Page 7 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Trad publishing is my out. An agent like Dane was supposed to be step one of my master plan of survival. I need support. I need someone in this industry to have faith in me because after three long years, I’m starting to lose faith in myself.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say finally.

Dane cocks his head to the side, meeting my gaze. “Sure.”

“Why take this meeting if you had no intention of representing me? Was it just to get me off your guys’ back?”

“I hear you did email a shocking number of times… long emails .” He pumps his brows playfully. “I’m teasing you, Sora. I really wanted to meet you.”

“Why?”

He leans back into the green, tufted sofa chair and rubs his hands together.

I glance over his shoulder to see the hot single dad from earlier across the café seated directly in my sight line.

As if my quick glance is summoning, he suddenly looks up from his takeout cup and matches my stare.

He lifts his dark, angular brows as if to say, “ Caught looking, missy .”

Dammit. He probably thinks I’m into him. He’s sorely mistaken.

“There’s a rumor going around the office I was hoping you could clear up,” Dane says, reclaiming my attention.

My stomach lurches. The word “rumor” is triggering for me. It usually ends in some kind of cat fight that I most definitely don’t want to participate in. “That rumor being?”

“Is Sora Cho your pen name or your legal name?”

“Both,” I reply, hesitantly, careful not to offer any further details. My stomach continues to churn as I slowly piece together exactly where this is going. The real reason why Dane Spellman wanted to meet with me. “Why?”

“How can it be both?” he asks. I think he’s smirking because he’s catching me in a trap. This is going to be much easier if we get this over with quickly.

“My legal name is hyphenated. Sora Cho-Cooper. Cho is my mother’s maiden name. I dropped Cooper from my author name…for obvious reasons.”

“You’re shitting me. So, it’s true… You’re J.P.

Cooper’s daughter? The J.P. Cooper ?” Dane scoots forward in his chair, showing genuine intrigue now.

“Are you guys in touch? Are you estranged? Pardon me for asking, but with your father’s name, how the hell are you struggling with your author career? ”

Dad, aka J.P. Cooper, writes literary epics as commentary on societal structure.

His books sit on shelves next to George R.

R. Martin and Tolkien. His first series sold at auction for well into seven figures.

Studios are fighting over the development options, wondering whether they’ll make more money on HBO or the big screen.

Emmys are all but guaranteed for anyone attached to the project.

But to answer Dane’s question, I’m struggling because Dad does not give out free lunches, not even to his own daughter. When I told him I wanted to become an author, he tried to deter me. When that didn’t work, he made it clear I was to keep my career far away from his.

“My dad prefers I keep his name off of my projects.”

“It’s your name too, though, isn’t it?”

Is it? My eyes drop to my lap. I rotate my thumbs in slow circles, contemplating Dane’s response. “I guess?—”

“I read in an article that his agreement with Meek Publishing is about to expire, and he’s considering going back to auction with the Hell & Heroes series. Is that true?”

“If you read it in a public article, then you know as much as I do.” I wish he’d stop interrogating me about this. My dad’s wild publishing success is not a sore subject for me, it’s a throbbing, infected, open wound. Stop poking at it.

“He doesn’t have an agent listed anywhere.”

“Because he doesn’t use one. He finds a lawyer for paperwork, but otherwise, the publishers go directly to him.” I bite the inside of my cheek until it hurts.

Dane clears his throat as his stare grows more intense. And now I’m the one losing interest in this conversation. “But I also heard he’s working on a new series. That has to be a lot to manage. Surely, he could focus more on writing if he had a team to represent him, right?”

Trying to avoid Dane’s eager stare, I pick up my empty mug once more. Bone dry. I can’t even fake a sip without looking ridiculous, so I set it back down. “I suppose.”

When I finally look up, Dane is holding out his business card, wiggling it between his fingers. It’s a bland professional’s card but I notice there’s a handwritten number scribbled on the front.

“I think I’ve sent your dad about as many emails as you’ve sent my agency.

” He chuckles as if his joke is funny. “It’s been years.

He never responds. I heard he hates agents, but Spellman Literary could do some great things for J.P.

Cooper. I wrote my personal cell phone number on this card.

I never give that out, but if your dad calls, I will drop whatever I’m doing and answer.

Do you think you could pass this along?”

I want to lug my empty mug at his head. This was never my meeting after all. I was simply bait.

“Sure,” I mutter, plucking the card from between his fingers.

Dane clutches his chest, and ducks his head in what seems like gratitude. “You’re a sweetheart, Sora. Thank you. If I could snatch up J.P. Cooper”—he blows out a sharp breath—“I mean, that’s it. My dream list would be complete.”

Keep dreaming. Dad is going to file this business card with all the others—in the trash.

Dane’s palms collide against the top of his thighs with a loud smack. “Whew, okay. Well, I should get going, but I have to say meeting you was the highlight of my week.”

“Thank you. Likewise,” I add. Bleh! What?

Damn my word vomit. I can’t even control it.

I’m hardwired to spew out niceties. It’s why I’m getting my ass kicked in this industry.

I’m too soft. Meeting Dane was not the highlight of my week.

Not even close. In fact, scalding the roof of my mouth on hot soup this past Monday was preferable to learning that my dream agent thinks I’m unremarkable, “dime a dozen,” bait.

When Dane rises, I do as well, extending my hand. I glance at the mugs on the table in front of us. Mine empty, Dane’s untouched. Maybe he doesn’t like flat whites. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t even thank me for ordering him something.

“By the way, I know a guy who could probably help with your situation,” he adds, shaking my hand.

A little flutter of hope tickles my chest cavity. “Oh?” I fail at sounding nonchalant. “An associate of yours?”

“In a way. He’s a marketing guru a lot of my well-established authors use.

Indie publishing is built on luck and ads.

Sounds like your luck hasn’t been fantastic, but my guy could get your ad game going strong.

The only problem is, he only takes on serious investors.

Can you rummage up about sixty thousand to start? ”

What the fuck? He better mean sixty thousand pennies. “Um…what?”

“Too steep?” He scrunches his nose.

That’s more than I make in a year from all my books combined. But I want to save face and not sound as low on the totem pole as I feel. “Is he worth it?”

Dane nods slowly. “Worth every dime. I’ll have my assistant email over his information. Sound good?”

I nod, wordlessly.

Dane pats my shoulder, pairing it with a quick wink. “Take care, Sora. Keep writing. I can’t wait to see you on a bestseller’s list one day.”

When Dane is through the café door, I release the low growl of agitation I’ve been holding in for twenty minutes. I don’t have words for whatever that was that just happened. Today was supposed to change everything .

I clench my fists together, feeling my skin stretch over my knuckles.

With a deep breath I try to tell myself it’s just business.

Of course Dane would seize an opportunity for access to J.P.

Cooper. The commissions from selling my dad’s series could probably carry Spellman Literary single-handedly.

It isn’t personal, except it is , because there’s a big part of me that is so sick of being jealous of my own dad.

I’ve never read his books. Not because I’m bitter.

I’m too scared to be humbled…or maybe more accurately, humiliated.

I come from greatness, yet I’m not great.

I’m not even a little bit great. My dad’s readers think he’s the next Messiah.

What I did not just need is a wakeup call to everything I’m lacking.

I slump back into my chair and slide Dane’s untouched coffee to my side of the table.

Running my fingers over the rim, I debate drinking it.

Instead, I stare at the coffee that’s cooled, ruminating over how rude it was for him to not take a sip, not thank me, not even acknowledge the gesture.

I would’ve done all those things to be polite.

It’s moments like these that I feel like my brain is just on a different wavelength than most people—shackled by conscientiousness.

“She didn’t eat it. It’s still sealed.”

My eyes fly to the tall man standing in front of me. Hot dad holds out the still-wrapped cookie, but I don’t take it. Issuing a thick sigh, he places it on the table next to me. “Truce? Sorry. It was a crappy way to break the ice earlier.”

I force myself to match his gaze. “Thanks. But I’m not hungry.”

“Well, chances are you’ll get hungry later.” His lips twitch into a small smile as he taps the cookie. “All yours,” he answers as he glances past me.

I look over my shoulder to follow his stare.

He’s angled himself so he can speak to me and also watch his daughter who’s sitting at a nearby table, mindlessly eating a bag of pretzels.

She’s fully immersed in the phone she’s holding.

Once hot dad is satisfied that his daughter is fine, he continues, “How was your meeting?”

I’m not about to pour my bleeding heart out to a stranger. So, I change the subject. “If she didn’t want the cookie, then why was she crying over it?”

A glint of amusement flashes in his face. “Because she’s four.”

It triggers me. Maybe it’s the simplicity in his explanation. Like I’m the only childless spinster in the world who doesn’t understand crocodile tears.

“You know what? I’m having a really bad day, and I just can’t take one more conversation with a snarky asshole wearing a charming smile. So, if you’ll excuse me.”

He sucks in his lips and raises both eyebrows. “Wow. Unexpected.”

My eyes, on the other hand, narrow. “What? The charming part or the asshole part?”

He chuckles. “I suppose the combination of the two. Bittersweet I guess.”

I rise from my seat. He moves backward, making room for me to step past him.

“Don’t read into it. And for your information, your daughter is wearing Golden Goose sneakers.

And based on the solid-gold C on her little pink Chanel, that backpack costs more than my rent.

If you’re worried about spoiling your child, you have bigger fish to fry than a freaking cookie. ”

His smile disappears and I swear I see him blush.

For a moment, we say nothing as we study each other.

My heart is racing, adrenaline flooding my veins, but I hold the moment as long as I can because I want to remember this forever.

Regardless of the fact this is a stranger I’ll never see again, this is a powerful moment for me.

I finally said exactly what was on my mind instead of playing nice. It’s dangerously exhilarating.

Recovering from his stunned silence, he asks, “What are Golden Goose shoes?”

I shake my head, deciding I don’t have the patience to explain how people are spending hundreds of dollars to buy custom shoes that look like they are already beat to shit.

I point to the cookie on the table. “That was supposed to be a celebration treat. I don’t need it now. There’s nothing to celebrate.”

I take a few steps toward the door, then feel an emotional anchor holding me back. I walk right back up to hot dad. I have to angle my head all the way back to meet his gaze. “I realize that was rude of me,” I admit, pairing it with a sigh. “I’m sorry. It’s just I’m?—”

“Having a bad day.”

My nod is small as my eyes drop to my shoes. When I look up, he’s smiling. This time, with the tilt of his chin, and soft eyes, the smile seems more genuine. “I won’t hold it against you.”

I show him my palm in a half-hearted wave goodbye before retreating for the door. Once my back is turned, I let one tear of frustration loose.