All I Want Is You

Chapter One

Jess

I used to love the holidays. All holidays, really, but Christmas in particular. I was that person, breaking out my decorations the day after Halloween (I love you, Thanksgiving, but not enough to stave off the garland and lights and stockings hung by the fire for any longer than absolutely necessary). You could find me ordering a grande peppermint mocha the moment the red cups were released, Mariah Carey queued up the second the clock struck midnight on November 1.

To be totally honest, I still do all of those things. My tree is already set up in the corner of my studio apartment, decked out in all her sparkly finery. Lights wrap around the metal railing enclosing my tiny balcony. And a single, solitary stocking has been hung, though not by the fireplace because I can’t afford one of those. Instead, it dangles from a plastic hook right next to the tree, still hung with very much care. So yeah, I still do Christmas these days; there’s just slightly less joy and fervor to my holiday rush. Now it’s more like a holiday trickle. But I suppose that’s normal when you get dumped on Christmas (fine, it was two weeks after Christmas, but it still counts and was remarkably shitty timing).

But this will be the year I get my Christmas groove back.

As I walk from the studio apartment the ad described as “cozy” down the five blocks to the coffee shop where I make most of my income, I try to focus on the holiday magic instead of lingering on my ghosts of Christmas past. It’s been five years, but the holiday season always brings memories to the surface. So this year will be all about making new memories.

The shop is packed, and after I clock in, I barely have time to greet my favorite coworker, Josie, before I’m pulling espresso shots and foaming milk.

“Does this count as a holiday rush?” I ask her with a groan when the line has finally died down and we both have a minute to breathe.

It’s the Monday after Thanksgiving, but with the crowds swarming the shop, you’d think everyone was fueling up for another run at Black Friday deals.

Josie wipes down the counter while I restock the baked goods. “All I know is that there’s been a serious lack of holiday tipping.” She tucks a strand of her long black hair back into her bun that’s veered from sleek to messy, her golden-brown skin flushed from running around.

I suppress another groan. The owner of the coffee shop pays us well, but I was counting on some tip money this month to help tide me over until my next payment from my publisher.

People tend to be surprised when they find out I’m a published romance author. Not because I don’t seem like the type—I probably fit the stereotypical bill as far as appearances go—but because they assume authors make enough money to not have to work at coffee shops. Well, you know what they say about assumptions.

My phone vibrates in my pocket just as I’m about to head to the back for my break. My feet are already aching, and I’m only halfway done with my shift, but my mood lifts slightly when I see the email notification.

The subject line of the email from Sonia, my agent for the past seven years and also a friend, is promising. Incredible Opportunity , it reads. Respond ASAP.

Lately the only emails I’ve been getting from Sonia have been incessant questions about when she can expect my next manuscript. Hopefully this sense of urgency means something good is coming. Maybe an offer for a new IP project, or some promising news from my editor. Maybe one of my books finally earned out its advance and my next royalty payment won’t be as pitiful as the last one.

I scan through the email quickly, eyes searching for something with dollar signs, some good news, something to celebrate.

It’s the absolute opposite of good news. As a writer, I should maybe know a word or phrase for “opposite of good news,” but spoiler alert, I spend half my writing time googling “synonym for smile,” so I got nothing.

I force myself to go back to the beginning of the email and read it again. Surely Sonia is playing a very mean prank on me and is not actually suggesting what she seems to be suggesting. Because what she seems to be suggesting is fucking ludicrous, and she knows I would never, not in one million years, accept this “opportunity” she’s so thrilled to present.

Jess,

I spoke with the pub team earlier today and they wanted me to pass along this invitation. As you know, the annual SVP holiday ball is coming up in just a few weeks and they would love for you to be involved in the awards ceremony! (For a second here, I thought she was going to tell me I was to be presented with an award, which would be amazing, even though as far as I know there’s no money attached to any of my publisher’s annual vanity awards.) Nick Matthews is going to be receiving the Romance Author of the Year award and they want you to be the one to give it to him! (There are so many things I would like to give Nick Matthews, and an award is nowhere on that list.) I know you and Nick don’t have the best history (this is when I snorted out loud while reading—both times), but I think this could be a great opportunity for some exposure. Plus, if you say no (obviously I’m going to say no), it makes it look like you don’t want to be a team player, and you know how important it is for everyone at Saint Valentine’s Press to show support for one another. (Gag.) WHEN you agree to do this, as I know you will because you are a smart woman who will take personal issues out of the equation and focus on the business (sure, Sonia), it’s going to position us favorably when we pitch your next book. So think about it. Seriously. You need to say yes, Jess. (Ugh, I can hear her voice in that tone that lets me know this “choice” is no choice at all.) Bonus, as a presenter, SVP will cover your hotel room for the night of the ball! (Well, there is that one piece of good news because I don’t think I could afford to go otherwise.) I’ll wait for your official yes before I respond. Which I expect to receive shortly. Don’t throw your phone at the wall—you can’t afford a new one .

Warmly,

Sonia

My grip tightens around my plastic phone case—red and sparkly with a reindeer on the back, though I did forgo changing my ringtone to “Jingle Bells” this year—and I’m tempted to ignore her instructions, but Sonia is, as always, right.

I don’t respond immediately to her email, like I normally would. Instead, I tuck my phone into my back pocket and vow to ignore her for at least two hours for having the audacity to even ask me to do this.

Sure, my career is not exactly flourishing. Sales for my last two books have not been what anyone would call stellar. I suppose there is a small chance that my publisher, SVP, could decide to decline my option for my next book—a book I have yet to write because writing a book requires an idea and I have exactly zero of those at the moment. But my backlist still does okay. I earned out the advance for my first contract, eventually, and even though I’m not making any bestseller lists anytime soon, I have a dedicated fan base who really loves my books.

Books that only got published because my fantastic editor, Hannah, saw something in me and in my writing. She has been with me for all five books, and the thought of not working with her anymore gives me for-real pangs in my chest. I don’t want to leave her, and I don’t want to leave SVP. Not just because I don’t know that any other publisher will have me, but because I truly love my team.

And it’s not their fault SVP publishes Nick Matthews’s stupid books. Stupidly successful books that ride the coattails of the romance genre without actually being romance books themselves. The lack of a happily ever after in literally any of Nick’s books hasn’t stopped him from topping the New York Times Best Sellers list with every new release. It hasn’t stopped the TikTokkers from blowing his books up, hasn’t stopped Netflix from calling with their big movie money. And apparently, not writing true romance won’t keep him from being named SVP’s Romance Author of the Year.

Sigh.

Nick Matthews is the worst.

I hate him.

Truly, I do.

But I don’t see how I can get out of this request.

Maybe I can say yes and then back out last minute due to some mysterious illness that will affect me only on the night of the holiday ball.

Somehow, I think that might be even worse than just saying no in the first place.

I pull my phone from my pocket, see that I have just enough time left on my break to call in reinforcements, and open my text thread with my two best friends, who are also romance writers, though both are with different publishers and therefore do not have to be forced into attending holiday balls and handing out awards to dicks who don’t even write true romance.

Me: I got invited to present an award at SVP’s annual holiday ball, but I don’t know if I want to say yes or not.

Alyssa: OMG that’s amazing! That will be such good exposure!

Me: I guess. Only SVP authors and employees attend though, so it’s not like it will be a whole new crowd of readers.

Alyssa: Still, anytime you have the chance to get your name out there is good!

Alyssa writes absolutely gorgeous queer romances and tends to use a lot of exclamation points. She does it in real life too, but her positivity is so genuine it never even gets annoying.

Kennedy: Is it just me or is it weird that your publisher hosts a holiday ball every year?

Kennedy pens epic fantasy romances, steeped in her West African heritage, and is just as fiercely loyal in real life as her fictional heroines.

We all live in opposite corners of the country—me in Brooklyn, Alyssa in Nashville, and Kennedy in LA—so the majority of our communication happens via text, with phone calls at least once a week, and an occasional Zoom if we can make our schedules and time zones work. The distance between us sucks, but it doesn’t keep them from being the first people I go to when I need a virtual hug.

Me: Yes, it is super weird. Normally I’d just go for the free booze, which I will have to seriously cut back on if I’m expected to get up onstage and talk in front of people.

Alyssa: Do you know what award you’re going to be presenting? Maybe it will give you the chance to meet someone super cool! Connections are never a bad thing!

Me: Yeah. So that’s the thing.

Me: The award I’d be giving out is going to Nick.

Kennedy: Oh. Shit.

Alyssa: Nick Matthews?

Me: No, Saint Nick. He’s been writing romance novels in the offseason.

Me: Yes, Nick Matthews.

Alyssa: Haha.

Alyssa: Okay, so the situation isn’t exactly ideal…

Kennedy: Not exactly ideal? Nick Matthews is a fraud.

Kennedy: Not to mention he broke her heart.

Yeah. So there’s that. Not only is Nick Matthews the antithesis of what a romance writer should be, he was also the antithesis of what a boyfriend should be.

Nick and I met at a creative writing workshop several years ago and hit it off immediately. We were the only two there who wanted to write romance, and since the other highbrow lit-fic writers wanted nothing to do with us, we paired up to swap manuscripts. We were critique partners first, the two of us evenly matched in our skills and at the same point on our career trajectories. Our banter in real life was as fiery as that of the characters in our books, and then one night, after pizza and hashing out a third-act breakup, he kissed me.

I’d had a crush on him since the moment he set foot in the dingy multipurpose room at the local community center where our workshop met. How could I not? Not only was Nick a straight man writing romance, he was also physically perfect, in my opinion. I use the past tense because obviously I do not follow him on Instagram and have no idea what he looks like today.

Though I could probably guess that he’s only gotten better-looking with time, a few strands of silver threaded through his dark hair, cut long enough so he can toss it out of his eyes, not so long as to appear unkempt. His hazel eyes are probably still just as stormy and hypnotizing, though I imagine they now occasionally peer out from behind the glasses he needs after all that time spent in front of a screen. I doubt he’s lost any of his strength as he always used to work out plot holes during his time at the gym.

One thing I am sure of is that his overall hotness had basically everything to do with his success as a writer because lord knows it has nothing to do with his books.

Not that I’ve thought about him much in the five years since we broke up.

We were together, inseparable for three seemingly blissful years. Three years that saw us each sign with our respective agents and experience the agony of going on submission for the first time. A submission process that went very differently for each of us, even though we both ended up landing at the same imprint.

SVP was the only offer I got for my romantic comedy.

Nick’s contemporary romance went to auction, where he had basically every publisher who prints romance fighting for his debut novel.

And as soon as the ink was dry on his six-figure, multibook deal, he dumped me.

Like I meant nothing to him. Like I’d done nothing for him.

Despite sharing a publisher and a borough, I’ve managed to avoid running into him since.

But if I say yes to this presenter gig, if I do the thing I know I should to keep me on my publisher’s good side, I won’t be able to avoid him any longer.

Me: I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can stand onstage in front of our peers and say nice things about Nick Matthews and his dumb books that AREN’T EVEN ROMANCE.

Kennedy: Can you say no?

Me: I don’t think so. Sonia made it seem like she expected me to say yes. And so does the pub team.

Alyssa: It won’t be easy, I know, but you can do this, Jess. I know you can!

Kennedy: If the choice is between saying yes or pissing off your pub team, I think you should say yes.

Kennedy: Even though you know it kills me to give that man an ounce of credit.

Me: It might kill me too.

Alyssa: It won’t! What if I fly up to be your plus-one? I can hold your hand and make sure there’s a cocktail waiting for you the moment you step offstage!

I think about drawing this out, telling her she doesn’t need to do that just for little ol’ me. But we both know where this is going, so why waste time?

Me: That would be amazing and I would love you forever.

Alyssa: Yay! It’s been way too long since I’ve seen your face anyway!

Me: Thank you for talking me off the ledge. Please be prepared for many more breakdowns over the next few weeks.

Kennedy: That’s what we’re here for.

I swipe over to my email app, knowing I shouldn’t delay the inevitable. The longer I put it off, the more likely I am to chicken out. So I open Sonia’s email and send her a brief response: I will do it, but I vow to hate every second.

She responds a few minutes later with a thumbs-up emoji.

I flip off the stupid yellow phalange before making my way back to the front of the coffee shop. Luckily, the early afternoon crowd is beginning to pack up and head out. For the rest of the shop’s operating hours, it will mostly be quick to-go orders, people grabbing a drink on their way to a show or a gig.

I take over for Josie at the register just in time to greet one of my favorite customers. Hilary is witty and polite and always leaves a good tip, so basically she’s a unicorn. I pour her two large black coffees, scribbling a cute holiday greeting on both cups before ringing her up.

Once Hilary is out the door, I check my phone again, but no other messages have come through. Saying yes to this presenter gig didn’t magically get me a new book deal, not that I really thought it would.

“Everything okay over there?” Josie has begun cleaning up the coffee counter, getting ready to close up.

“Yeah. Just found out I have to do a writing thing I really don’t want to do, but my agent tells me it’s going to be good for me in the long run.”

Josie snorts. “Why do agents always promise shit like that?” Josie isn’t a writer, but like most baristas in Brooklyn, this is her side gig while she tries to make it in the theater world.

“To keep us from completely spiraling?”

“Too late for that, my friend. What does she want you to do?”

“Present the Romance Author of the Year award to my ex-boyfriend-slash-archnemesis.” I’m not really sure if he can be my archnemesis without knowing he is my archnemesis, but Josie gets the point.

“Oof. That’s rough.”

“Tell me about it. Any chance Morgan won’t give me the time off?” I flip the sign on the front door to Closed and begin counting out the register.

“Doubt it.”

The owner of the coffee shop, Morgan, is completely supportive of our aspirational careers. She’s come to all of my book launches and shares photos of my books on the shop’s Instagram page all the time.

“I might have to fake some kind of life-threatening injury.”

“Or”—Josie pauses her sweeping, leaning against the broom like she’s about to waltz across the floor with it—“alternative plan: Show up looking incredible and let him know exactly what he’s missing.”

I shoot her a finger gun. “You might be on to something, my friend.”

When I get back to my apartment an hour later, I open my laptop. Though instead of working on my manuscript—or even attempting to—as I should be, I spend the rest of the night searching for the perfect revenge dress.

Since I will be wearing said revenge dress to a publishing event, it totally counts as writing.