Page 3 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

Holy shit. There’s one left.

I stare longingly into the bakery case, reading far too much into a cookie.

Most of the time, I do my best to keep my hopes in check, but this means something.

A message from above that my meeting today is going to be life-altering, groundbreaking, and dammit—the wreckage of my career ends today .

This is going to become my celebration cookie.

Let’s be honest, kitchen sink cookies are a child’s treat.

Papa Beans throws miniature M&M’s in theirs to add some color.

With pretzel pieces, toffee, three different types of chocolate chips and chunks, a drizzle of chocolate, and a sprinkling of crushed nuts—yes, they absolutely look like three different desserts got together and collectively vomited into one mega cookie.

But there’s something about the busyness that I like.

It reminds me of my brain lately. There are too many competing elements firing off at once.

For my life, it’s detrimental, but for a cookie, the chaos is magic.

I flinch when my phone buzzes so powerfully, I’m worried it’s going to burn a hole right through my back pants pocket. Yeesh. “If only my vibrator performed with this kind of gusto,” I mumble to myself.

I whip my head around to ensure I don’t have an audience that could’ve heard that.

All the café patrons are entranced in their conversations, seated around tiny, round wooden tables lining the back wall, and I’m presently the only person in line at the counter.

I’ve been standing here patiently for a few minutes, just waiting for the barista texting by the espresso machines to stop smacking her bubblegum and acknowledge my existence.

With my phone now in hand, I see I missed my mother’s call. Instead of putting it away, I stare at the blank screen. Just give it a minute… s he always calls twice.

This time, I answer the moment the screen lights up. “Hey, Mama.”

“Hi, love. What are you doing?”

“Oh, just embracing my last few moments of agonizing obscurity.”

Used to my quippy, and oftentimes cryptic wit, Mom pauses and clears her throat. I can picture the scowl on her face as she tries to piece together the puzzle.

“Obscurity? I’m confused. Do you have a date?”

I chuckle at the notion. Me, with a date?

That would be newsworthy to my mother. She has my wedding details planned all the way down to the crystal napkin holders.

Unfortunately for her, the only love I’m chasing is between the pages.

First, get my career sorted. Then, there’s time for love, marriage, and children later.

“No. So much better than a date. Guess who I have a meeting with today?” After pulling my phone from my ear, I check the time.

It’s 1:08. Not exactly polite, but still not quite ten past. It’s only rude to be late to a business meeting without a heads-up text or email at ten past. He still has some time.

“I’m lost.” She hems and haws into the phone, unable to match my enthusiasm. “Who are you meeting?”

“Take a guess.”

“No, thank you, Sora. You tell me so little about your life these days, guesses could range from a brand-new, free-range chicken farmer to another ghost hunter.”

Tucking my wallet under my arm, I press two fingers firmly against my temple. “I’m allergic to store-bought chicken?—”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been eating Tyson chicken nuggets just fine since you were in diapers.”

“—and Hepzibah is not a ghost hunter. She is a spiritual energy guide. Very professional.”

“She’s a con artist who showed up to your apartment with a bushel of sage, a shop vac, and an empty backpack. Not to mention she was wearing a Ghostbusters uniform.”

I cringe. Crap. I forgot Mom was over at my place that day when Hepzibah came over. “It wasn’t a uniform. It was overalls with a matching jacket. And it wasn’t Ghostbusters, per se. She’s just really into khaki.” My cheeks puff out before I let out a deep, exasperated breath.

“Mhmm.” I can see her eyes rolling. “Real professional to charge you actual money for crystals made from Play-Doh.”

“For the millionth time, she was clearing the cluttered aura of my home to help me get through my writer’s block. And by the way, after she was done, I wrote four chapters that night and even?—”

Stop.

Why waste my breath? I’ve tried for the better part of a decade to explain my life choices, but they will never make sense to her.

Finance managers speak numbers and statistics.

Mom will never understand my plight as an author.

And by plight I do mean a desperate, relentless desire to stay remotely relevant in an oversaturated, no-bars-to-entry industry, which all but guarantees financial failure.

“Are you being so defensive because you hired Hepzibah to get you through another writer’s block?” Her voice is honey smooth. She’s speaking to me the way she would to soothe me through a tantrum as a little girl. It’s almost tender and maternal until I hear her cover her chuckle with a lazy cough.

I scowl into the phone. “I hope you have an appetite because you’re about to eat your words. I’m meeting Dane Spellman.” I pause for dramatic effect, but when Mom doesn’t gasp, squeal, or spontaneously combust on the spot, I’m forced to reiterate. “ Dane Spellman . Of Spellman Literary.”

“You can say his name until your voice goes hoarse, that still doesn’t tell me anything.”

“He’s an agent who represents every top dog in the industry.

R.M. Mercer, Paige Gold, Jinny Michaels—and they are considered his midlist authors.

Mom . They literally call him ‘The Dream Maker.’” Dane Spellman has a contact with every Big 5 publisher and it’s rumored he refuses to sign deals under seven figures.

He is exactly what my dawdling author career needs.

Phone still pressed to my ear, I smile when the barista and I finally make eye contact. I give her a small wave, indicating I’m ready to order, but she quickly looks away and pretends to fiddle with the buttons on the espresso machine. Are you freaking kidding me right now?

“Oh, Sora.” I hate the way Mom says it. Like she’s disappointed that I just traded our only family cow for a handful of magic beans. “How many times have you been through this?”

“Please don’t start?—”

“I don’t want to see you get your heart broken again.

You don’t need a hotshot agent to validate you.

Get a normal job. Write books as a hobby.

If it were just for fun, wouldn’t that take the pressure off?

We have some service positions open at the bank.

Good benefits, great pay, and we could have lunch together every day. ”

The heat prickles in my cheeks as we circle back to our normal exchange. Me, telling Mom I’m at the doorstep of my big break. Mom, begging me to give up and return to earth, because you can’t get anything done in life with your head in the clouds.

“Mama, I want to do something I love.”

“I love my job?—”

I cut her off with a groan. “Will you please just give me this one? Be happy and congratulate me for landing the meeting that is going to change my entire career.”

I check my phone again. 1:09. We are getting dangerously close to Dane being rude. Another ten minutes and we’re stepping foot in the something-came-up-and-I-have-to-reschedule danger zone. It shouldn’t come to that—I confirmed our meeting this morning with his assistant.

It’s taken a shameless amount of pleading, cajoling, and ass-kissing to even get this meeting.

Dane’s office made it quite clear he’s not taking on new clients.

Translation: He’s not interested in small, broke, indie authors.

It hurt, but at this point in my life, my engine basically runs off the fuel of rejection and humiliation, so I’m learning to take “no” as an invitation to try harder.

Persistence and resilience are the keys to a happily-ever-after in the publishing world.

When Dane’s assistant, Morgan, called a few weeks ago, I was on my way to snag a bagel from my favorite bagel cart in the West Village.

It’s a solid thirty-minute walk, but they have the best cream cheese and they don’t charge extra for their generous shmears.

I literally stopped in my tracks in the middle of Broadway when her contact information popped up on my phone.

My heart locked up. How could I continue to walk?

Sure, I got savagely bumped and flipped off a few times for causing a pedestrian traffic jam, but it was worth it. After Morgan informed me that Dane had an opening to meet with me, I fell straight to my knees on the dirty sidewalk, right in the middle of Broadway, and cried out in glee.

I took every single precaution for this meeting. I ensured the location was at my lucky coffee shop, which was conveniently located nearby his office. Superstitious thoughts aside, with only a two-minute walking commute, there’s less of a chance Dane could cancel on me.

A week out from the meeting, I re-sent sample chapters and a synopsis of my newest manuscript.

Two days out, I sent Morgan a small muffin basket and a thank-you note for accommodating me.

Finally, this morning, I made an excuse to reconfirm that the meeting was at the coffee shop in Tribeca, and not the location near Hell’s Kitchen.

It was a little white lie. Had Morgan done a simple Google search, she would’ve easily discovered that Papa Beans has no second location.

But it slipped right by her as she confirmed the meeting for 1:00 p.m. at the location right by their office.

“Congratulations. I’m happy for you.” There’s not an ounce of zest in Mom’s obligatory reply. She can’t even fake it. But it’s all I’m going to get.

“Thank you,” I respond in a matching monotone.

“Call me after? I know we have plans tomorrow, but would you like to do dinner tonight, as well?”

“Two dinners in a row? Isn’t that a lot of mother-daughter time?”