Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“And you love me for it,” he says, heading straight for the kitchen like he owns the place. “Now pour me coffee. We’ve got work to do.”
For the next two hours, Derek walks me through all the ways in which my life is about to change. The Raleigh signing this weekend is only the start, and by the time I do the press tour for my book releasing next month, my life will be radically different.
He must be able to tell I’m overwhelmed because he says, “You know… we can do a soft launch today, if you want. A video on social media—”
“What do you mean video?” I ask, subconsciously running my hand through my facial hair that hasn’t been touched in a few days.
Derek raises his phone like a director about to shout Action! “Think dramatic music, close-up of your hands typing, maybe a slow-motion shot of you walking across that porch with a mug of coffee. We’ll caption it ‘Meet S. P. Rochelle.’”
“Hard pass.”
He grins. “You say that now but wait until you see the engagement numbers. Readers eat that stuff up.”
“You know I’m not really into this rebranding thing, right? I just want to start living an authentic life.”
Derek takes a long sip, assessing me over the rim. “Sam, it’s not a rebrand. It’s an evolution. You’ve been a mystery for years—fans have built entire Reddit threads debating whether you’re a woman, a man or a collective of elves. You stepping into the spotlight doesn’t erase that. It amplifies it. The curiosity doubles.”
“Curiosity,” I repeat. “That’s one word for it.”
“You’re nervous,” he observes, not unkindly.
I shrug. “Wouldn’t you be? I’m about to show my face to the world after hiding behind a pen name for years. That’s a lot of mystery to ruin.”
He chuckles and sets his cup down on the counter. “You’re not ruining anything. You’re humanizing it. Readers want to connect, and when they see you—when they realize S. P. Rochelle is a real guy from a small town who happens to write sweeping fantasy romances about love and loss—it’s going to make them fall even harder for you.”
I massage my jaw again, uncertain.
“You built this life, Sam. Literally. You wrote your way into this house, this view, this freedom. Now you just have to own it.”
“I’m trying,” I say quietly.
He turns, his tone softening. “I know. That’s why I’m here—to make sure the world catches up with you. We can skip the video and just focus on the Raleigh signing. Oh, and I arranged for security at the event.”
“Security?” I repeat. “What the hell for? I’m not Taylor Swift.”
He smirks. “You’d be surprised what rabid romantasy fans will do for a signed copy and a photo op. Trust me, you’ll thank me when someone with a fake sword tries to hug you.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, my fingertips lightly circling my temple. I lean against the island, the reality of it starting to settle in. “Three hundred people.”
“Three hundred and counting,” he corrects. “Remember the waiting list.”
I let out a low whistle. “You’re not making this less terrifying.”
“Good. A healthy amount of fear builds character.”
“Pretty sure I have enough character for one lifetime.”
He ignores me, launching into the next item. “After Raleigh, we’ll do the official press reveal. I’ve hired a publicist and she has a schedule lined up with online interviews, podcasts, and—wait for it—a TikTok Live with The Spicy Page Sage.”
I groan. “You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack. She’s the biggest fantasy romance influencer on the planet. Her lives get half a million views in an hour. She wears elf ears and you’ll love her.”
I ignore the elf-ear comment. “Half a million people watching me talk about kissing scenes?”
He smirks. “Or sword-fighting, or both, depending on how spicy you’re feeling. The point is, this is your moment. You’ve built something incredible, and it’s time to show the world.”
I can feel the weight of it pressing in, equal parts thrilling and suffocating. “This is it,” I murmur. “No going back.”
“None,” Derek says, not missing a beat. “You’re about to become a household name. Fans will know your face, reporters will call, your books will fly off shelves. This is the start of your second act.”
I try to picture it. Pap shaking his head with that half smile that means he’s proud but pretending not to be. Floyd organizing a betting pool on how many church ladies faint. My mother, sitting in the front pew Sunday morning, praying for my soul between hymns.
The image makes me smile and ache all at once.
It also makes me want to talk to Penny, and a phone call doesn’t seem good enough. But first, I think it’s time I brought my parents in on this secret of mine, which is about to get blown wide open.
I pull my keys from my pocket. “I’ve got to run an errand.”