A Marriage of Convenience
The specter of that blackened screen haunts my Beautiful on the Inside signing. I tap to wake my phone after every hearts never part , and love traverses universes , the signature phrases that accompany my SW . Every book in the series gets its own catchphrase, though today I’m lamenting the number of letters in the ones I created
for this release: There is no better vice than that of self-sacrifice.
I write letter after letter, strain to follow the spelling of names like “Carrie” as “Karee” and “Jenny” as “Jaenni,” while
simultaneously bantering about the frigidness of Chicago and which Riley Moore movie is my favorite. All the while, I continue
to check my phone. I don’t bother to hide it. Being the mastermind of an ongoing hostage situation is more stressful than
one would think.
I need to talk to Fiona or Cooper-Brad. I need to know if Hartley is okay or if this haunting feeling is not just a feeling
but Hartley’s actual ghost.
When a pause in my signing line comes, I flex my fingers, trying to loosen the arthritic cramp that I tolerate because it means an abundance of book sales. Finally, there’s an incoming text. It’s from Cooper-Brad. Someone must have decided he’d earned getting his phone back.
That panel was surely a thing of beauty.
He must be writing in code.
All the authors did fine and are fine now too. Still. ALL FINE.
He is writing in code, even if it is rather poorly. But at least he’s confirmed that Hartley hasn’t been offed by a jumbo-sized
bag of Brazilian nuts.
Beautiful on the inside and the outside. Cool. Super cool.
Now he’s mocking me in code.
I signal to Clarice that I need a break and text back: What is this?
Cooper-Brad: I believe it’s called a “text” but I can verify with my niece.
Me: You know what I mean. This. Inside and outside stuff.
Cooper-Brad: It used to be called flirting but probably is called something else now. Should we group text with my niece?
This is definitely banter. Which I shouldn’t be enjoying.
Cooper-Brad : I’m not doing it well, then? Though in all fairness, it’s hella (again, as my niece says) intimidating to be flirting with the woman responsible for the Jocelyn-Callum-Torrence triangle. That has more tension than a fishing rod that’s hooked a six-hundred-pound tuna.
Me: You’re actually still reading? I didn’t think you were a romance fan.
Cooper-Brad: I’m not. But I am a Sofie Wilde fan.
Cooper-Brad: How’s that? Any better?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. The amount of cheese in Cooper-Brad would kill someone lactose-intolerant. My red pen
would be bleeding all over these pages if I were critiquing it. And yet I find myself writing back: Get through another book and we’ll talk.
He gives a string of thumbs-up emoji, and I wipe the cloying grin off my face. I still have a few more eager fans in front
of me. Instead of individual panel signings, there used to be one mega signing at the end of the convention. But the practice
was stopped to be fair to fans who couldn’t stay for the full three days, as well as in response to authors who complained
about their hands cramping too much to lift their margaritas. (And no, by “authors,” I don’t mean me—at least, not just me.)
As I press my ultra-fine-tip Sharpie to the page, I can’t help watching Riley Moore. She has stamina. The whole time we’ve
been signing, she’s been here, preening in an endless string of selfies. She drapes her arms around the shoulders of nervous
fans, gives the rock ’n’ roll salute with the confident ones, and when asked, utters her iconic line, “I put the whoa in woman,” with the same enthusiasm from the first fan to the last.
All the while, Max Donner has been gesticulating wildly, Bluetooth headset protruding from his ear, either actually working on my conditions or making a show of doing so.
As I sign an SW for one of my last remaining fans, the auditorium doors open. The convention director enters and walks purposefully in Max’s
direction, a look of disdain on her face. She clasps her hands together, perhaps to stop them from entwining around Max’s
throat.
When my signing line is finally finished, I push back from the table. Anika and Liz, the two young women who created #SweetSofie,
linger near the merchandise, waiting to catch Tara Kara, who are packing up their swag: IV “blood bags” for beverages. Lake
has already gone, but Rosie is still here, talking with Clarice.
The room is heavy with the absence of Hartley. Disappointed fans have been giving their names and addresses to a volunteer
who will make sure they’re sent personalized bookplates. The line wasn’t short but hasn’t been all that long either. I wonder
if the same would have happened without Riley Moore.
I’m about to call Fiona to tell her I’m coming down when Riley plants herself in front of me.
“Hey, girl,” she says, enveloping me in a limp-noodle hug.
It’s then that I remember what I said during my viral rant. “About that whole Riley Read thing. I didn’t mean to disrespect
you or your—”
“You did, but I don’t give a flying fig. Neither does my husband. You’ve got every author’s agent battering down our door,
begging for us to produce their adaptations. If only you’d done it sooner, I wouldn’t be stuck costarring with a furry hot
dog.”
She’s referring to the Riley Read pick about the woman and her dog hiking across the country to forage for mushrooms. The
one that I mocked in my now-viral rant. “I’m sure Wiggles is a worthy—”
“Wiggles is a little shit. Little cretin’s going to steal the show, I just know it. Choosing it was my husband’s idea—some stats about box office receipts on movies with animals.” She flits her wrist, and the replica of Jocelyn’s bracelet gleams. “But that loss is our gain. I’ve been after him to option Jocelyn for an age. Production expenses be damned.”
I’ve caught her in a lie. “That’s lovely to hear, but we weren’t accepting offers until the final book released. That’s been
the plan all along.”
She pauses, and I can see her eyes calculating her next move. “You weren’t on our radar,” she says flatly, not bothering to
keep up the pretense. “Fantasy romance? Rather niche, right?”
“If niche buys you oceanfront property, then sure.”
“Not on Nantucket.”
“Damn straight it will after the movies come out.” Max Donner sidles up to us, a conspiratorial grin not eliciting a single
line on his tanned and frozen face. “As Sofie will soon discover, my clients live by a certain maxim .”
He wiggles his bushy brows, drawing out the inevitable.
Finally, I say, “You’re going to make me ask?”
“Money.”
“That’s a word. Not a maxim.”
Max cocks a fake gun at me. “You’ll see, babe.”
“No,” I say at the same time as Riley says “Nuh-uh.”
Max exhales a puff of air. “I miss the nineties. Hell, I’d even take the aughts.”
Beyond him, fans clutching their unsigned copies of Love and Lawlessness leave the auditorium.
Riley catches me looking. “It’s unsettling, isn’t it? I admit, taking advantage of all this free press is what got me here. But hearing Hartley and seeing all this, I’m going to play the shit out of Jocelyn. I told your agent, but she didn’t seem all that interested.”
“Blaire? You talked to Blaire?”
“Not directly. I have people. But the sentiment was relayed.”
“And?”
“And it was Max who promised he could get me a meeting with you.”
Max cocks another gun, then slides his hand into his front pants pocket. “And delivered.”
Tara Kara wave to Max after taking selfies with Anika and Liz, who clutch blood bags and syringes filled with candy apple
red liquid. They notice Riley and begin to head toward us.
“Super,” Riley says. “Our people will talk?” She wags a finger between Max and herself, and I nod through the roiling of my
stomach. “And keep an eye on your socials. I’m announcing a surprise extra Riley Read pick for the month.” She winks. “You’re
welcome.”
I feel as cheap as a pair of imitation Crocs.
Still, Riley Moore is exactly who I need. Younger fans like Anika are the exception. I skew white-haired. Something Riley
as Jocelyn would change. It’s part of what makes Hollywood so seductive—the opportunity to introduce the universe I’ve created
to more readers, younger readers, readers who will make Jocelyn the attraction not just at romance readers’ conventions and
country club author luncheons but Comic Con and Hollywood premieres. (Jocelyn, and, well, yes, me by extension.)
Riley puts her back to the approaching Anika and Liz. “My smile’s off duty, and I’m meeting a friend across town. Do either
of you have money for a cab? All I have is my ID. I never travel without my assistant who carries everything else, but there
was something about a wedding—his, I think—or was it a funeral? Either way, I gave him the time off.”
“I don’t do analog,” Max says.
I start to shake my head. I gave all my cash to the vendor in Millennium Park. But then I realize Hartley’s purse is still
in my tote. I retrieve it, find the slim case that serves as her wallet, and pull some bills from the center. (What? You think
I’m not going to pay her back? One kidnapping, and suddenly I’m some kind of degenerate?) I get a glimpse of the photo on
her license and quickly shove her wallet back into my bag, hoping no one else noticed the picture of a younger woman with
red hair.
Riley manages to take the two twenties I hand over and duck out before Anika and Liz reach her. They quickly pivot, setting
their sights on Rosie, apparently very comfortable with the special guest status I’ve bestowed upon them.
Max saunters over to one of the audience seats, his face as transparent as the weave at the crown of his head. That feathered
David Cassidy is clearly a toupee.
“Riley Moore is the tip of the Max-berg,” he says. “I’m going to assume we have a deal?”
Even though securing Riley Moore is a bigger win than Romance US, Max still has conditions to meet if I’m going to do what
I’m about to do. So I ask, “The keynote?”
“Delivered. With an extra honorarium.” He extracts an envelope from his coat pocket. “They’re getting your banner rehung as
we speak.”
My heart sinks despite what I’ve done to achieve this. Or because of it.
“And the tour?” I almost want him to say he couldn’t fix it. To give me a way out.
“Your unmentionables should remain packed. And if they’re not, I can help.” My insides cringe as Max pops out of his seat.
“Let’s document. I’ll tag you as collaborator.”
“No, that’s not—” His arm loops around my waist.
“New client selfie. A Max Donner rite of passage.”
Footsteps bound down the stage just as Max lifts me straight off the ground. “A what?” Rosie says with disbelief. “You’re
not doing that. You didn’t do that. Sign with Max Donner? Sofie, please tell me you wouldn’t do that. Does Blaire even know?”
Max points to the front of the auditorium. “She does now.”
I have never shot a puppy, but if I had, I imagine this is what it would feel like.
Blaire enters the room with a pained gait. She moves with a heaviness despite her lithe frame. Tall with a long neck, dark
brown eyes, and light brown skin, Blaire wears cream wool pants and an aquamarine blouse in honor of me. She carries a copy
of my book with a blue sticky attached. The copy she wants me to sign for her, a tradition she started, one we were supposed
to continue on my New York City tour stop. She is, as always, the definition of elegance.
A sharpness hitches a ride on my next breath. This is why my call went to voicemail. She was on a plane. She was coming here.
To me.
I feel a tug on my sleeve, and Rosie yanks me aside. “You leave me with no words and yet with all the words, Sofie. How could
we have underestimated the depths to which you will descend?”
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“But it is what it sounds like. I heard you. We all heard you. You want to know why I was helping you? I needed to prove that
someone I think so highly of couldn’t be wrong for thinking the same about you. All I did was prove myself right.” Rosie releases
my arm as if touching my flesh would taint hers. “I’m done helping you. You’re on your own.”
With determination in her step, Rosie marches out of the auditorium. She pauses at the door and clasps her hand over Blaire’s. No words are exchanged, but the intimacy of the gesture stings like a slap to my face. I watch as Rosie pushes through the door, lifting her phone, presumably to call Fiona or Grace.
Panic quickens the beat of my heart. I whip out my cell and dial Fiona.
“Don’t leave,” I rush as she answers. “No matter what happens or what anyone says. Stay.”
“Hi, Sofie! I’m well, thank you for asking.”
“Fiona, I don’t have time—”
“I am in fact missing the sculpt-your-favorite-heroine-out-of-mashed-potatoes contest. That I did in fact suggest in honor
of my spuds farmer. And I am in fact pissed.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“The panel killed, by the way. Thanks to Rosie.” A pause. “Speak of the gorgeous angel. Calling me now. Gotta go.”
“No, Fiona, wait—”
“Sorry, Sof.”
My phone beeps with the ended call. Max is wiggling his phone and asking me what my Instagram handle is, and I don’t even
know.
“TheSofieWilde, no spaces,” Blaire says. “I named the account.”
I can barely look at her. “Blaire, I have to go.”
“I understand,” she says.
I’m three steps past her, but this makes me turn around. “You do?”
Blaire nods. “Do you remember that trip I took to Nepal?”
I hesitate for too long. I really need to pick up acting tips from Riley Moore.
“It’s fine.” Blaire waves her hand. “I wouldn’t expect you to. While I was there, I signed up for a tour to seek out the snow leopard. If I’d had the business instincts you do, I’d have realized it was designed to empty the wallets of naive tourists. The snow leopard doesn’t want to be found, even by its own kind. It can kill prey up to three times its weight and patrols hundreds of kilometers alone. It prefers a solitary life and is profoundly good at it. Its talent for doing what it does best, unmatched. That is you, Sofie. But I still go looking for you with every book. With every one of my emails that goes unanswered, with every text you demand an urgent reply to, whether I’m mid-meal or mid-orgasm. The Sofie Wilde and I built our careers together. I am indebted to you. I have been indebted to you. And because I am who I am,
despite all this, I always will be.”
“Blaire, I...” My eyes dart around the room. To the stage where Tara Kara sip red liquid from IV bags and watch all this
like it’s a play. To the door and the orange crates being brought in. To Max Donner ordering each one opened in a fruitless
search for my banner. “I don’t know what to say.”
Tears brew in Blaire’s eyes. “You do, Sofie, but for some reason, you don’t know how to. For the record, I’m sorry too.”