Page 28 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

“It’s got to be around here somewhere,” I mutter, squinting at the printed map in my hands.

The ballroom of the Grayson Event Center stretches before us like an endless sea of rectangular tables draped in black linens, each numbered with a small placard.

I tug my rolling suitcase behind me, the wheels catching on the plush carpet.

“Table fifty-six,” Daphne reminds me, effortlessly pulling her own dolly stacked with three boxes of my books. “The email said it would be in section C.”

“Which is…where exactly?” I scan the room, overwhelmed by the labyrinth of tables and the buzz of activity as authors unpack boxes, arrange bookmarks, and set up elaborate displays.

My stomach twists with a familiar anxiety. Everyone else seems to know what they’re doing, confidently arranging Instagram-worthy tablescapes. Meanwhile, I’m wondering if my hastily printed bookmarks and the single banner I ordered last minute will make me look like the amateur I am.

Daphne must sense my spiraling thoughts because she bumps her hip against mine. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“That thing where your eyes get all squinty and you start mentally comparing yourself to everyone else.” She flips her long blond hair over her shoulder and gives me a stern look. “Your books are great. Your table will be great. You belong here.”

I wish I had half her confidence. Daphne moves through life like it’s a runway designed specifically for her—all five foot nine of her, with curves in places I’ll never have them and a smile that could probably end wars.

And yet she chooses to spend her Saturday helping her neurotic best friend set up for a book signing that will likely be a complete disaster.

“What if we didn’t bring enough books?” I fret, peering into the box on my dolly. “Or too many? What if no one comes to my table and I’m just sitting there like a loser while everyone else has lines?”

“Then we’ll go get drunk afterward and burn the leftovers in a cleansing ritual.” Daphne grins. “But that’s not going to happen. Now come on, it’s probably around this corner.”

We navigate around a partition, and suddenly it’s easy to spot my table.

Because Forrest is already sitting at it.

My heart does a complicated gymnastics routine in my chest. I haven’t seen him since that morning at the brownstone when he kissed the top of my head and walked away with my ten thousand dollars. I’ve been cycling through anger, embarrassment, and a reluctant admiration for his audacity ever since.

He’s leaning back in the folding chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, looking unfairly gorgeous in dark jeans and an earthy-green henley that makes his eyes look almost golden. When he spots us, a slow smile spreads across his face that could only be described as smug.

“There she is,” he calls, rising to his feet. “The author of the hour.”

“How did you even get in here?” I ask, trying to sound annoyed instead of flustered. “This area is supposed to be for authors, PAs, and staff only during setup.”

He shrugs, that smile still playing on his lips. “I told them I was with Sora Cho. I think they assumed I was one of those book-boyfriend models. The woman at the door got very flustered when I asked where your table was.”

Daphne snorts. “You flirted your way in, didn’t you?”

“I did no such thing,” he counters, winking at her before turning his attention back to me. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

The compliment sends heat rising to my cheeks. I’m wearing my “author outfit”—black jeans, a silky pink blouse that Daphne insisted brings out the warmth in my dark eyes, and my special-occasion ankle boots. My long hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and I’ve made a rare effort with makeup.

“Thanks,” I mumble, busying myself with unzipping my suitcase to hide my reaction. I refuse to let him affect me like this. The man is literally a professional at making women feel special.

Still, when his fingers brush against mine as he helps me lift a stack of books, a jolt of electricity skates up my arm. I jerk away, nearly dropping the hardcovers.

“Careful,” he murmurs, steadying my hands. “These are precious cargo.”

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” I shoot him a raised eyebrow.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “None whatsoever. But I’m excellent at following directions.”

Something about the way he says it makes me think of things far removed from book signings. I clear my throat. “Daphne, put him to work.”

“Gladly.” She thrusts a box of bookmarks into his arms. “These need to be fanned out artfully. Think you can handle that, pretty boy?”

“For you? Anything.” He winks, and Daphne giggles.

I roll my eyes, but can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.

As annoying as it is to admit, having him here takes some of the pressure off.

While Daphne arranges my books in aesthetically pleasing stacks, Forrest unpacks my swag items—bookmarks, stickers, and a handful of tote bags I splurged on—with surprising care.

“So, what are these about?” he asks, picking up one of my latest releases. “ The Way We Were , huh? Like the movie?”

“Sort of,” I say. “It’s a second-chance romance about high school sweethearts who reconnect at their ten-year reunion.”

“And do they get their happily-ever-after?”

“It’s romance. That’s kind of the whole point.”

He turns the book over to read the back cover, his expression thoughtful. “You believe in that? Happily-ever-afters?”

“In books? Absolutely. In real life?” I shrug, arranging my banner on the front of the table.

The light pink of my logo looks almost gray.

The printers warned me the shade wouldn’t be vibrant against white, but I foolishly didn’t listen.

Primrose is my entire brand—soft, subtle brushstrokes of pale flowers and wispy I love yous blending into the background. “The jury’s still out.”

“Aren’t your books supposed to reflect real life, though? Isn’t that what makes a story resonate—the truth in it?”

I pause, surprised by the depth of the question. “Yes and no. Romance novels offer what real life often doesn’t—certainty, closure, the guarantee that love is worth the risk. That’s why people read them. For the hope.”

His eyes scan the other titles displayed on my table, pausing on a stack with a soft-pink cover featuring two silhouettes against a sunset. “What about this one? Lovely ?”

My hand instinctively reaches for the book, my fingers tracing the embossed title. “That’s the first in a duet. The second book, Lonely , is coming out in about two months.” I hesitate, then add quietly, “At least, it’s supposed to.”

“Supposed to?” He picks up Lovely , examining the cover more closely.

“Sales weren’t great,” I confess, the admission burning my throat. “Actually, they were pretty abysmal. My editor barely had any feedback on the sequel. Just ‘it’s fine, here you go.’ Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”

“What’s it about? The duet.”

I take a deep breath, trying to find the enthusiasm I once had for this story. “It’s about a woman who thinks she’s unlovable because of a childhood trauma. She meets this guy who sees through all her defenses, who’s patient and kind and determined to show her she’s worthy of love.”

“And the sequel?”

“It’s from his perspective. His struggles, his demons.

The first book ends with their beginning, but the second shows how hard it is to maintain love when you both have scars.

” I bite my lip, suddenly self-conscious.

“It’s about how loving someone broken doesn’t fix you.

How two damaged people have to actively choose each other every day. ”

Forrest is quiet for a moment, his eyes uncharacteristically serious. “That sounds…real.”

“Too real, maybe. Romance readers want escape, not uncomfortable truths about how much work relationships are.” I shake my head, trying to dispel the cloud of doubt that’s been hanging over me since I finished writing Lonely .

“I don’t think people want what I’m peddling. I’m too much fact, not enough fantasy.”

“I’d prefer the substance,” Forrest says softly. “I like to see the messy things people have to overcome to get from the start to the end. Real love isn’t a destination. It’s a journey.”

I blink at him, startled by the insight. “Exactly.”

He sets the book down, his fingertips lingering on the cover. “So why are you thinking of pulling it?”

“I don’t know if I want to put my heart out there again just to have it stomped on,” I admit. “Reviews for Lovely were…mixed at best. And it’s exhausting to keep pouring everything into something that feels like shouting into the void.”

“Can I ask you something?” His voice is gentle, but there’s an intensity in his gaze that makes my pulse quicken. “Do you write because you love it, or do you write to be loved?”

The question lands like a punch to the solar plexus, stealing my breath. No one has ever cut so cleanly to the heart of my insecurity before. Not even Daphne, who knows me better than anyone.

“I…” My voice falters. How do I answer that when I’m not sure I know the difference anymore? When the line between creating art and seeking validation has become so blurred, I can’t see where one ends and the other begins?

Sensing my discomfort, Forrest reaches across the table and briefly squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to answer that. But maybe it’s something to think about.”

I nod, grateful for the reprieve but unsettled by how easily he peeled back my defenses. There’s something unnerving about the way he sees me—not the carefully constructed version I present to the world, but the messy reality underneath.

“These are really good,” he says, mercifully changing the subject as he picks up one of my flower-filled bookmarks, the roses in tight bouquets, lining the corners. “Did you design them yourself?”

“Daphne did,” I reply, delivering her a grateful smile. “She’s the creative one.”