Will You Sign My Book?

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

If I were a character in one of my favorite romance novels, this is the part where I'd spill a salted caramel latte on a hot guy's chest and accidentally fall in insta-love while blotting his abs with napkins.

Instead, I'm dragging a broken-wheeled suitcase full of bookmarks and scented candles through a sea of women wearing wide smiles and sparkly lanyards. I'm trying... and failing ... not to sweat through my "Assistant to the Romance Authors" T-shirt.

So, yeah.

Not quite chapter one material.

"Daisy!" Madison snaps from the front of the check-in line, flipping her straightened black hair over her shoulder like a whip. "Hurry up. You're literally embarrassing us."

I speed up. Or, at least I try to.

The suitcase snags on the carpet of the hotel lobby and nearly catapults me into the woman ahead of me, trying to get into line.

My tote bag smacks my hip hard, the corner of a hardcover book digging into my ribs.

I should've packed lighter, knowing I would be Gisele and Bea's packmule on this trip, but I needed all the essentials: snacks, charger, water bottle, stress putty, and my annotated copy of Electric Love .

Yes, my favorite book has a shirtless man on the cover, a man whose perfect abs have been further objectified by making them the primary focus of the cover art. And yes, I've highlighted nearly every page.

The woman in front of me flashes me a tight smile and steps aside so that I can join my step-sisters at the front of the check-in line.

"Sorry," I mumble, dropping my gaze to the floor as I yank the suitcase forward.

My heart is racing, partly from my near fall, and partly from the sheer over-stimulation of the crowded lobby, squealing fans, and perfume clouds.

We're late to check-in, which means we're checking in alongside readers instead of with other authors and assistants.

I tried to tell Gisele and Bea we needed to book an earlier flight, but they're always adamant that waking them before 10 a.m. would be a cardinal sin.

Behind the registration table, a tired-looking volunteer hands me three lanyards and a packet. "Welcome to The Lover's Lane Experience," she says in a chipper voice that doesn't match the exhaustion in her eyes. "You're with... Gisele and Bea?"

"That's us," Gisele chimes in, beaming as she holds up her phone to film us. "The Temptation Sisters are out and about, ready to meet all of our biggest fans! And along for the ride is our assistant, of course. Say hi to the followers, Daisy."

I blink. "Uh, hi?"

I'm not usually included in my step-sister's social media plans.

I can feel my pale skin flush red across my cheeks as I hopelessly try to fight off my immediate embarrassment.

I really prefer my own social media account, where I post reviews of my favorite romance books without ever showing my face.

Bea, the other half of my Semi-Evil Stepsister Duo, loops her arm through Gisele's.

Her black hair, dyed to match their dark romance branding, gleams like polished obsidian.

"Come with us next to scope out the VIP lounge.

" As soon as Gisele ends the recording, Bea looks over at me and says, "Make sure to grab our stuff. "

I look over at their stuff that a hotel employee graciously brought in for them and stacked nearby. They have five suitcases filled with promotional swag, outfit changes, and extra heels. Because god forbid Gisele's heels get dirty while she's trampling aspiring writers for clout.

"I don't think I can–"

Gisele interrupts before I can get my protest out. "We'll meet you at the table later to check your work. Set up the banner first, then the giveaway stuff, and don't forget to package the preorders. The books should already be delivered to our table."

"And the new bookmarks!" Bea adds. "I want them fanned out like flower petals where readers can grab them. So on brand."

I'm not sure what flower petals have to do with their brand; they write dark romance novels about morally gray alien firefighters. Before I can question it, they're already flouncing away. Leaving me behind with all of the bags.

I stand there for a second, clutching the handle of the broken suitcase that's been in my care since the wheel broke in the airport. My breathing is shallow, and my brain is buzzing.

Okay. Okay, you got this, I pep-talk myself. I just have to follow my list.

Except... I got distracted on the plane and forgot to make a list.

The tired woman at check-in clears her throat to get my attention. "Here are the name badges and VIP gifts for your group."

"Oh, right! So sorry." I'm holding up her line. I somehow managed to scoop the three drawstring bags and lanyards into my arms and step out of the way of the next person in line. I barely manage to carry everything over to the stack of suitcases I'm now responsible for.

As soon as I can set everything down, I dig into my tote for my planner. As soon as I make a list of priorities, I'll be able to get a handle on myself again. All I need is a plan.

I scramble around in my bag, finding last month's calendar, a protein bar I took one bite of and wrapped back up again for some reason, and four pens. No planner. And no planner means no plan.

I'm not panicking. I'm not.

I am.

I totally am.

I inhale slowly through my nose and exhale through my mouth, just like my first therapist taught me. Then, I pull Electric Love by Sara Fox out of my bag and hold onto my hardback copy like a life raft.

Some people hold onto their childhood toys for comfort; I prefer my favorite comfort novel to the stuffed lion I carried as a kid.

My annotated, highlighted, post-it-flagged pride and joy.

I brought my favorite book to get signed.

.. if I survive this weekend without ending up in an ADHD blackout where I may or may not break every heel Gisele owns and put the lid on Bea's red lipstick with the tube fully extended.

I flip the book open to one of my favorite scenes and immediately feel my heartbeat finally manage to slow. It's the banter in chapter six that always gets me with its witty flirting and just the right amount of yearning. I run my index finger over the quote I underlined in pink ink months ago.

"You deserve a hero who sees every sharp edge and doesn't flinch."

God, I want that. Not even the hero. Just the seeing .

"Excuse me," someone says behind me, and I realize I'm yet again in someone's way. This time, standing in the middle of the lobby, rereading chapter six like it's oxygen.

"Sorry!" I lurch forward, pressing closer to the stack of suitcases that I somehow have to maneuver to Gisele and Bea's table in the event hall.

If only chapter six could solve all of my problems. I sigh as I return my book to my bag and give up on my search for the planner I clearly forgot to pack. Daisy's ADHD diagnosis strikes again! This is what I get for only double-checking my packing list twice.

After running down a luggage cart before someone else manages to return it to the valet area, I cart all of the luggage into the busy event hall, where many authors seem to be busy setting up their tables alongside their teams. Couldn't be us.

Gisele and Bea might break one of their freshly manicured nails.

Luckily, all of the boxes of books they had shipped to the venue are right where they should be. Saves me from having to run around finding missing merchandise. This is always an early sign of a well-run event, so that bodes well for the rest of the weekend.

I set to work putting up the retractable banner (wrong side up the first time) before unpacking the hoard of swag we brought along.

Gisele and Bea always like to fill their table to the brim at events like this.

Thrusting free stuff at the readers seems to work for them.

They need some kind of shtick to keep their readers from noticing that they actually don't want to interact with them one-on-one at all.

The fact that my stepsisters have made a career out of this makes me sad. I like to think of the romance book world as a sacred space. My stepsisters only see it as a cash cow.

Readers deserve better.

My fingers seem to be moving great from task to task, but my mind doesn't cooperate so easily. Every task I start seems to lead to three more. I keep forgetting what I just did. Did I already lay out the promo pens? Why are there two stacks of postcards and where are the bookmarks?

I still haven't even started sorting the preordered books versus stock to sell over the weekend.

I drop to the floor behind the table to reorganize everything into a more manageable mess. I'm tempted to bury my head in my tote bag to let out a quiet scream. The kind where you're making the screaming face, but only a raspy little screech comes out.

My phone buzzes with a text from Bea:

Bring us mimosas before the masquerade. The real ones. Not hotel bar trash.

I grit my teeth and glance at my watch. Time, of course, has gotten away from me as usual.

There’s only an hour left until the opening night masquerade starts.

My stepsisters didn't mention getting me a ticket for the extra event, but I brought a dress just in case.

A tiny spark of hope, foolish and flickering, keeps my heart warm.

Because you never know when your life might turn into Chapter One after all.