Page 12 of Cinnamon Roll Set Up

Down the hall, the dryer chimes.

“I’m on it.”

“You don’t need to do all that.”

But I’ve grabbed a laundry basket and started unloadingbefore she can finish admonishing me. I fold the towels, put them away in the linen closet, and return to the kitchen.

She looks distinctly unimpressed, but we go through this every time I visit. I do something to help her out, she claims she doesn’t need the help, and she feeds me a delicious treat she swears she forgot how to bake. It’s a never-ending cycle.

“I have news.”

Her eyes go as wide as the pie plate in front of her. “About you and Georgia?”

I probably should have prefaced that better, given the direction of her thoughts.

“Not about me and Georgia.” A knot works in my throat as my head fills with all sorts of announcements I’d love to make about the two of us. Maybe one day. “I’ve been nominated for an Andromeda Award.”

She leaps out of her chair to attack me with a hug. “Oh, honey. I never would have guessed. An Andromeda Award. How wonderful.”

Laughing softly, I hug her tight. “You don’t know what that is, do you?”

She looks up into my face. “I’ve never heard of it before in my life, but it must be something special if you’re up for one. Tell me all about it.”

We sit and I explain about the awards and how they’re voted on by my peers in the science fiction writing world. Really, they’re not even my peers—most of the authors on the panel have been big names for decades. They’re more like dukes and baronesses to my measly commoner.

I thought it was bad knowing regular people were reading my books, but that’s nothing to having my author heroes reading them.

I mention the gala, but I don’t tell Mom about Georgia’s scheme to find me a date or my counter-scheme tomake sure the date is her. She already jumps to enough conclusions. I don’t need to drive her to the edge of the cliff.

Even if that cliff is the exact right conclusion.

“I’m so excited for you, honey. This is really special, isn’t it?”

I’m trying to downplay it for my own sanity’s sake, but I can’t pretend it’s not significant. The Rising Star nomination means people expect big things from my writing career. No pressure, or anything. My agent has called twice already this week to congratulate me, guess at the boost in sales numbers I’ve received, and check on the status of the last book in the series I’m revising. It’s a lot, but none of it quite feels real.

“It’s…something.”

Mom reaches out to take my hand. “You’re allowed to celebrate yourself. Enjoy this moment.”

Sounds a lot like what Georgia said, except she specifically wanted me to celebrate with a date. Who isn’t her. Which is the opposite of a celebration in my book.

“Your dad would be so proud.” Mom’s voice takes on the gentle tone it always does when she mentions him.

It’s not a fresh wound. He’s been gone fourteen years. But it still aches.

Unlike my more reserved nature, Dad had enthusiasm for everything. He would have loved Dogeared and found a way to work it into every conversation around town. He would have giddily bought my books in every possible format. And he would have seen through me a long time ago with Georgia.

“I’ve got a favor to ask of you,” Mom says.

“Must be serious. Usually, you try to convince me you don’t need any help.”

Doesn’t matter anyway—I’ll handle whatever she asks of me.

Mom shakes her head. “It’s really Cece’s favor. I just said I’d be the messenger.”

“Now I’m nervous.” Mom’s favors are usually things like yard work or errands she swears she can take care of herself. My aunt is more of a wild card. When she needs something, it could be anything from being a guinea pig for her latest hair dye experiments to helping her bathe her cat.

I’m never doing either one again.

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