Chapter Seven
Surely this is healthy behavior.
Mars
Sipping banana frozen lemonade out of a straw that Ceres used first feels more illegal than setting a courthouse on fire. And I would know.
Yet, here I am, carrying in my groceries, blushing, and committing crimes.
Hacking into Ceres’s account and canceling her order was the best thing I have ever done in my entire life.
We haven’t even begun working together on the Flag Day festival, yet we’ve already been on two less-than-disastrous dates.
I fear I’m addicted now.
I want a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. Or perhaps what I really want is to unload my groceries, decorate my carrot cake in tiny orange hearts, then bring some over to Ceres this evening before crashing on her couch and letting the tip-tap of her computer keys lull me to sleep…
Sighing, I set my groceries down on the counter and know I need to calm down before I push her away. Even though things have been going well, that doesn’t mean I won’t overwhelm her if I’m not careful. I can’t show up out of nowhere then make a point of seeing her every single day .
I need to be patient.
I need to be cautious.
Just because she’s Sara doesn’t mean she’s looking for a complete dark romance male lead in real life.
This period in our blooming relationship is about closer study.
I need to make sure I’m what she wants, not an imposition.
And I need to make sure that if real-life Ceres has more boundaries than her alter ego, I don’t cross them.
By doing anything stupid.
Like…cleaning the straw we both used and putting it in a glass display case.
Blinking as I set the straw in my memory box, I wonder if saving it—period—is just as bad as putting it on display.
Staring at the plastic nestled beside a few locks of hair from Jove’s first haircut, our baby teeth, and some photos of Mom, I hum. And close the lid. And tuck my precious box of precious things nice and neatly back under my bed.
“This is fine,” I mutter.
Of course it’s fine.
Normal, even.
I mean, really, if I don’t keep it, who knows where in the ocean it might end up?
This is a service to Mother Nature.
And a memory I can keep, just in case…it’s ever the only thing I have left.
“Jovey?” I murmur, nudging open his bedroom door to find him face-first in his bed, arms at his sides, face suffocatingly smooshed into his pillow. “Cake’s ready,” I provide, gently.
He does not stir. He does, ever so softly, snore.
Ah, I see.
Lifting his plate of carrot cake, I take a bite out of the sweet delicacy myself, lean against his doorjamb, and sigh.
Classic existential crisis devolving into naptime.
I guess something abysmal happened at the hardware store, and he couldn’t slash anyone’s tires to make himself feel better in the aftermath.
Pausing with my fork sticking out of my mouth, I blink. Ah. I see what happened. Lyra was at the hardware store, wasn’t she? What timing.
Thumbing through my mental database of relevant notes, I discover that Jovey’s little Ly-Ly has a Make Your Own Hanging Planter class this week. That would prompt hardware store visits, wouldn’t it? Yeah. Yeah, it would.
I cock my head against the jamb and eat another bite of cake.
Poor kid.
Asking me about love as though he’s not twenty miles below sea level, drowning in the stuff. As though the love he’s trying to reach for the sake of work hasn’t always been here with him, making carrot cake and mischief.
The spice, spice, baby expectation in our genre isn’t anything more than literal copy and pasted nonsense.
If you go to classes for it, that’s what they tell you to do to save time.
You copy and paste the motions then fill in the dialogue a la “in character.” Once, I didn’t even change the dialogue because the fun thing about being on brand in this genre is that sometimes the characters are all such similar archetypes, half the time it hardly matters what happens around the spice.
Sadly for my abysmal work ethic, the half of the time where it doesn’t matter has passed. Now, I have Sara Pond looking at our stories and going wasn’t this exact thing in book blah, blah, blah?
Somehow Jovey-wovey has decided I make all the difference when it comes to our work.
But, actually, it’s Sara.
All I do is try not to embarrass myself in front of the smartest, funniest, most enchanting woman I never thought I’d meet. And since she doesn’t know that Rouge is two brothers, who are her next-door neighbors, I have a reputation to uphold as a dark romance author.
Readers will read just about anything. It’s why books I couldn’t get through the first chapter of are soaring high in the charts. Quality doesn’t matter to the masses. Readers only want to resonate.
But quality does matter a great deal to Sara.
So, I don’t copy and paste anymore, and she tells me when it still sucks, and I bask in the wonder and glory of her genius while my dear brother assumes I’m the secret sauce to our success like a pure, innocent dove.
With a sigh, I shut Jove’s door softly, take myself to my own bedroom, turn on my computer, and check my email.
Fan mail. Fan mail. Fa— Oop. Nope, that’s a death threat, which is another fun thing about this genre.
Death threats. Daily. And we do not tell Jovey about them.
Because Jovey? Jovey would not look at a death threat toward his little brother and reciprocate in kind.
Jovey would say, Threat? Never Heard Of Her , and proceed right to the death part.
I love Jovey.
It is, however, his fault that my body tenses just a little bit when I come upon an email from none other than our editor.
Today, 5:26 p.m.
FROM : [email protected]
TO : [email protected]
SUBJECT : Spring bookings
Hey Rouge,
I know it’s rare a day goes by that we don’t chat, but I figured I’d send a professional email concerning this professional topic.
When do you think I’ll be getting my grubby little paws on your next book? I’m currently filling my spring with clients, and you know you take precedence, so I want to make sure I block the time off for you before I start going through any other queries.
Impatiently waiting,
Sara Pond
I need to book a spot for Jove’s Flag Day book. Sara isn’t exactly in low demand. She has waiting lists, people who refuse to publish until she can look at their work, people who won’t even post on their blogs until she gives them the green light.
Am I, by far, her favorite author—which I’m one hundred percent sure isn’t just something she tells all her clients? Absolutely.
Does that mean I can say, lol, keep your schedule clear, idk when the flag this book will be ready ?
…
I open up our message thread.
Rouge : lol, keep your schedule clear, idk when this book is coming out
Her response is near immediate.
Sara : I can’t do that.
Ha, yeah. I did figure. You miss all the shots you don’t take, though.
Sara : You’re normally the one sending me color-coded schedules with dates blocked off a year in advance. What’s going on? Is everything okay?
Rouge : Everything is fine.
It’s just my big brother, who normally blitzes through his work and writes Mars, fix this whenever he hits a wall, has decided he’d much rather bang his head into it instead of just letting me use my wrecking ball.
Sara : Convincing.
Sara : I need to book my spring. So I can afford food. And other mildly important things of that nature.
Rouge : Like bail? For all the spring crimes you’re planning?
Sara : Precisely.
Sara : Soo…where’s my book?
If Jove wants to write and publish a Flag Day book, I will need a spot in spring. Our early readers will need their copies at least a week in advance. The best I can do is give Jove until the end of May. So, I type:
Rouge : How’s the end of May looking for you?
Sara : I have the week of the 20th available.
That will have to do then. But also…I don’t want her using the excuse of needing to work to cut the planning time for our Flag Day festival short.
Rouge : What’s the rest of your schedule looking like for spring?
Sara : I’m finishing up a [redacted] novel this week, then I have something else from [redacted] in April. Why? Have you been holding out on me and intend to give me a book every week through July?
Sara : This hiatus is because you’ve been stocking up!
Sara : Oh, Rouge, you do care about me and my insatiable desires.
Mm. Yeah. Deeply so, Ceres… Deeply so.
Smiling and shaking my head, I finish the last bite of Jove’s carrot cake and tear a page out of his book—specifically his finance book, which is titled Get This Money Away From Me .
Rouge : Can I book your entire spring, around that one other client, who I suspect is Tempest Rain, as she’s the only person I’d ever share slots with willingly?
Sara : If you have books for me throughout spring, yes. A million times yes.
Rouge : And if I don’t, but I still want to pay you for them?
Sara : Darling Rouge, that is not how life works.
Ah dear.
Rouge : I don’t have finished books. I have a project that I’d like to hire you for.
Sara : A project?
That’s my Sara. Loves a good project. I can always count on her insatiable curiosity to aid me in all my schemes. Now, I just need to think up a project that will keep her busy without keeping me busy.
Rouge : I’d like to enlist your daily consultation on a novel while I’m writing it. It’s a bit off the beaten path, so I’ve been struggling. I’ll be sending you consistent content updates and expecting feedback on the direction of the story, in alignment with your genre knowledge.
Sara : What an impractical suggestion. I’m an editor, Rouge, not a critique partner.
And thank goodness for that, because Rouge does not work with critique partners.
Rouge : I’m happy to pay for the exclusivity of your expertise and the additional time you’ll be investing in a rougher draft.
Sara : Send me the pitch within twenty-four hours. Then I’ll let you know if I’m interested.
My smile spreads. That I can do.