Page 49

“What are you doing?” I say aloud, aiming my words towards a ghost that’ll never reply.

Looking back at my shadow, I see him pull out his phone, the blue light getting lost in the depths of his hood as he looks at something. Several seconds later, he tucks it away in his pocket, slides out another cigarette from the pack, and lights it up. Chain smoker. Gross.

He sticks around for another fifteen minutes. And during that time, I scarcely look away. It feels like a game almost, and I’ve always been a sore loser.

I’m thanking Jesus I don’t have to travel for this book signing event. Another big romance author is hosting it, and luckily, it takes place in good ol’ Seattle.

A thin layer of sweat coats my skin as I look myself over one last time in the mirror.

“You’ve done a million of these, girlfriend. You’re going to be fine,” Daya assures from behind me. I’m wearing a flattering red blouse that shows off my body nicely without looking too racy or inappropriate and ripped black mom jeans. I painted my lips red and slipped on comfortable checkered Vans.

My cinnamon hair is curled into loose beach waves, completing the casual but chic look. I don’t usually like to dress up for these things. I’m sitting in a chair all day, so I make sure to look nice enough to take pictures with and leave the rest to comfort.

I sniff my armpit, double checking that my deodorant didn’t lie to me and doesn’t fight against tough odors.

“I know, but it doesn’t make them any easier,” I grumble.

“What do you call yourself?” Daya asks, quirking a brow at me.

I sigh. “A master manipulator.”

“Why?”

I roll my eyes. “Because I manipulate people’s emotions with my words when they read my books,” I grouse.

“Exactly. So that’s all you do, except your mouth says the words instead of your fingers. Fake it till you make it, baby.”

I nod my head, looking at my underarms in the mirror from all angles. My deodorant may claim to fight tough odors, but the shirt didn’t come with a tag that said it was pit stain resistant.

Sighing again, I drop my arms. “It's not that I don't love meeting my readers, I just don't do well in crowds and social situations. I’m too awkward.”

“You’re also a great liar. That’s what you do for a living. Just smile and pretend you’re not having one big panic attack.”

Another roll of my eyes as I grab my purse from the bed. “You’re such a great pep-talker,” I say dryly. She snorts in response.

Daya sucks at pep-talking, and she knows it. She’s the logical person in our friendship, while I’m the emotional one. She’s all about offering solutions, while I’d rather roll around in my dread and anxiety and wax on about it.

Guess I’m more like my mother than I thought.

I’ll still never admit it out loud.

The event is a blast, as usual. Every time, I work myself up for these events, and I always end up never wanting to leave by the time they’re over.

Getting the chance to meet up with other author friends and attempting to run away with all their signed books while laughing maniacally is what truly brings me peace in life.

What truly brings me happiness is seeing the many smiling faces eager to meet me and get signed books of mine.

I love my career as a professional manipulator. I’m fortunate to do what I do.

I’m a tad tipsy from getting drinks at a bar after the event, so Daya is driving me back home in my car. We laugh and giggle over funny moments and even gossip about the crazy drama that always circulates the book community.

We’re riding a high from having such a good time, but our smiles bleed dry as she pulls up to the house.

A lone light is on, shining through the bay window. I turned off all the lights before we left.

I go to scramble out of the car, but Daya’s firm grip around my hand stops me.

“He could still be in there,” she says urgently, her grip tightening almost painfully.