Chapter 9
Sam
As soon as Derek slid into the passenger seat of my truck at the airport, I knew this day would test every ounce of my patience.
He took one look around the cab—at the dust on the dashboard, the cracked leather seats, the faint coffee stain on the cup holder—and wrinkled his nose.
His morning flight from LaGuardia landed right on time and looked more like a fashion model than literary agent as he exited the airport—dark jeans, camel jacket and white sneakers so clean they’ve never met a puddle.
“I think you should consider buying a new vehicle,” he said as we hit the beltline and headed toward Whynot, a forty-five-minute drive that would soon turn quite rural.
“Why?” I asked with a grin.
“Because I’m not updated on my tetanus,” he snapped, and I couldn’t help but laugh. He shot me a glare. “Most New York Uber drivers have seat warmers and bottled water. You have beef jerky.”
“It’s called character.” I chuckled, and then to his dismay, I reached into the center console and did indeed pull out a stick of beef jerky for him. He waved it off and I tucked it away.
We’re almost to town and I’m sort of excited to see my agent’s reaction to small-town life.
Derek Millard is a born-and-raised New Yorker, attended college at NYU, and I’m not sure he’s ever done an outdoor activity in his life.
He loves the concrete jungle and the bustle of city life as much as I hate it.
Derek groans and leans his head back against the seat, designer sunglasses perched on his nose. His hair’s perfectly styled, his clothes are probably worth more than the truck’s tires, and he’s going to stick out like a sore thumb in town.
“So,” he says, lifting and then scrolling through his phone. “I checked your itinerary on the way down. The signing in Raleigh is officially sold out.”
“Already?” I ask, glancing at him. I’d given him permission to book a small event at one of the Raleigh bookstores. He convinced me this was an easy way to break out of my anonymity, but now I’m second-guessing it.
He grins, smug. “Three hundred tickets. And that’s just pre-sale. They’ve had to open a waitlist. You’re going to have people lined up around the block for a chance to meet the mysterious S. P. Rochelle.”
“I’m frankly terrified,” I admit. I don’t expect sympathy from him though. His job is to push me forward now that I’ve committed.
“It’s a good kind of terrifying. The kind of terrifying that builds empires.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter.
“Relax. I hired two assistants to help with crowd control and a local PR firm to handle logistics. I’ll be right by your side. You just have to show up, smile, and pretend you like people.”
“That’s your definition of easy?”
“It’s mine, yes,” he says, flashing me a grin. “I’ve got a photographer lined up to come to Whynot to do photos. We’re going to brand you from the ground up as a small-town hottie living in a fantasy world. It will be epic and the women will eat it up.”
The words tighten my stomach. “I still can’t believe it’s happening.”
“Oh, it’s happening,” Derek says cheerfully. “All of your books will be reformatted to add your picture, the website will be updated, and we’re going to have to get you going on social media. Facebook, Instagram, TikTok.”
I groan. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
“You’ll need to post about personal stuff like your creative process.”
“My creative process involves bourbon and procrastination.”
“Then lie creatively.” He gives me a side-eye. “That’s literally your job.”
We fall quiet for a bit, the hum of the road filling the truck. We pass a field of tall pines and rolling farmland. Derek’s gaze drifts out the window, unimpressed. “Do you people ever get bored out here?”
“Constantly,” I say. “We just do it quietly.”
He snorts. “The silence is eerie. I haven’t gone ten minutes without hearing sirens or horns in years. My therapist says I might have an addiction to noise.”
“You and peace don’t mix well,” I say.
“Peace doesn’t pay my rent,” he retorts.
As we reach the outskirts of Whynot, we roll past white fences, wide porches, the occasional tractor puttering down a side road.
All the things that always make me feel like I’m coming home, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
The Welcome to Whynot sign leans a bit to the left, but it’s freshly painted and framed by hanging baskets of petunias.
Derek peers out the window, intrigued despite himself. “So, this is it? The famous Whynot?”
“This is it,” I say, slowing as we hit the main stretch of town. “Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”
He does a slow scan. “You weren’t kidding. One diner, one general store, one traffic light. Is this place legally allowed to exist without a Starbucks?”
“We have Central Café,” I say. “Better coffee and gossip.”
“That remains to be seen,” he mutters, eyeing the quaint storefronts like they’re a museum exhibit.
We roll past Millie’s Bed-and-Breakfast—a sprawling yellow Victorian with wraparound porches, potted ferns and rocking chairs that creak when the breeze blows. A sign out front reads Vacancy, its hand-painted lettering curling like calligraphy.
“That’s where you’ll be staying,” I point out. “But you can’t check in until this afternoon.”
“It looks somewhat civilized,” Derek observes. “You’re sure I’ll have my own bathroom?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I drawl. “You’ll love Millie. She’s sweet and probably baking muffins for your arrival.”
“I’m going to gain weight, I just know it,” he complains, but in the same breath asks, “What kind of muffins?”
“My favorite are her lemon poppyseed, but her blueberry’s mighty fine.”
He peers at me over his sunglasses. “I wonder if they have a minibar.”
“Probably not, but if you ask, I bet Millie can scrounge up a stray mason jar of peach moonshine.”
He groans dramatically, dragging a hand over his face. “I’ve literally stepped into a revival of Green Acres.”
“You’ll survive.”
He rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re lucky I adore you, Rochelle.”
“Mutual,” I say, and I mean it. For all his dramatics, Derek’s been in my corner since the start. He was the first person who told me I could do this—that I could make a living out of stories that made people feel something.
As we drive out of town and into the country, Derek shifts in his seat to look at me. “So, tell me the truth. How nervous are you?”
I exhale, watching sunlight flicker through the branches. “Pretty nervous.”
“Good,” he says. “Means you care.”
“I care about the work. The fans, too, I guess. But it’s the other stuff that scares me.”
“Like what?” he asks, the concern in his voice genuine now that all bantering has been put aside.
“My family. My parents are pretty straitlaced and conservative. They’ll not only be appalled that I write romance because they won’t think it’s manly, but they’ll be outright terrified my soul is doomed because my books have sex in them.”
“Jesus… are they Amish or something?”
“Worse… Southern Baptist.”
He hums thoughtfully. “They’ll adjust. They’ll have to.”
“Yeah, but I know my parents. They’ll hate the idea that their son writes about love and magic and sex instead of spreadsheets.”
“Then let them,” Derek says simply. “You’re not doing this for them. You’re doing this for you. And maybe for your future millions of adoring fans.”
“Thanks, Tony Robbins.”
“Please, he wishes he had my hair,” Derek says, flipping his bangs.
We pull onto the long gravel driveway that leads to my house. Sunlight splinters through the oaks, throwing patterns of shadows before us. The house comes into view, and Derek lets out a low whistle.
“Jesus, Mary, and interior design. It’s even better than the photos.”
“Not bad, huh?” I say, trying to downplay the pride swelling in my chest. I couldn’t share this endeavor with anyone except Derek, so he got routine updates as I was building and then through the decorating process.
He sits up straighter, taking it in. “Not bad? Sam, this place is Architectural Digest porn. You were a fool for not moving in right away.”
“Wasn’t ready,” I admit.
“You were hiding,” he corrects. “But that’s over, right?”
“It’s over,” I concur. “I’ve got to move some stuff over from my other place and you can help with that.”
“I don’t do manual labor,” Derek grumbles.
“Sure you do,” I reply with a pointed look that says You’re going to do whatever needs to be done to get me where I need to be. “Your duties include moving me into my new house, which is representative of my new life you want me to accept.”
We step inside, and as usual, it’s difficult for me to comprehend this is mine. I imagine one day it will feel natural, but today is not that day.
Derek drops his bag in the foyer, turns in a slow circle, and whistles again. “I’m serious. This is movie star territory. We should be filming your reveal video right here.”
I give him a pointed look. “Not everything has to be a spectacle.”
“Oh, it does,” he insists. “You’re stepping into the spotlight, Sam. Own it. This”—he gestures to the vaulted ceiling, the gleaming floors, the light pouring in from the windows—“is the new you. Successful, mysterious, untouchable.”
“I’m not mysterious.”
“You’re a six-foot-two romance author who looks like he should chop firewood shirtless,” Derek says. “Lean into it.”
I shake my head, amused despite myself. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me for it,” he says, heading straight for the kitchen like he owns the place. “Now pour me coffee. We’ve got work to do.”
For the next two hours, Derek walks me through all the ways in which my life is about to change. The Raleigh signing this weekend is only the start, and by the time I do the press tour for my book releasing next month, my life will be radically different.
He must be able to tell I’m overwhelmed because he says, “You know… we can do a soft launch today, if you want. A video on social media—”
“What do you mean video?” I ask, subconsciously running my hand through my facial hair that hasn’t been touched in a few days.
Derek raises his phone like a director about to shout Action! “Think dramatic music, close-up of your hands typing, maybe a slow-motion shot of you walking across that porch with a mug of coffee. We’ll caption it ‘Meet S. P. Rochelle.’”
“Hard pass.”
He grins. “You say that now but wait until you see the engagement numbers. Readers eat that stuff up.”
“You know I’m not really into this rebranding thing, right? I just want to start living an authentic life.”
Derek takes a long sip, assessing me over the rim.
“Sam, it’s not a rebrand. It’s an evolution.
You’ve been a mystery for years—fans have built entire Reddit threads debating whether you’re a woman, a man or a collective of elves.
You stepping into the spotlight doesn’t erase that.
It amplifies it. The curiosity doubles.”
“Curiosity,” I repeat. “That’s one word for it.”
“You’re nervous,” he observes, not unkindly.
I shrug. “Wouldn’t you be? I’m about to show my face to the world after hiding behind a pen name for years. That’s a lot of mystery to ruin.”
He chuckles and sets his cup down on the counter.
“You’re not ruining anything. You’re humanizing it.
Readers want to connect, and when they see you—when they realize S.
P. Rochelle is a real guy from a small town who happens to write sweeping fantasy romances about love and loss—it’s going to make them fall even harder for you. ”
I massage my jaw again, uncertain.
“You built this life, Sam. Literally. You wrote your way into this house, this view, this freedom. Now you just have to own it.”
“I’m trying,” I say quietly.
He turns, his tone softening. “I know. That’s why I’m here—to make sure the world catches up with you. We can skip the video and just focus on the Raleigh signing. Oh, and I arranged for security at the event.”
“Security?” I repeat. “What the hell for? I’m not Taylor Swift.”
He smirks. “You’d be surprised what rabid romantasy fans will do for a signed copy and a photo op. Trust me, you’ll thank me when someone with a fake sword tries to hug you.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, my fingertips lightly circling my temple. I lean against the island, the reality of it starting to settle in. “Three hundred people.”
“Three hundred and counting,” he corrects. “Remember the waiting list.”
I let out a low whistle. “You’re not making this less terrifying.”
“Good. A healthy amount of fear builds character.”
“Pretty sure I have enough character for one lifetime.”
He ignores me, launching into the next item. “After Raleigh, we’ll do the official press reveal. I’ve hired a publicist and she has a schedule lined up with online interviews, podcasts, and—wait for it—a TikTok Live with The Spicy Page Sage.”
I groan. “You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack. She’s the biggest fantasy romance influencer on the planet. Her lives get half a million views in an hour. She wears elf ears and you’ll love her.”
I ignore the elf-ear comment. “Half a million people watching me talk about kissing scenes?”
He smirks. “Or sword-fighting, or both, depending on how spicy you’re feeling. The point is, this is your moment. You’ve built something incredible, and it’s time to show the world.”
I can feel the weight of it pressing in, equal parts thrilling and suffocating. “This is it,” I murmur. “No going back.”
“None,” Derek says, not missing a beat. “You’re about to become a household name. Fans will know your face, reporters will call, your books will fly off shelves. This is the start of your second act.”
I try to picture it. Pap shaking his head with that half smile that means he’s proud but pretending not to be. Floyd organizing a betting pool on how many church ladies faint. My mother, sitting in the front pew Sunday morning, praying for my soul between hymns.
The image makes me smile and ache all at once.
It also makes me want to talk to Penny, and a phone call doesn’t seem good enough. But first, I think it’s time I brought my parents in on this secret of mine, which is about to get blown wide open.
I pull my keys from my pocket. “I’ve got to run an errand.”
“Where to?” he asks.
“To none of your damn business,” I reply, shooting him a wink. “I’ll be back soon.”