Loved Out Loud (Blue Sunday #1)

Chapter 1

One

HAZEL

Thank fuck for this pair of Spanx. Not only is it smoothing my silhouette, but it’s also hiding the copious amount of nervous sweat rolling down my back as the studio lights beat down on me. I’m never doing this again; I don’t care how much money my publisher throws at me.

Well. That’s a lie.

I can definitely be bought.

But I’m not going to like it.

Mark O’Malley, morning anchor of the national news program I’m a guest on today, unbuttons his navy jacket as he sits down.

His co-anchor, Amy May, joins him as a crew member counts down.

Mark continues to look at his phone, completely ignoring me, but Amy sets hers on a small table hidden behind the couch and turns to me.

“I read the book and absolutely loved it. Stayed up way later than I should have to finish it.” Her smile is warm and wide and instantly eases a bit of the anxiety pulsing through me.

“Thank you so much. It’s surreal to be here.”

Someone starts counting down from fifteen, and a cameraman moves into place. Mark slides his phone into his pocket and pastes on the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. My eyes dart to Sierra, my agent, who mimes taking a deep breath while giving me two thumbs up.

“This morning we have author Hazel Archer with us to discuss her incredible debut novel.” Amy holds up a copy of my book with her perfectly manicured hands as she looks into the camera. “I was just raving about the book during the break.”

“How does it feel to have hit the New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal best sellers lists with your debut?” Mark asks, aiming that slimy smile in my direction.

“Overwhelming.” I smile nervously. “Honestly indescribable.”

“You just finished your MFA at Columbia, correct?”

“I did, yes.”

“I bet that helped open some doors.” Smugness oozes from every pore on his perfect face.

“How did you manage to find such success at such a young age?” Amy redirects my attention from the asshole sitting beside her.

“A combination of being a voracious reader and understanding what people want to read in today’s climate, along with a little luck and favorable timing.

As you may know, this book was originally a fan fiction piece I wrote for fun.

A few large creators in the social media book community started reading it and that led to my publisher reaching out. ”

“And now here you are, a New York Times bestselling author at twenty-four.” Amy pulls the book to her chest. “I’ve always wanted to write a book. Do you have any advice for others out there with the same dream?”

“Gosh, I don’t feel like I’m seasoned enough to share advice. If I can do this, anyone can, you know?”

“Plus, it’s a romance,” Mark adds. “It’s not going to end up on the classics shelf.”

Oh, fuck no he did not just say that. In an instant I go from nervous to activated.

“Romance is the highest earning genre in fiction. Year after year. Countless universities offer classes on the genre. I’ll sleep well knowing it’s on bedside tables across the world rather than collecting dust in the classics section.”

Bradbury and Austen forgive me. I love the classics just as much as genre fiction. I just don’t appreciate elitist takes. And I’d like to punch this asshole in the face.

“Surely you want your work to be impactful, though. Or is it just about the money?” He smirks at me like he’s hit me with a gotcha question.

“I hear from readers every day telling me how my book impacted them.”

“The themes in this book are deep. I love how you wove abandonment and its effects into both main characters.” Amy is quick to pull the conversation back to the book. “What’s next? When can readers expect another book?”

Just like that, anxiety comes swimming back into my veins. The urge to bleed out the emotion drives my heart into an erratic rhythm. But just like I always have, I force a smile and push the feeling down deep until it’s safe to release it.

“I’m searching for inspiration as we speak. Much to my agent’s dismay, I have yet to be bitten by a story bug, but I’m sure I’ll find one soon.”

I startle as over six feet of denim- and leather-covered muscle hurdles over the couch I’m currently occupying and lands beside me.

“I know where you can get some inspiration.” His voice has a sexy rasp, and he smells like amber and sin.

My shock deepens when I look over and meet the most shockingly bright blue eyes I’ve ever seen. A lock of dark hair falls over one of his eyebrows as his lips lift in a cocky smirk. He tosses his arm over the back of the couch and crosses one foot over his other knee.

I can’t fucking believe it. Stone Tyler, lead singer and guitarist of Blue Sunday, is sitting beside me.

“What?” I ask with an unsteady voice.

“You should come on tour with us. Plenty of inspiration to be found on the road.” He leans toward me conspiratorially. “Ask me how I know.”

Oh my god.

Oh. My. God.

A nervous laugh is all I can muster.

Luckily Mark pulls everyone’s attention by tossing his head back with a deep, booming laugh. “I don't think she's cut out for tour life, Stone. You’d traumatize her.” He points at me with my deer-in-the-headlights stupor. “Look at her just sitting beside you.”

“I’m looking.” Stone’s eyes actually never leave mine. “And for the record, I love reading romance novels.” He picks up the copy on the coffee table in front of us. “Can I have this copy?”

The segment ends abruptly, and Mark stands, buttoning up his suit jacket again. “You can’t be serious.” His voice is dripping with derision as he looks at me. He extends his hand to Stone, a courtesy I wasn’t given.

“Oh, I’ve never been more serious.” Stone stands and ignores Mark’s offered handshake. Instead, he holds his hand out to me to help me up off the couch. “I want this signed, too.”

“I’d love my copy signed, as well,” Amy says as Mark strides off to the news desk. “I’m so sorry,” she lowers her voice as I scribble my signature on both books. “Congratulations on having such a huge success right out of the gate. I can’t wait to see what you write next.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you okay?” Stone’s voice feels like slipping naked into cool, silk sheets.

“Yes.” My hand shakes as I sign my name on the title page. “A little bit of misogyny isn’t going to get me down.”

“Your trembling hands say otherwise.”

I force myself to look up into his eyes as I gesture around us. “I’m not used to all this. I’m a writer. I belong tucked away in a library, not in front of cameras.”

One of the crew calls out his name near where the other members of the band are already at their instruments on the opposite side of the studio. He ignores them as he studies me.

“I’m not so sure about that.” He gives me a lopsided grin and then jogs over to pick up his guitar.

Part of me wants to stay and watch, but I damn near get trampled by a group of employees from the network coming in to watch. I search the room for Sierra and head directly for her.

She manages to stay professional for all of ten seconds, long enough to get into the tiny green room that’s thankfully deserted.

“Oh my god!” she squeals as she grabs my shoulders and shakes them. “Stone Tyler asked for your autograph in your book. Did you see the way he looked at that shithead O’Malley? What a fucking asshole he was.”

I pick up the small bag I packed normal clothes in and head for the bathroom. “I’m going to change really quick.”

I’m on the cusp of a panic attack. My heart is racing so fast I can hear the whoosh of blood in my ears.

Having all my internal organs squished inside a pair of Spanx doesn’t help, either.

I yank down the zipper of the gorgeous, but so not me, dress that Sierra picked out for me letting it fall to the floor.

The shapewear goes next, and I don’t think I’ve ever taken a deeper, more relieved breath in my life.

As usual I avoid my reflection in the mirror. I don’t want to know what shadows haunt my eyes today. It’s bad enough that I can’t avoid seeing the scars that cover the inside of my arms.

Reaching into the bag I pull out the loose-fitting boyfriend jeans I love so much and an oversized Columbia University hoodie.

Once I’m hidden away in my comfortable clothes, I walk out to find Sierra speaking to a man in a dark suit.

A few tattoos peek out from under his collar, but otherwise he could be any guy off the street in Manhattan.

I hang back as she thanks him and slides the card in her pocket.

She smiles at me and gestures toward the door. “Ready for lunch? I made reservations at Luigi’s to celebrate.”

“That Mark O’Malley can go take a long walk off a short pier.” My grandma says as she twirls carbonara around the tines of her fork. “Probably hasn't had a good lay in years.”

“Mom, Jesus.” My mom grimaces and glances around the restaurant. “Keep talking like that, and I’m not going to take you out in public anymore.”

“Hazel will break me out,” Gran winks at me.

“Sure will.” I smile back at her.

Beverly Macnamera is a gem of a woman. Fiercely independent, even after recovering from a stroke that the doctors told us she’d likely never recover from.

She went from being unable to use her left arm and hand and having to relearn how to walk to knitting and taking ‘hot granny walks’ around the retirement home she lives in again.

She’s everything I aspire to be. Strong, funny, and completely unafraid to be unapologetically herself. Even when it makes her daughter cringe.

Not that my mom, Barbara, isn’t equally as amazing. After finding out my dad had an entire second family, she walked away and never looked back. She worked grueling twelve-hour shifts my entire childhood as an emergency room nurse. Her work ethic imprinted onto me.

That’s one of the reasons I’m having so much trouble beginning my next book.

The pressure of writing a follow-up to my debut when it was so successful has me paralyzed.

I sit down at my computer and stare at the blinking cursor for hours.

Every passing minute feels like a brick laid over the corpse of my creativity.

A finger snaps in front of my dazed eyes, pulling me from the inevitable downward spiral of my thoughts.

“Stop it.” Sierra points at me. “Today is for celebrating, not stressing.” She lifts her glass of champagne, bubbles shooting to the top of the pale gold liquid. “In fact, here’s to our girl being an instant New York Times bestseller with her debut.”

All four of us tap glasses and share smiles.

My phone vibrates with a text. I set my glass down after taking a sip and try to check it slyly, knowing who sent it.

Greg: Hope the interview went well. Come over tonight, I’ll be done by ten.

My stupid heart sinks. I had wanted him to watch, especially since he doesn’t have any classes to teach today. Apparently, he can’t even be bothered to watch a clip online. Ignoring my disappointment, I text him back that I’ll be there and then slide my phone back into my purse.

When I look up I find Sierra watching me with a look of annoyance. Somehow, she’s managed to go from being a stranger to my agent to my best friend in such a short time, but she still knows every single expression I make and its meaning.

Needless to say, she’s not a fan of Greg. She loathes him on a professional level because she claims he’s too negative about my work. He’s not negative, he’s critical because it’s literally his job. He teaches creative writing at Columbia.

Yes. I’m in a quasi-relationship with one of my former professors. It crosses countless boundaries but didn’t start until after I finished taking his courses. At least not technically. But we’re also not in a committed relationship. It’s open, not that I’m interested in anyone else.

When I explained all this to her, she looked me dead in the eyes and said, “If it was a healthy relationship, you wouldn’t feel the need to overexplain everything.”

I won’t lie, her saying that did make my stomach drop through my ass. But then he asked me to come over, and we spent hours on his couch talking about literature, and he reminded me how much promise I have. The next thing I knew I was back on my knees with his dick down my throat.

I just can’t say no to him. He has this aura that’s indescribable. He’s so damn smart, and his dry sense of humor turns me into a puddle. Not to mention his British accent makes me fucking weak.

Now isn’t the time to lose myself to thoughts of him, though. It's not often that I get to share a meal with three of my favorite people at the same time. I’m going to soak up every second of the afternoon.