For the first time since I boarded the plane back home, I feel excited about the store again. It’s the same sort of electric buzz I get when a new book idea hits me and demands my attention. It’s the kind of passion I need to convey when I’m talking to my father about the loan we need to make this dream a reality. But how the hell do I do that when my father won’t stop talking about Smith Mackenzie and his exotic international travels?
“Why only romance books?” Martin asks. “Wouldn’t it make sense to carry all types of books to appeal to more readers?”
“Because then we’d be like every other bookstore,” I reply. “Romance is the most read genre. It’s the backbone of the publishing industry. But it’s not given half the respect or shelf space that other genres receive. Do you know how many independent bookstores I’ve visited that don’t even have a dedicated romance shelf, let alone a section? A shit ton. But you bet your ass they have a huge travel book section that nobody touches.”
I’m practically levitating. I’ve got so much fiery passion coursing through my veins that I could do nine rounds with a prizefighter and never break a sweat.
“It’s like McDonald’s.” Martin taps his chin thoughtfully. “Nobody likes to admit it’s what they ate for dinner, yet they’re selling millions of burgers every hour across the globe.”
“Exactly!” I give Martin’s shoulder what I think is a playful punch, but seeing how he winces, I may have overdone it. “And we don’t want there to be any shame or guilt associated with romance books. We want our booksellers to be knowledgeable and proud of the books we sell, and we want our readers to feel safe. No judgment. Just guilt-free pleasure.”
“How do you think your dad’s going to react to your pitch?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I say. “I guess I’ve been so caught up in finding an opportunity to make the pitch that I haven’t had time to think about how he’ll react or what he’ll ultimately decide. I mean, the man has never been proud of what I do for a living.”
“That’s not true.” Martin shakes his head. “Not by a long shot.”
“Were we at the same table last night?”
“He’s got this picture of you on his desk. It’s not a professional shot or anything. Just a candid of you sitting in a leather chair with your legs curled up underneath. You’ve got a book in your lap and this little smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth, and your curls are piled on top of your head.”
“You sound like you’ve spent a fair amount of time with my picture.” I lift an eyebrow.
“I’m in his office a lot.” Is he blushing? “Anyway, one day he caught me looking at it, so he told me about you.”
I rack my brain trying to place this picture he’s describing, but for the life of me, I can’t. It doesn’t sound like my dad to have such a candid photo in his office on display. A professionally painted portrait of his family? Yes. That’s my dad. School pictures rotating out of metal picture frames every year. That’s Carter Banks. Posed and poised is what my dad prefers, or at least that’s what the Carter Banks I knew did.
“What did he say?”
“He said, That’s my Penelope. She’s an author.”
My Penelope.
He used to call me that when I was little. He’s never called me Penny. Both he and my mother hated the idea of me being named after pocket change. My Penelope was the closest I ever got to having a nickname with him and, god, did I love it. Even now, my breath catches in my chest just thinking about him calling me that. Hearing him say it had felt like a warm hug, and more often than not, it was the closest my father could ever come to an actual hug.
“Then he told me all about how hard it is to get a book published,” Martin went on. “He made it very clear that you did it all on your own. He said, Penelope is like Jane Austen or Emily Dickinson. She makes her own rules. She doesn’t need anyone to be happy. After that, I couldn’t wait to meet you.”
“My writing is nothing like Austen or Dickinson,” I say. “Neither of them ever wrote a good orgasm, as far as I can remember.”
“I think he meant their drive and will, and not their ability to articulate a woman’s climax.”
“They also ended up dying alone. What about that sounded appealing to you?” I ask. “Have you always had the hots for Gilded Age spinsters?”