Player(95)

And the kiss he laid upon me left me without a single doubt that he would.





Sneak Peek—BOOKED





Amelia

Three more people.

The girl in front of me shifted the weight of her bag on her shoulder, the bulk of which rested under her arm like a pack mule, her body leaning in the opposite direction for balance. I eyed the bag, wondering how many books were inside like one of those How many jellybeans are in the jar? games I was terrible at.

There were eleven, if I had to guess.

I might not have had spatial awareness of jellybeans, but I probably could have sniffed that bag and determined how many books were inside.

Two more people.

Sweat bloomed in my palms as we all shuffled a few steps closer to the table where Thomas Bane sat.

All I could see between bodies was an unrecognizable sliver of face and bit of his elbow, clad in a black leather jacket. But there he was, and in two—shit—one person, it would be my turn.

Fortunately, the girl in front of me had plenty to keep him busy.

I took a breath—a deep, thick, anxious breath—and recited the words on the damp piece of paper in my back pocket.

It’s nice to meet you.

I’m Amelia Hall with the USA Times.

Please sign that generic.

I’m fine, thank you.

Yes, I’ve read every word you’ve ever written.

No, I actually didn’t enjoy them at all.

Okay, that last one wasn’t on the list. And I’d never admit that to him—not aloud, anyway. I’d be lucky if I could do anything but squeak when faced with him directly.

I wouldn’t have been standing in Stacks, a hip little book store in the East Village, if it hadn’t been for my boss’ insistence. New boss, that was, as I’d only recently gotten the gig book blogging for the Times. My personal book blog had, with a few viral reviews, essentially exploded, and the Times approached me to join their team.

This was my first big piece.

Cover the Thomas Bane signing, get a stack of hardbacks signed for giveaways, and try not to have a stroke when I had to actually have a conversation with him.

The girl in front of me unloaded her haul onto the table with shaking hands.

…Nine, ten, eleven. Ha!

A rumbling laugh from the other side of the table. He said something I couldn’t make out, something in a snarky, smoky baritone that did something shocking to my insides.

I chalked it up to nerves.

I hadn’t purchased groceries at the actual market in well over a year. I hadn’t answered the phone for anyone but my best friends or parents in at least five. And I didn’t go anywhere without a buffer who, in case of emergency, could speak for me.

It was almost always a case of emergency.

I wasn’t sure exactly why it happened—my speechlessness. God knew I had enough words in my head, words in my heart, chittering, chattering words that never saw the light of day when the spotlight was on me.

It didn’t even have to be a spotlight. A flashlight was plenty.

It was a physiological response to a psychological hurdle I’d never overcome. Such was my curse as the colorlessly pale, eccentrically shy daughter of the SlapChop fortune who had grown up with a speech impediment.

Not only was I an odd only child of inventors, and not only were we the wealthiest people in our provincial South Dakota town, but I couldn’t pronounce Ls or Rs. It doesn’t seem like that big of a deal, I realize.

When I was five, it was adorable.

When I was ten, I was a pariah.

Children are cruel, as everyone knows. And so, I cried in excess and escaped into books.

I had a million friends there.

Even when my impediment had been corrected with years of speech therapy, I didn’t speak much. Not unless I was in the company of people I knew loved and accepted me.

Thomas Bane was not one of those people. And if he recognized my name, I was well and truly fucked.

I’d reviewed every book of his at three stars or less.

Three stars, you say, but that’s average!

Not to authors, it’s not. And there were few perks in being someone’s top rated negative review on Amazon. At least for someone like me who hated disappointing people.

The thing was, my reviews weren’t bad, per se. But they weren’t exactly glowing either. They were honest, kind, constructive. I didn’t shy away from what I didn’t like, but always tried to present it in a way that was respectful and soft.

I cursed Janessa again in my mind for sending me here, wondering if she’d been intentionally cruel. Maybe she was hoping for me to return with some famous Thomas Bane quip or one liner. Or, if he was drunk, recount of a brawl.

Notorious bad boy Thomas Bane. Model dating, super rich, moderately famous, fist wielding, public drunken and indecent exposure Thomas Bane, fantasy author with a rap sheet the length of my arm.

“Did you want a picture?” I heard him ask. I thought I could hear him smiling.

“N-n-n-no, thanks,” the girl stuttered.

My guts turned to ice.

She’d been talking her brains out with her friend not ten minutes ago with sword wielding bravado about how she was going to French kiss him there in front of God and everybody.

If she couldn’t answer a simple question from him, I was never going to make it out of the building.