I’m here for brainstorming if you need it, but a gentle reminder that getting this book in on time will be the best bet for building your brand. We want book two to release no later than a year after your debut.
Iris stared at the screen. She’d heard all of this before. The romance world moved fast, the fans hungry for more and more, and while Fiona had assured her that they could ask her editor, Elizabeth, for an extension, it really behooved Iris’s career to keep things moving.
Simon—Jordan’s twin brother and a literary fiction writer—had been absolutely appalled at the timeline. His lot took years to pump out a single two-hundred-page novel that then won them Booker prizes and spots on the National Book Award longlist.
If you’re struggling, Fiona’s email went on, I’ll tell you what I tell all my clients dealing with a block—take a break. Do something creative that has nothing to do with writing. Take a pottery class or learn how to make sushi. Anything that’s low stakes and gives your brain the space to come up with something brilliant!
Iris glared at that hopeful exclamation point, but Fiona’s idea wasn’t all that bad. She could think of a few low-stakes creative activities she’d like to engage in right now, though none of them involved a class. After the dating ambush tonight, followed by the shaming of Iris’s way of life that seemed to be a new family tradition, Iris would welcome a distraction.
A human-shaped, no-strings-attached distraction.
Iris: Anyone up for an impromptu night out?
Astrid: It’s ten-thirty
Iris: So that’s a no for Astrid
Jordan: I go where my woman goes
Iris: Thrilling life you two lead
Claire: I’ve got to open the store in the morning—my manager’s on vacation Iris: I assume that means you’re also out, D?
Delilah: Look, I’m VERY comfortable with my current situation, as Claire is . . . never mind Claire: BABE
Delilah:
Iris: No, please, keep going. Fodder for my dead-on-arrival novel Delilah: I swear to god, if my admittedly mind-blowing love story ends up in one of your books, Iris, I will connect all of your freckles with a Sharpie while you’re sleeping. I have a key to your place, I’m not afraid to use it Iris: “Delilah Green didn’t care about anyone and consistently forgot the names of the women she slept with. Until she met Claire Sutherland.” I like it. Catchy Astrid: Laugh out loud!
Delilah: Astrid, use a damn emoji, and Iris, I’m buying a fresh pack of markers Claire: Babe, she would never
Iris laughed. It was true, she would never, but she did find it extremely unfair that Astrid and Claire, her best friends of twenty years, both had fairy-tale love stories. She was happy for them, of course, but Jesus, what amazing rom-coms both of their lives would make.
Iris: Fine. Go to sleep, you geriatric romantics
She swiped out of the chat and tapped on Simon’s name, forgoing texts altogether.
“You’d better be dying.” His voice was languid, like he was either asleep or tipsy.
“I’m alive and well,” Iris said. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Stranded?”
“Nope.”
“Being held at gunpoint?”
“I kicked him in the balls and got away.”
“Then to what do I owe the horror?”
“Wow, you sure know how to make a gal feel special.”
Simon grunted. “Sorry. What’s up?”
“Are you in the city?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said cautiously. “Why? Or do I even want to know?”
Iris smiled. “I need a wingman. Are you up for it? Please say you’re up for it, because if you’re not, I’m going to show up at Emery’s apartment with a suitcase and a pillow and a whole hell of a lot of comfort food, and you know how Emery likes to keep their place nice and tidy.”
He laughed. “I guess I’m playing wingman tonight, then.”
“Good answer, my darling,” Iris said, starting up her car, then plugged in her phone so the call came through the speakers.
“You doing okay?” Simon asked.
Her throat went suddenly tight. Simon had this way about him, a tender manner of speaking that seemed to cut through all of Iris’s jokes and make her question everything—was she actually okay?
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m great.”
“Uh-huh.”
She sighed. “Just family shit. I need to blow off some steam.”
“And by steam, you mean . . .”
“Yes, Simon, I want to have sex with someone, okay? Happy?”
He laughed. “I mean, I already had sex tonight, so, you know, you get yours.”
“Okay, brag.”
She ended the call, thinking about how she was a mere half hour from getting lost in a crowd of people in a club. She could let the music propel her around a dance floor, the dim lights making everyone and everything look beautiful and dreamy. Hopefully, she’d meet someone who’d help her forget about her novel, her family, the creeping loneliness she sometimes felt when her friends were all coupled up and tucked in for the night.
She gripped the wheel as she sped down Main Street toward the state roads that would lead her to I-205. And when she’d told Simon she was fine, she was great even, it didn’t even feel like a lie.
CHAPTER FOUR
THERE WAS A reason Stevie didn’t often go out to bars, especially ones like Lush. The club was dimly lit, featured neon lights blinking through the room in nauseating patterns, music loud enough to incinerate her eardrums, and a crush of bodies that made her feel the need to take a shower.
Immediately.
“This was a bad idea,” she said as Ren kept a clawlike grip on her hand and dragged her toward the bar.
“Nonsense,” Ren said. “You just need a drink.”
Stevie climbed onto a stool. The pleather top was sticky, so Stevie dived into her bag for some hand sanitizer.
“Jesus H, what are you doing?” Ren said, yanking the little bottle from Stevie’s hands and tossing it onto the bar.
“I’m—”
“Rhetorical question,” Ren said. “Okay, rule number one? No one wants to hook up with a germophobe.”
“I’m not a germophobe. I’m practicing basic personal hygiene.”
Ren didn’t respond to this and flagged down the bartender, a person with hot pink hair and tattoos of elegant birds soaring around their neck. The effect was stunning.
“Tequila,” Ren said. “Two. And a club soda.”
“Oh god, Ren, even if I could drink on my meds, I’m really bad with tequila,” Stevie said, recalling the one time in college she’d gotten drunk on too-strong margaritas at a house party and proceeded to sing Fleetwood Mac songs on top of a pool table.
Where people were trying to play pool.
If it hadn’t been for Ren pulling her off and plying her with water and stale pretzels, she probably would’ve stripped naked.
“I remember,” Ren said. “Viscerally. But it’s not for you, it’s for me. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”
The bartender set two liquid-filled shots in front of them, along with a glass of club soda. Ren scooped up the liquor, handing the soda to Stevie.
“To finding you a good time,” Ren said, holding up their shot.