Story of My Life (Story Lake #1)

2. Great ass pants

2

GREAT ASS PANTS

HAZEL

Pens?”

“Check,” Zoey said, patting her rolling suitcase as we speed-walked toward the Hoight Hotel’s Ballroom B. My disastrous attempt at a DIY hairstyle had made us both late. I hated being late, especially when I was already nervous. This was my first-ever multiauthor event, and I was worried my digestive system was going to rebel.

We dodged a clump of excited lanyard-wearing women in homemade T-shirts professing their love for various book boyfriends. None of them looked up as we scooted past.

“Wait. Pen pens or my special pens?” I asked.

“One time. One time I showed up with a pack of Sharpies and you never let me live it down.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes. I brought your special pens, you writing utensil snob,” Zoey assured me.

“Uh…okay. How many attendees are expected?” I asked, wracking my brain for signing-related information.

“Six hundred.”

I came to a screeching halt, my emergency ponytail bobbing. “Six hundred ? As in one hundred more than five hundred?” I’d once signed for two hundred and fifty readers, but that was the Spring Gate four release, which had turned out to be the height of my career…and my self-confidence. It was a shame the universe didn’t tell you when you were in the middle of the best years of your life.

Zoey grabbed my arm and dragged me forward. “Look at those math skills. You’re so sexy when you calculate. Relax. They’re not all here to see you. This place is chock-full of young, relevant authors who are actually publishing books.”

“Oh, good. I see you wore your mean pants again today.”

“Actually, they’re my great ass pants.” She turned around and pointed to her butt.

She was not wrong.

“Well, your great ass pants make you mean,” I informed her. “We have books, right?”

“The publisher delivered them this morning.”

“How many?”

She hesitated for a half second too long. When you knew each other as well as we did, a half second was all it took. I jumped in front of her, and she ran right into me. “Ow! How many, Zoey?”

“Fifty.”

I could feel my eyebrows taking flight. Shit. My eyebrows. I should have taken the tweezers to them, but it was too late now. “Fifty as in five-zero?”

Zoey shook her head, and her curls bounced in irritation. “I knew you were going to freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out,” I insisted in a high-pitched Muppet voice of panic.

She stepped around me and kept walking. I kicked it into a jog to keep up and found myself winded in ten feet. Damn. When was the last time I’d gone to the gym?

“Need I remind you that your RSVP was last minute?” she said over her shoulder.

“Yeah, but there are six hundred people here! What if we sell out in the first hour?”

“Then you can sign body parts and small children.” She used her great ass to open a door that said employees only .

“I just don’t want to disappoint any readers.” I also didn’t want to think about what it meant that the publisher could only scrounge up fifty copies for me.

Zoey shot me a baleful look.

“Fine. I don’t want to disappoint readers any more than I already have.”

“That’s the spirit.”

The signing was in Ballroom C, a standard hotel ballroom with gold fleur-de-lis carpet and movable panel walls. Author tables ringed the perimeter of the room and ran down the center in two straight lines.

“Wow. This is huge,” I said, scanning the space as I followed Zoey.

We threaded through the crowd of authors and assistants putting the finishing touches on their tables. Everyone seemed to be dressed to the nines, which made me feel even frumpier in my jeans, sneakers, and loose sweater than I had in the mirror this morning. There were walls of balloons and streamers and roll-up banners with candy-colored phrases like enthralling alpha heroes and melt-your-face-off steam .

“When did everyone get so good at marketing?” I wondered out loud.

“There’s a good mix of indie authors here. They’re damn good at branding. And you can thank social media for the rest. Scroll Life revolutionized the way books are sold,” Zoey said, waving to one of the booksellers as we rolled past their booth.

“What the hell is Scroll Life?”

She sighed. “Sometimes I just don’t know what to do with you.”

I felt like Rip Van Winkle just cracking open my eyes after a long hibernation. I scanned the ballroom for familiar faces but didn’t spot any. Everyone looked so…young. So energetic. Was I the only tired, cranky OG author here?

“What’s with all the shirtless guys?” I asked as we passed a booth with not one but two six-packed men.

“Cover models,” Zoey explained as she pulled her suitcase to a halt in front of a table crammed in between a dark, gothic romance novelist with awesome Elvira hair and a young rom-com author dressed as a squirrel. The squirrel waved. I waved back.

“Wow. I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on this for all these years.”

“Another thing we can blame on Jim,” she said, positioning the suitcase in front of our empty table.

I froze, the air locking up in my lungs. She winced.

“Sorry. I forgot. He Who Shall Not Be Named.”

I shook my head even as my mouth went dry and my throat closed up. Could you be allergic to the sound of someone’s name? “It’s fine. Let’s get to work.” I would feign the energy and enthusiasm that I didn’t feel.

Within minutes we had the book and swag display dialed in, the pen supply organized, the roll-up banner of a younger, less jaded me unfurled, and our coffee and Wild Cherry Pepsi guzzled.

“Five minutes until the doors open,” a disembodied voice trilled over the loudspeaker.

The panic was instantaneous. “Oh, God. I don’t know if I can do this. He always said these events were like human stampedes,” I said, gripping the table with both hands.

“Yeah, well, he also said romance novels were ‘cheap smut pandering to the basest’—ow! Shit,” Zoey yelped, dropping the packing knife. She clutched her left hand by the wrist as blood welled up from a shallow cut in her middle finger.

“You are the most accident-prone agent in the history of agents,” I complained. I dug into my purse and pulled out the small first aid kit I always carried for when Zoey went all Zoey and started bleeding.

“Ouch,” she whined, as I swiped an alcohol pad over the cut.

“Don’t be such a baby,” I said fondly as I bandaged her up. “At least we got the first bloodshed out of the way before we had a line of readers. Remember in Beaver Creek when you bled all over that box of preorders?”

“I’m choosing to ignore that memory in favor of reminding you that even though you may not feel like it, you are Hazel Hart. You’ve written nine books that were beloved by readers?—”

“That’s optimistic.” My last three releases hadn’t exactly burned up the bestseller lists.

“Shut up. You’re not seeing what I’m seeing.”

I sighed. “What are you seeing?”

“I’m seeing the heroine of her own story. Sure, you’re at rock bottom right now. But that just means you’re one chapter away from pluckily pulling yourself up. You can do this, Haze. You’re primed for a comeback.”

I did love a plucky, down-on-her-luck heroine. I just didn’t feel like one.

I grunted. “Yeah. Right. Whatever.”

It wasn’t that long ago that I’d been the one giving Zoey the pep talks. After fights with her parents and forgotten electric bills and messy breakups. Now the tables were turned, and I was the only one needing constant validation that I was still a functioning adult.

“Not quite the spirit I was going for, but it’ll have to do. Now, sit your ass down and I’ll tape you up so you don’t destroy your patellar tendons while signing fifty books and dozens of children’s foreheads,” she said brightly.

“Your lack of anatomical knowledge concerns me.”

“Good thing I’m an agent, not a hand doctor.” She used her teeth to tear off a strip of blue tape.

“Just in case this ever comes up on a date or a game show, your patella is your knee bone.”

“Good to know.” She efficiently finished wrapping my right wrist.

The loudspeaker came on again. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. Gird your loins. The doors are open in three, two, one!”

I popped my customary ibuprofen tablets, rolled my shoulders, and wiped my damp palms on my jeans as nerves fluttered to life in my intestines.

“Prepare for the chaos,” Zoey said, standing up and fixing a smile on her face.

“Want to play tic-tac-toe again?” Zoey offered.

“I’m too busy cleaning my glasses,” I grumbled as I aggressively wiped the lenses on my sweater.

There had been no stampede. No need for the protein bar stash. In fact, I’d had more than the allotted hour for lunch after the morning session had petered out early. I’d signed thirteen books. Three of them had gone to a trio of young, good-hearted readers who had taken pity on my linelessness and come over to introduce themselves.

The squirrel had a dozen readers waiting for a chance to shake her paw. The gothic author on the other side had velvet ropes in place to control her lengthy line.

I felt exposed and invisible at the same time.

“If you clean your glasses any harder, you’re going to rub right through the lenses,” Zoey said.

“Go ahead and say it. I know it’s burning a hole in your tongue.”

“First of all, that’s gross and reminds me of the time I burned my taste buds on pizza cheese at that sleepover.”

“I told you to let it cool off first,” I reminded her.

“Secondly, I’m not going to kick a client when she’s down by saying, ‘I told you so.’”

I dropped my glasses on the table. “It hasn’t been that long. How could I go from New York Times bestseller to this in a year? Cece McCombie releases one book every eighteen months and readers still show up for her.”

Zoey leaned into my personal space. I pushed her back with a firm hand to the forehead. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to see if you want the truth or placation.”

I groaned. “Ugh. Fine. Let me have it.”

“First of all, it hasn’t been a year. It’s been two since you published a book.”

I scoffed. “That can’t be right.”

“You signed the papers a year ago. But you were fighting it out in court for a year before that.”

I blinked. Had I really just “misplaced” two entire years of my life?

“Cece McCombie has an actual online presence. She sends a newsletter every month. She talks to her readers every day on social media. She isn’t snobby about the events she does between releases.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

“That hip little indie bookstore in Wisconsin loved your series so much they did a book club weekend for it, and you refused to say yes to a Zoom call with them even though they gave you eight months’ notice.”

“I did no such thing!” I said indignantly. Bookstores and libraries had been my safe space growing up. I loved returning that support. At least I had .

“Jim told me you said absolutely not and that you wouldn’t entertain participating in any event with less than…” Zoey trailed off as the truth hit us both.

“Jim told you,” I repeated, congratulating myself on not choking on his name.

“Shit. I’m sorry, Haze. I should have known?—”

“No. It’s fine. I should have known,” I countered, trying to shove all those messy emotions back in the box. I knew how to handle singular emotions. But when they tangled together in a mega-knot like strings of Christmas lights, I didn’t know what to do.

I could point the finger in several directions when it came to the career blame game, but deep down, I knew ultimately it was my fault.

“She also has a movie deal,” Zoey said finally.

“Who?”

“McCombie.”

“ What? ”

Several pairs of eyes landed on us.

“ A great signing! ” I shouted with fake jubilation as if I’d always intended it to be a complete sentence. Zoey and I smiled maniacally until everyone returned to their business.

“A movie deal? Like green-lighted and cast or just optioned?” I hissed.

“The hot guy from that cop show you like is starring in it.”

“I love that for her,” I lied through my teeth.

“Yeah, I can tell,” Zoey said.

My competition with the blockbuster author, who really was one of the nicest people on the planet, was one-sided and had once fueled me with motivation to make every book better. Now I just felt like crawling under the table and becoming one with the ballroom carpet.

“Oh my gosh! I’m so happy you’re still here!” A middle-aged woman and—judging from the shared bouncy curls and adorable underbites—her teenage daughter jogged up to the table, cheeks flushed, smiles radiant. They had one of those crates on wheels that I’d noticed the more experienced attendees possessed. It was full of new books.

“We were in Maryanne Norton’s line, and then I had to get a picture with Reva McDowell’s super gorgeous cover model, and Mom was worried she was going to miss you,” the daughter announced.

“I’m your biggest fan. Of course, I’m sure you get that all the time,” the mother said, unloading a dozen books by other authors on the table.

“You’d be surprised,” I said with what felt like a grotesque facsimile of a smile.

“Aha! Here they are.” She triumphantly unearthed two well-worn paperbacks written by yours truly. “Your Spring Gate books got me through a year of caregiving and the death of my mother. When she was on hospice, we read the entire series together. Even the steamy parts. It was exactly the kind of escape we both needed and led to some of the most meaningful conversations we’d had as mother and daughter.”

“That’s…amazing. Thank you,” I managed. Relief. Gratitude. Empathy. Hope. They were all in a wrestling match in my throat.

“It meant a lot to me,” she said.

“When Mom found out I was into romance, she made me read all of your books,” the daughter said, a nose stud winking under the rims of her glasses. “Not gonna lie, I was kind of surprised to find out the books she curled up with every weekend had so much dick in them.”

“Well, I do like to write the dick,” I said awkwardly. I really needed to work on my small talk.

Zoey elbowed me and gracefully intervened. “I’m Zoey, Hazel’s agent. It’s so nice to meet you two. Would you like these books personalized?”

The mom beamed. “That would be amazing! Could you make it out to Andrea?”

The daughter’s jaw dropped. “Mom. Those are your books.”

“But they’re what made trips like this possible. I’m just so happy to be able to share this with you.”

Mom put her hand on the books as I uncapped my pen. “Can you sign them to Andrea and Jenny?” she asked. “Then they’ll be our books.”

“Of course,” I said.

Mother and daughter crowded the table to watch me sign.

“So when is your next book coming out?” Andrea asked.

“You’ve been quiet for a while. You must be working on something big,” Jenny added, looking giddy. “Is it going to be another Spring Gate book? Or are you writing something completely different?”

“And how do you write small-town romance when you live in a city?” Andrea demanded.

“Uh, well…I do research.”

“Is Spring Gate based on a real town?” Jenny wondered. “Because if it is, we’re definitely road-tripping it before Andrea heads off to college next year.”

“Hey, let’s get a picture of you two with Hazel,” Zoey announced.

“Great idea,” I said desperately.