When I push through the heavy door, Anna’s gaze finds me in less than two seconds, her evil eyes narrowing a fraction. I give her nothing because I don’t know exactly how I feel. The right words still don’t exist.
“Oh, hey, Eric.” Freya gives me a stiff smile.
“Hi.” I nod.
“This is my fiancé, Adrian.” She tugs on the short, dark-haired kid’s arm. Yes … he looks maybe sixteen. I’m sure he’s of legal age.
“Hi.” It’s my best, non-confrontational greeting. I’m not here to bring trouble. Not yet anyway.
He returns a similar nod of acknowledgment.
“Everyone take a seat,” Anna beckons everyone to the sofas.
My ass plants itself at the far end.
“Okay. Let’s go around and give our one-word impression of the ending.” Anna’s eyes lift from her book, her gaze sweeping to everyone but me.
“Unexpected.”
“Shocking.”
“Perfection.”
“Satisfying.”
Everyone shares their words. Anna’s posture builds into a statue of pride with each passing second.
“Eric, your turn.” Ashlee nudges my arm. I stare at the book on my lap. “Ambiguous.”
“Huh … so you felt the ending was open to interpretation?” Freya asks.
I shrug, keeping my head down. “Something like that,” I murmur.
“Well, anyway …” Anna jumps in and starts a specific topic of conversation.
I let my gaze find her, and I don’t look away—not when she risks a glance at me, not when she laughs, not when she sips her wine and nods in agreement with the discussion. I just … watch her and wonder why.
After it’s over and everyone starts to make their way toward the exit, I don’t move.
“We’ll give you a few minutes,” Freya says to Anna before she and her fiancé exit the rooftop leaving just the two of us.
Anna tries to ignore me, picking up trash and gathering the wine bottles.
I watch her.
She lowers the umbrellas and sets the trash bag by the door.
I watch her.
“Why are you here?” She parks herself beside me, hands planted onto her hips.
I toss my book onto the table in front of me along with a Sharpie. “Thought I’d ask B. Ashton to sign my book.”
“W-what are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” I grunt a laugh, resting my elbows on my knees and running my hands through my hair.
“How …” she whispers.
“Roseland Publishing. Roseland was my grandmother. She was a poet. My parents named their publishing company after her. My dad sent me some manuscripts from his slush pile to read through. Can you guess whose manuscript was in that pile?” I glance up at her. “With a copy of the query letter and the author’s real name?”
Her eyes turn red with unharnessed emotion.
“Why?”
Her head inches side to side. “I was afraid.”
“If you’re afraid, you don’t pick your own damn book for book club. You had to have a certain level of confidence to do that.”
She continues to shake her head. “I wanted honest feedback, more than just a review online. But I didn’t want anyone to feel obligated to say nice things because they knew it was my book.”
“Bullshit!” I stand, forcing her to take a few steps backward.
She flinches.
“If you wanted honest feedback, you would have asked me for more of my thoughts on the book. You wanted your ego stroked, and when I refused to comply, you acted like a fucking child.”
“Screw you.”
“You did. You screwed me. Only I didn’t realize we were a threesome. Had I known in advance, I might have slipped on my kid gloves and been slightly less honest. That’s what you really wanted. Right? Sugar-coated honesty? Did you want to know about the thirty-seven typos that your editor missed? Did you want to know that your timeline is off? Or is that too much too? Because I can guarantee you a publisher will not hold back. They will tell you exactly what needs to be changed to make your story better. They’ll probably take out all the parts that you love the most. They’ll ask you to rewrite entire chapters and frown upon your excessive use of passive tense. They’ll make judgments on your characters and suggest you do something to lessen the extreme bitchiness of your heroine. And you’ll get your back up because you know that deep down, that heroine is you.”
She tips her chin up. “The reviews online are excellent.”
I shake my head. “I looked. Two-hundred reviews. Let’s talk about reviews when you have two-thousand. That will give us a better idea of what twenty-thousand might look like if you get published. Right now, for all we know, you have two-hundred loyal friends.”
“None of my friends know it’s my book!”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You just hate it, so you assume everyone else will hate it. Well you’re wrong.”
“I never said I hated it.”
She flips her hip out and crosses her arms over her chest. “So you’re going to publish it?”
“No.” I chuckle. “You self-published. You tested a tiny market. Good for you. The fact that you self-published at all makes you a little less appealing to publishers. Write another book and keep building your audience. Or write another book and submit it before you publish it.”
“But I already wrote a book. And I don’t care what you think … I left my soul in that book. I worked my ass off to write that book. That could be my best work.”
“Well,” I shrug, “then I’d suggest you keep your day job. Good luck.” I brush past her toward the door.
“You’re an asshole.”
“Okay.” I don’t give her a glance back.
“I’ll just send it to more publishers and agents. I’m not giving up.”
“Okay.” I keep walking.
“And you’re going to feel like such a fool when this is a bestseller and you passed it up.”
“We’ll see about that.” I open the door and leave her behind with her gigantic ego and stubborn armor.
Chapter Thirteen
Anna
After I take the trash to the dumpster, I return to the loft only to be greeted by Freya’s sex chants from her bedroom. I gave them two nights alone to work that shit out, but she has no self-control. Dare I knock on the door and ask Adrian to shove a pillow over her face?
Just when I finish putting away the leftover food, she stops.
Thank you god.
Her bedroom door opens, so I stay hidden in the kitchen. Last night I got to see all of Adrian, and it’s not something I ever want to see again.
Little man. Big dick. It’s too weird.
“Anna?”
Thankfully it’s Freya. I close the fridge and face her wrapped in her robe, red hair a mess.
“Yes?”
Her nose wrinkles. “Do you …”
“Do I?”
“Have any lube?”
I blink several times.
“We wanna try something.”