Page 4 of 500 First Editions (The Romantics #3)
“At the end of the day, I want to destigmatize asking for help. Men, in particular, struggle with that. It’s why I grab my microphone and answer calls from my followers on my podcast. If one man sees another man asking for advice, chances are he’ll ask for advice too.
No one shames the best quarterbacks in history for still having a dedicated quarterback coach in the pros.
I’m encouraging men and women alike to get in the game, knowing they have someone on the sidelines to help them call plays.
Forgive the sports analogies, but sometimes that’s what it takes—speaking someone’s language, in their tone of voice, to build that trust. Whether it’s friendship, a whirlwind romance, or the kind of lifelong love story that makes it to 'til death do us part, it’s about meeting people where they are. Thank you.”
The crowd graciously applauded as I picked up my tablet from the podium and joined the panelists, grabbing the empty chair beside Whitney West.
Apparently, Willow found a spot on the back wall that was utterly fascinating.
“Fancy meeting you here, cupcake,” I said with a smile, though I intentionally avoided looking at her. “How was your night? Did it rock ?”
Whitney clapped a hand over her mouth to hide a laugh.
Willow’s face turned bright red. “You douchebag?—”
Wander kicked Willow’s ankle to shut her up, nodding toward the microphones the two of them were holding.
Microphones that were on.
The moderator handed me a microphone of my own, then settled into a seat that was catty-corner to the rest of us and asked us to introduce ourselves.
On the far side of the line, a male romance author decked out in plaid flannel and suspenders kicked off the panel. “Good morning, folks. I’m Jordan Loft, and I’m not a morning person.”
The crowd laughed.
Wander was next. “Hello, I’m Wander Whitlock, and I recently tried to quit writing.”
There were nods of understanding as attention moved to Willow. “I’m Willow Winslet, and my hair is the color of the rosé I drink.”
I covered my microphone with my hand so it wouldn’t pick up my voice. “Really? I thought it’d be yellow, like those pineapple seltz?—”
“And I’m Whitney West. I fell in love with my bodyguard. Yep. It was a one-bed trope,” Whitney said, cutting us off with a sharp glare.
I uncovered my microphone. “I’m Ryan Ford, and I couldn’t write an entire book if I tried. Mad props to all of you.”
The moderator opened the floor to questions. The first few were for Whitney and Wander, asking about their careers and processes. Attention moved to Jordan Loft when he piggybacked off of something Whitney had said about marketing.
“You look nice, cupcake,” I said, just loud enough for only her to hear. “You should have told me I’d see you here.”
Whitney wiggled back in her chair like she was trying to remove herself from being the barrier between us.
“And let you tick off number one on your list of five things you have in common with a stranger? Absolutely not,” she hissed.
Whitney’s eyebrows rose as Wander and Jordan delved into the pen name versus legal name debate. “You didn’t know it was him?”
“He didn’t look like”—Willow discreetly waved her hand up and down my khakis, button-up, and sweater-vest combo—“a choir boy. And he was wearing glasses.”
“Really? My glasses are the only thing that disguise me?” I teased.
“My wig is the only thing that disguises me,” Whitney said amicably as her attention turned to the person in the crowd who asked about writing from real-life experiences versus writing from research.
Willow plastered on a smile and added her two cents to the more pressing conversation.
When attention turned to Wander as she agreed with what Willow had said, Willow faced me. “Buying a vibrator and a drink to have a relaxing night isn’t pathetic,” she hissed. “It’s called being self-sufficient.”
“Children,” Whitney whispered. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to bicker.”
“I never said you were pathetic. I said you’re missing out.”
“Missing out on what? Having some playboy Clark Kent wannabe tell me how to date so he can make a quick buck?” Her voice rose. “Stop pretending to be some kind of hero. You’re not a leading man. You’re a fraud.”
A distinct “ooh” echoed through the crowd. Willow’s face went ghostly white when she realized that the microphone in her hand had amplified everything she had said.
Dammit.
I liked the banter, but I didn’t want to wreck her reputation, even if she was intent on shitting all over mine.
I cleared my throat and raised my microphone.
“I’m not scared of a little skepticism. What makes you think I’m a fraud?
” I asked, completely unbothered, like I had asked what her favorite kind of pizza was.
“I’d think you, of all people, would believe in the existence of the kind of love you write about. ”
A little of the color returned to her cheeks as fire filled her eyes. “Because it’s fiction. Because people can’t be manipulated the way that we manipulate characters and craft the perfect conditions for people to fall in love.”
“See,” I started, craning my head around Whitney to face Willow directly.
“What you call manipulation, I call being intentional. That’s part of my course—teaching people how to approach others intentionally, rather than waiting for those fictional romance movie clichés to happen.
It’s about empowering people to take charge of their future instead of just letting life happen to them.
Call it whatever you want. Ninety-six percent of my clients are living happily ever after in whatever dynamic that looks like for them. The results speak for themselves.”
Jordan Loft tried to speak, but Willow cut him off. “I call it preying on lonely, na?ve, insecure people and swindling them out of their hard-earned money.”
A lightbulb clicked on in my mind. “Tell me something, Willow. Are you single?”
“Yes,” she clipped. “Being single isn’t some kind of scarlet letter.”
“I agree. Some people thrive being single. Are you lonely?”
There was a microscopic pause before she clipped, “No. I’m surrounded by great people.” She looked from Whitney to Willow.
A smile crept across my face. “Are you na?ve, Willow?”
She scoffed. “Absolutely not. We write more relationships than most people have in their entire lives. I know all the tricks we use to get people to fall in love.”
“Are you insecure?”
“Would I be up here if I were?” she clipped.
The room felt like a vacuum, entirely devoid of sound.
“Then how about a little dare?”
What little oxygen remained in the conference center was collectively sucked out of the room.
Willow’s eyes flared with anger as her jaw worked back and forth. But if my hypothesis was right, she would take the bait.
“I think we’re all curious to know what this wager entails,” the moderator said.
I looked straight into Willow's pretty green eyes. “Date me.”
Wander shrieked and nearly toppled out of her chair.
“Date you?” Willow scoffed. “Absolutely not.”
“You called me a fraud. Let me prove I’m not,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “I’ll use the program I coach my clients through. Twelve weeks. What do you have to lose?”
She burst into uncontrollable laughter. “You truly believe you can make someone fall in love with you in three months? This is real life, Ford. You can’t win a woman with quippy pick-up lines.
It’s apparent that you aren’t a good listener because I already told you—I know all the tricks. I write them.”
“There are no tricks. I’m confident in my method, and I’m willing to stake my reputation on it.
Twelve weeks to fall in love with me. We fall in love, and you have to endorse my program.
You win, and I’ll end my podcast.” I decided to throw her words back at her.
“I know how you feel about bro podcasters who like to hear the sound of their own voice. So. What do you say, cupcake?”
Willow glowered at the nickname.
Whitney clapped her hand over her mouth.
Wander gaped like a fish.
Jordan looked like he wanted to be anywhere other than onstage with our three-ring circus.
Then Willow’s face went neutral. “And who’s to be the judge of whether or not we’re in love?”
I was a betting man, so I went all in. “No one knows you better than your friends, so I’ll give you home-field advantage. You, Ms. West, and Ms. Whitlock can judge if I make you fall in love. I’m pretty confident. Are you?”
The silence was deafening.
Willow raised her microphone to her mouth.
My heart raced.
Her words were stalwart. “You’re on.”