I know her intentions were in the right place when it comes to my career. But for right now I need her to feel my anger enough to at least lose sleep over.
I’m sure it was meant to be harmless encouragement on Nora’s part. She thought her old friend would simply swing by and knock on my door and ask me a simple question, and that his looks would spark something in me that would help me write.
But it sparked a lot more than that.
I know I’ll ultimately forgive her, but it’s going to take time. I just hope she never presses about what happened between me and Saint. I don’t feel comfortable telling her that story, but I’m relieved to know he didn’t give her any details of how far he actually took things.
How far we took things.
God. My brain is a convoluted mess of thoughts, and my chest is knotted with emotions.
I pull my laptop in front of me, hoping to get my mind off everything that happened tonight. I do the one thing I know I shouldn’t do as an author.
I pull up my book on Goodreads.
I begin sifting through all the reviews that were left today about Woman Down. I don’t usually do this on release day—hell, I try to avoid it for all eternity—but this book is different. This book is personal. I feel the need to read every review written about it because so much of it was drawn from my own experience. And for whatever reason, I need to know what people think about the relationship between Cam and Reya.
Each review feels like a magnifying glass on my soul. Every comment about Cam stirs something inside me.
He was so dreamy.
So protective.
I want a Cam in my life.
If these readers only knew.
I try to imagine him—Eric—flipping through the pages, recognizing the parts that mirrored our time together as he worked his way toward the end. I know he said it was the best book I’ve ever written, but I’m still curious if he finished it. I don’t know why I care. He certainly acted like he had, but at this point I know what a great actor he is.
There’s no way he hasn’t read it, though. He probably devoured it faster than Shephard did. I think that’s why I’m going through the reviews one by one, looking at each username, trying to find a hint that any of the words I’m reading are his. If he was brave enough to show up at my signing, I’m sure he’s left a review.
My fingers tap at the keyboard, and my eyes diligently scan my screen for an hour, but nothing jumps out at me and screams that he wrote any of the words I’m reading.
I should let it go.
Let the memory of him go.
Hopefully tonight really was the last of him. The book has released, I love my husband, I’m full of regret, and I need to move forward.
Just when I’m about to close my laptop and try to push the pervading thoughts of Saint from my mind forever, an email notification pops up. The sharp sound slices through the quiet.