12. So Thats Where I Know You From
CHAPTER 12
SO THAT'S WHERE I KNOW YOU FROM
JOANIE - WEEKS LATER
“ I ’ll be reading this one-handed,” the woman standing in front of me says as I hand her signed book back to her.
“Happy reading.” Really, it’s the only way to respond when one of your fans tells you they masturbate while reading a book you wrote.
Every few months, Wavecrest’s local bookstore, Coastline Books, invites me to do a reading and signing. The owner, Rocky, is a good friend and has been a huge supporter of my writing. She and her employees do a beautiful window display every time I put out a new book.
I’m set up at a table near the Romance section, which sits between Memoirs and Science Fiction. A line of readers snakes down the rows and around the perimeter of the store. Seeing so many people holding copies of my books is hugely gratifying.
Except for the one guy who’s been passive aggressively negging me and the people waiting in line. The guy is holding a thick book, leaning against one of the Literary Fiction shelves. He looks like his favorite phrase is “Well, actually...” and that it’s time for his mom to cut his hair again.
He pretends like he’s skimming his book, but I catch the scoffs or a muttered oh, please whenever someone steps up to my table and says something like, “I loved your book.”
Sir Judgy the Tiresome hasn’t said anything overtly offensive, but the unearned over-confidence of a mediocre dude who’s recently obtained a philosophy degree wafts off him.
It’s not the first time some guy with opinions on romance has made his feelings known at one of my book signings. These wet blankets express their displeasure in a range of ways. From a disapproving shake of their head when they walk by, to loudly mocking me or the genre.
Hell, I’ve heard it from my own parents. They probably weren’t surprised I became a romance writer, but they were definitely disappointed. It’s a direct pipeline from a too loud, too dramatic child to a writer of unseemly stories about people banging their way to love.
I gave up trying to please my parents years ago when I realized they were never going to understand me, or make the effort to. Even if I saw their disapproving faces every time I did something mildly embarrassing.
When I get flack from these people at signings, usually the store manager will quietly ask them to move along if they’re disruptive, and I can see Rocky making her way over here to do just that. She’s got the mulish, stomptastic thing going on that her boyfriend must love.
A few people in line look like they’re ready to commit murder on my behalf and protect the honor of the romance genre, and I love them for it. I choose to act like I’m ignoring him, even if he’s as annoying as a mosquito.
From the front of the store, I hear a deep, rumbly, “Excuse me, pardon me.” Over the bookshelves I see the top of Colin’s head as he weaves past people in line. “Just delivering some coffee. Nobody wants an under-caffeinated romance writer signing their books.” The people in line eat it up. Giggles erupt around him.
Colin steps up to the side of my table, sets down the coffee, and gives me a little kiss on the forehead. A collective sigh comes from the first dozen people in line. That’s right, folks, my boyfriend does forehead kisses, and that detail is definitely going in my next book.
Philosophy Bro apparently doesn’t know how to read the room, because he lets out his biggest scoff yet. Other patrons look at him like he’s got a death wish.
Colin’s still facing me, but I can tell he heard the guy from the way his face hardens. There’s probably a ticking muscle hidden under that lush beard. He gives me a wink before turning around and approaching the guy like they’re about to have a friendly discussion. I wish I had some popcorn handy.
“What’s up, buddy?” Colin’s question is seemingly innocuous, but the set of his shoulders tells me something juicy is about to happen. The guy doesn’t seem to know what his arms want to do, but he gives Colin a chin-nod.
“I heard this bookstore was legit, but this is disappointing. I mean, no offense to your girl or whatever.” He waves his hand around as if to say these females and their smut have tarnished all of literature . It’s obvious he thinks because Colin is another dude that he’s found someone to listen to his regressive bullshit.
And I’ve heard it before, almost daily. When you’re a writer of romance, no matter the sub-genre, whether it’s backed by a big publishing house or published independently, we’ve all heard it. People with too much time on their hands and not enough sense in their heads love to besmirch romance. But my readers know what’s what.
Colin tips his head to study the guy. He doesn’t step closer or get in his face, doesn’t use his size to intimidate. But he doesn’t need to. Philosophy Bro shrinks under Colin’s scrutiny.
“First of all, don’t call grown women you don’t know girls.” That earns a surprised laugh from me. “Second, why do you care what other people read?” Bro swallows, finally realizing Colin isn’t going to play nice. But his unearned confidence is apparently hard to dim.
“It’s so predictable—it reduces literature to a formula.” He clutches his book closer to his chest.
“Ever read a romance?” Colin asks. The guy shakes his head and blinks. Predictable . Colin lets the guy stew in his discomfort for a bit. “Tell me, you ever read a mystery that didn’t have the culprit revealed at the end? Ever read a sci-fi novel that didn’t involve spaceships or some dystopian world?”
“Yeah, but those...” He fumbles for a way to finish the thought, so Colin helps.
“Tend to be read by men more than romance does?” Colin smiles at him like the guy is a toddler.
Bro’s mouth opens like he’s got a comeback, but Colin nods at the book he’s holding. “If you enjoy navel-gazing doorstops where the man blames all his struggles on his wife or his mother while pondering why nobody likes him, romance definitely isn’t for you. Best to leave it to people who enjoy it and don’t use their reading choices as a way to virtue signal that they’re unimaginative drips.”
Colin gives him another smile and turns back to my table, looking like he’s already forgotten the guy he’s just verbally walloped.
A smattering of claps and snaps, a damn straight and a what he said comes from the people gathered around my table.
Flames. Ash. Goodbye to my panties—oh, how I’m glad they were only six dollars at Target. Because Colin has incinerated them. I didn’t think witnessing him take down a troll in the real world would be such a turn-on.
The tool has the sense to put down his book and scurry out the door before there’s any more verbal murder.
Colin seems unaware that everybody is gaping at him. He leans down and gives me another forehead kiss and tugs on a lock of my hair. “I have that meeting with Zane in a few. See you later?” I nod because words aren’t possible at the moment. He gives me the cutest little wave and heads out the door.
The people in line have melted into individual puddles. Rocky’s going to need a bigger steam cleaner for this carpet.
One woman leans over to her friend and says, “Hey, wasn’t that...?”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.” The woman pulls her book away from her chest to look at the cover, then at the shop’s door where Colin just exited.
After a big collective sigh, we get back to the task of signing books and meeting readers. Everyone’s enthusiasm reminds me that it’s one of my favorite things to do as an author, even when there’s the occasional small-minded naysayer.
About ten minutes later, a woman steps up to my table and lays down the first edition of my first book. “The Grumpy Billionaire and the Shy Nanny” has gone through three cover updates, so it’s been years since I’ve seen this version.
“It’s so cool that you’re dating your cover model—it’s like a real-life romance novel.”
“What?” I blink up at her.
She taps the cover. “Your cover model. I’d recognize those cheekbones anywhere. I’ve stared at this cover enough.” She laughs like we’re all in on the joke.
And there he is. Colin . Staring up at me from the cover of my own book that I wrote almost a decade ago. Colin, but clean-shaven, with short black hair and no hint of silver, sporting an eight-pack revealed by a strategically open shirt and suit jacket. No chest hair in sight. And the reader is right...cheekbones for days. The blood drains from my face and sound goes cottony for a second.
My vision narrows down to a book-shaped tunnel. All I see is Colin. On the cover. Of my book. Holy. Shit. Fuck, I knew he looked familiar when I first met him. But I thought maybe we had friends in common or went to the same dentist. Now that we’re together, the Colin I know intimately replaced the one with the question mark hanging over him all those months ago.
He’s just...Colin. My Colin. Who kept a secret from me. But why?
Never in a million years would I think he was a cover model. This cover model in particular. I saw Colin’s face and abs on hundreds of books long before I became an author, and my brain can’t reconcile that he’s the same person. My person.
I remember coming across him on a stock photo site and saying, “ That guy. He’s the one.” For years he was the go-to cover model for billionaire or mafia romances—there were hundreds, if not thousands, of photos of him on the stock sites, although I never knew his name. He might have been the reason I started writing grumpy billionaires who fall for their sassy assistants or the only nanny that can connect with their precious child.
A throat clears and I blink up at the woman who unknowingly knocked my world on its side. I quickly sign her book, snap a photo of the cover without explaining why and welcome the next reader.
But for the rest of the afternoon my brain buzzes. Am I angry? Do I have a right to be? Why has he been so sneaky about it? Is it sneakiness or embarrassment? Is he ashamed? After that speech he gave about romance it doesn’t make sense that he’d be down on his cover model status.
And make no mistake, Colin is still cover model material, just not that polished, suit-wearing version.
Now he’s all layers of softness and muscle wrapped in flannel and long hair. Is he hiding behind his beard?
The rest of the signing passes in a blur.
Back at home, I stare at the photo I took of the cover, trying to remember if I have a copy of this edition. I find him on the bottom shelf of the bookcase I call the Library of Posterity, where I keep all the editions of every book I’ve published. There he is, Colin scowling at the camera, smoldering all over the place. I start to text him but decide I need to cool down before I ask him to explain.
There’s been a pit in my stomach and a tightness in my chest since the discovery, and I don’t know how to get rid of it. Probably talking to him like a grownup, Joanie .
My mother’s voice in my head is the absolute fucking last thing I want right now, and I tell her to kindly go to hell. She hadn’t popped up in my psyche since the first time I sang at karaoke night weeks ago.
I’ll add that to the list of things I want to be mad at Colin about.
There has to be a story behind why he never told me, and I’ll get it out of him as soon as I see him. Because there’s no way my curious brain will let this go, and I need to figure out what keeping a secret like this means for us.
I need tonight to chew on all of this, so I tap out a message.
Me: I need to get some writing done, so I’ll see you tomorrow morning.
And because I’m three raccoons in a trench coat and a little bit petty, I decide to fuck with him.
Me: Found out something pretty interesting after you left the bookstore.
I try to set aside the hurt and confusion that’s been creeping over me since I saw that cover. But I can feel it taking over. I turn my phone off and pour myself some wine. It’s going to be a long night of thinking.