Page 10 of Tell Me Lies

“What? No. Don’t do that.” I panic. “Holly, I’ve been to three writing retreats this year.Three.They didn’t help then. Why would they now?”

“Well, I think they’d help more than nannying a child,” she mutters, the frustration in her tone evident. “Look, kid, you know I love you. We’ve worked together for a long,longtime now. And I have always—and will always have—your best interest at heart in this industry. But you need to shit or get off the pot. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but you are rapidly losing readers. They can only fawn over a series that’s years old for so long before they move on to someone else.”

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. Everything she’s saying, I’m already aware of. I adore my readers, and the last thing I ever want to do is let them down, but I just … can’t help it right now.

“I know. I know. Trust me, I get that,” I tell her genuinely because I do.

The number of tags I get on social media is nothing compared to what they used to be. I would get overwhelmed just by logging in to Instagram because the number of posts and stories I was tagged in and messages about my books were insane. Now, I might get one a day. And that’s if I’m lucky.

My readers are moving on. And I can’t blame them because I’m not holding up my end of the deal as an author. The biggest thing that hurts about that is, I love my readers. So many of them have been with me since the very beginning. They believed in me before the rest of the book community even knew who I was. And I still love writing. Iwantto write. But I just can’t. And as a kid who wrote pages and pages when answering a question all through my school years, it’s crippling.

“You could sayI love you too, you know?” she says, breaking my train of thought. “I mean, justsaying. It is the polite thing to do.”

“You know I love you, Holly. These past few years, I wouldn’t have even survived without you. Not just financially because you’ve kept my sales afloat, but also emotionally. I know you’ve tried to be gentle, and I appreciate that so much because, sincerely, that’s what I’ve needed ever since …” I stop, not wanting to finish my sentence. “I promise, if I’m still struggling in six weeks, we’ll come up with a new plan.”

“One that doesn’t involve you taking care of a child, you mean?”

“I guess.” I laugh lightly. “I just need to clear my head. And who knows? I bet after six weeks of caring for a child, I’ll be begging for my office space and itching to write, just to get away from her.”

“Fine,” she mutters through a sigh. “Fine, fine, fine. But I’m curious, why are the parents so busy that they need a nanny to live with them?”

I debate on not telling her the truth because Holly is an extreme lover of all sports—hockey, football, basketball, and even baseball. She also lives in New Hampshire and is a fan of the Sharks. I’ll attend a game every now and then as a social thing—at least, I used to. But I don’t actually know what’s going on in front of me, and I hardly know any players’ names or what position they play.

Our friendship gets in the way, and I can’t stop myself from blabbing to her, “So, don’t freak out. But do you know Logan Sterns?”

“Ummm … is that even a question? Who doesn’t know that hot-as-hell hockey player? Right winger for the New England Bay Sharks. Single daddy. He was on the cover of a magazine last year in his underwear, and I almost framed it just so I could lickthe picture. I keep it in myhottest athletepile beside my bed.” She giggles. “So, yes, I’m familiar with who he is. Doesn’t he have a—wait a second. Are you—are you nannying for—” With every word she says, her voice rises with excitement until she’s almost squealing.

“I told you not to freak out,” I cut her off. “You’re freaking out.”

“Okay, word to the wise: next time you tell your publicist you’re going to stop writing to babysit some random kid, lead with the fact that it’sLogan fucking Sternskid!” I can hear her pacing and imagine her marching around in her office. “Forget all I said. By all means, yes! Go for it.”

“I don’t get why me telling you it’s Logan Sterns changed anything,” I say, confused. “Like … why does it matter who it is?”

“Hockey isn’t anything we’ve tapped into yet. But let me tell you, hockey is hot right now. No, hockey is on fire,” she rattles off, but I don’t follow. “This can give you inspiration for your next book. Wait, next series!” There’s a short pause, like she’s coming up with some grand plan. “Ahockeyseries.”

“I don’t … wait. How did you get all of that just from hearing I’m going to be nannying for Logan Sterns’s kid?”

“Because that’s how my brain works, babe!” She sounds much happier now, so I don’t have the heart to tell her that she’s undeniably insane. “This will give me so much more to work with.”

“Wait!” I bark into the phone. “No. Do not make anything. Do not tease anything to the readers. And for the love of God. Do. Not. Open a sign-up sheet for a series that likely isn’t ever going to happen!”

“Fine,” she huffs. “But when we talk next, if you’re feeling inspired, will you be straight with me?”

“Yes,” I answer, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I gotta go. I’m due at Logan’s house for training in twenty minutes.”

“He can train you by taking his clothes—”

“Goodbye, Holly!” rushes from my lips seconds before I end the call and sit down on my bed.

“Hockey series?” I mutter to myself, shaking my head. “That would be … a terrible idea.”

I mean, I don’t even know if I find hockey players hot. And even if I did, staying in a professional hockey player’s house while plotting a book featuring a hockey player seems … gee, I don’t know … weird? And creepy.

Slowly standing, I slide on my trusty Birkenstocks, grab my crossbody bag, and head for the door. After all, I have babysitting training to do.

And, yeah … maybe it doesn’t hurt that the child’s dad is really, really easy on the eyes.

After a few hours of a CPR and babysitting-safety crash course, the middle-aged woman named Shannon packs her things up and gives me a smile. “Do you have any questions for me before I take off?”

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