Chapter 11
chapter eleven
Trying to figure out how to market and promote an indie book was a bit like navigating Vermont’s backroads with six different maps all depicting different routes.
Lying on his bed with his laptop on an adjustable laptop stand, Dabbs clicked through to yet another advice-filled blog and bookmarked it for future reference. There was too much information about indie publishing, some of it contradicting itself.
One website claimed that middle-grade sales were down year over year, but an indie bookseller proudly announced that middle-grade fiction sold better than young adult novels at his store.
“So I need to get into bookstores?” He scratched his head.
How did one do that?
Since he didn’t know any other middle-grade writers, he couldn’t exactly ask them for help, and cold-emailing published authors just seemed . . . weird.
One of his teammates illustrated children’s books, so Dabbs planned on talking to him about his experiences when the Trailblazers got back from their road trip.
Maybe he should submit the books to a publisher just to make his life easier? The trouble with that was he’d only receive a tiny portion of the royalties, and he wanted to maximize royalties so he could donate them all to charity.
He googled Reginald P. Stokes, the author of his favorite middle-grade series—of which he owned several different editions—to get a feel for Stokes’ marketing, but Stokes was with a publisher.
Oh, what was this? A company that, for a fee, helped authors self-publish by providing à-la-carte support, everything from editing to cover design to interior formatting to marketing and even legal advice.
And the author retained all royalties.
Huh. That looked promising. Dabbs bookmarked it to dig into later.
A doggie yip came from downstairs followed by the murmur of Ryland’s voice.
In the twenty-four hours Ryland had been here, he’d made best friends with the dogs, cleaned off the kitchen table and sorted all the crap on it into various piles for Dabbs to go through—“I threw out the junk mail, though,” Ryland had said this morning.
“Did you know you had coupons for American Flatbread that expired at the end of August?”—organized the spice drawer alphabetically, gone to his first rehab appointment in Burlington, returned from his appointment with ingredients for lunch, made lunch, video-called Jason and Denver, taken the dogs to the pet store just because, and gone live from Dabbs’ yard to talk about, of all things, the best hipster coffee shops in Burlington.
Even though he hated the stuff.
Dabbs had heard him through his open window, and honestly, Ryland had been so convincing that Dabbs kind of wanted to try the hipster coffee places even though he, too, hated the stuff.
Also wanted to tell Ryland to take a breather and slow down for a minute. The guy never stopped moving.
Closing his laptop, Dabbs set it and the laptop table aside. Gingerly, he got out of bed, his side giving a twinge, and took himself to the bathroom. He’d removed his shirt, and he was halfway through peeling off the gauze bandage over his incision when Ryland poked his head in.
“I was thinking of— Hey! Stop that. That’s my job.”
“I can do it,” Dabbs said.
“I know you can, but changing your bandage is literally why I’m here.” Ryland leaned him back against the vanity as if he were a child with a boo-boo. “Don’t make me tell your mom you weren’t cooperating.”
Dabbs scoffed. “Please. I’m a model patient.”
“Then prove it by letting me be patient and gentle nursemaid and changing your bandage.”
“Fine,” Dabbs said, laughing despite himself. “The supplies are on the counter there.”
Ryland grinned triumphantly, removed his sling, and washed his hands.
The bathroom was minuscule: a two-drawer vanity, a toilet, and a walk-in shower. Barely two feet separated the vanity and the wall, and when Ryland crouched to remove the rest of Dabbs’ bandage, the space between them suddenly got literally and metaphorically smaller.
Ryland’s touch was soft. Careful. Deliberate. Almost clinical as he peeled off the gauze.
Dabbs’ belly quivered.
“Shit, sorry,” Ryland said. “Didn’t mean for that to sting.”
If only he knew that Dabbs was going over hockey plays in his head so he didn’t sting.
Jesus.
Dabbs stared at the top of Ryland’s head, at the messy waves falling over his forehead and the furrow of concentration between his brows. Ryland didn’t hurry as he cleaned the incision, the epitome of patient and gentle nursemaid after all.
Dabbs had to admit, as a nursemaid, Ryland excelled.
Not because of this. Or at least, not only this.
But because he’d made sure Dabbs took his pain meds if he needed them, he walked the dogs so Dabbs wouldn’t have to stand for longer than necessary, he made sure the house was quiet when Dabbs needed a nap, he did laundry, and he’d purchased enough boxes of Jell-O, fruit juices, and popsicles to keep Dabbs on a liquid diet until the Apocalypse.
“It’s looking good,” Ryland murmured, inspecting the incision like one would inspect a child’s head for lice. “No redness, no pus. Pass me a square of gauze?”
Dabbs grabbed one from the box on the counter and handed it over, grateful Ryland didn’t notice how his hand shook.
The restraint it took to stop himself from hauling Ryland to his feet and kissing him . . .
Fuck. But the sight of Ryland on his knees in front of him combined with the gentle way he took care of him twisted something loose in Dabbs’ chest.
He sucked in a sharp breath, all of the blood in his head rushing south when Ryland patted the sides of the tape keeping the gauze in place, his fingers cool against Dabbs’ stomach.
“Sorry.” Ryland snatched his hand away. “Did that hurt?” He sat back on his heels . . .
Which was when he noticed the bulge behind Dabbs’ sweatpants, judging by the way his eyes widened.
Dabbs couldn’t have hidden his semi if he’d tried—it was his own bad luck that he’d opted for fitted sweatpants.
“Guess it doesn’t hurt.” A slow smile spreading across his face, Ryland added, “Or maybe you enjoy the pain?”
Dabbs raised an eyebrow at him.
Ryland raised his hands. “Hey, I don’t judge. To each his own and all that.” He stood, his movements effortless, and washed his hands again. Dabbs should’ve stepped aside to give him more space.
Instead, he stayed right where he was, inches from Ryland’s hard body, laughing eyes, and teasing smile. He smelled woodsy—probably the soap he’d used when he’d showered after rehab—and a little bit like Dabbs’ apple bread.
“You know,” Ryland said. “I read an article once that stated one in ten men get hard when someone changes their bandage.”
Dabbs had to laugh at the ridiculousness. “No, you didn’t.”
“I could’ve.”
Ryland dried his hands and leaned a hip against the vanity, facing Dabbs. As their gazes met, the air between them thickened. Heated. The room shrank, holding them together in a pocket of space that was full of possibilities.
Those possibilities ran through Dabbs’ head like a flip book to the tune of his pulse thrumming in his ears.
He wanted. To touch, to taste. To break down his own boundaries and leap.
Ryland’s hazel eyes went heavy-lidded. He leaned into Dabbs, the heat of his chest against Dabbs’ bare shoulder sending his thoughts swimming.
Downstairs, one of the dogs barked. Then the other. Both of them.
The doorbell rang.
Dabbs swallowed hard to wet his dry throat. “Going to get that?”
Ryland tilted his head slightly. “I’d rather finish whatever’s going on in this bathroom.”
The doorbell rang again.
Dabbs stared at Ryland expectantly.
“Fine,” Ryland grumbled, stepping away and taking all the heat in the room with him. “But this isn’t over.”
No, Dabbs suspected it wasn’t.
* * *
Ryland readjusted himself in his jeans as he went downstairs and cursed the terrible timing of their doorbell ringer.
Dabbs had been this close to kissing him. He was sure of it.
Grumbling to himself, he spotted the empty apple bread bag on the counter on his way to the door and quickly tossed it in the garbage bin—Dabbs didn’t need to know that he’d finished the entire loaf in only one day.
Dabbs had been right about it though. It was divine. There was cinnamon in there, as well as actual apple chunks. Ryland had removed one of the loaves from the freezer to let it defrost for tomorrow, and he was already looking into how to restock Dabbs’ inventory.
Surely someone he knew in Toronto would be willing to accept the delivery and then ship it here?
“Castle, Cosmo,” he said to the dogs. “Settle.”
They quieted, though they stayed nearby to greet their visitor.
Ryland jerked the door open, ready to sign for a delivery or tell the landscaper that no, they didn’t need their services, thanks.
But it was the Trailblazers’ director of player engagement who stood on Dabbs’ front porch.
“Ryland Zervudachi,” Roman Kinsey said, stepping into the house without waiting for an invitation. “Nice to meet you in person.”
“You too,” Ryland said, wiping his suddenly damp palms on his thighs.
The dogs bounced around Kinsey’s feet, tails wagging. Kinsey squatted, giving them each some attention, and giving Ryland a minute to find his brain cells.
Why did he find Roman Kinsey intimidating?
It wasn’t like he was overly big. In fact, he was similar to Ryland in build and height, had a shaved head, green eyes, and wore a wedding ring on his left hand.
Ryland goggled for a minute at the full sleeve of tattoos revealed on Kinsey’s right arm when he removed his leather jacket.
None of that was intimidating. That came from the way Kinsey gave off an air of don’t fuck with me mixed with calm confidence sprinkled with a dash of I know my place in the world. Do you?
Ryland shifted on his feet. Well, now that you ask . . .
He’d played against Kinsey before the man had retired, and he’d found him intimidating on the ice too. He couldn’t recall them ever having a conversation, though.