Page 44 of Beyond Question

Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have even accepted the award in person at all.

But the ceremony wasn’t televised, and I had no reason to believe my little speech would leave the people gathered in that auditorium.

I miss the world before iPhones. Whengalaxieswere nothing but collections of gas, dust, and millions of stars, not handheld recording devices to put anyone on blast at any given moment.

In the week since the awards ceremony, I’ve been called a plethora of colorful adjectives in the press. Fromangryandbitter, to my favorite:ungrateful. As if there is anyone to be grateful toward. No one helped me create this company. In fact, much to the contrary, most of my associates hoped to see me fail.

Grateful? Ha. As if I haven’t paid my dues and worked my ass off to be here.

The social media manager for Turn the Paige has had her hands full deleting countless comments from keyboard warriors and bots—I’ve instructed my accounting department to give the poor girl a raise.

In direct contradiction to the influx of nasty comments and messages online, what I hadn’t expected—and what’s completely blindsided me day after day in the weeks since the awards ceremony—is the outpouring of support.

The emails, phone calls, and letters have arrived steadily with no sign of stopping any time soon.

The influx of romance submissions has rocked my boutique publishing house. We are overwhelmed. My acquisitions editors are struggling to keep up.

And the resumes… my god. The sheer number of people who want to work here, who are ready to jump ship at larger houses and hop into bed with thismodestpublishing house? Astounding. I’ve hired two more employees just this morning and have a list of applicants a mile long to interview in the coming weeks.

My little team is growing rapidly, and I’m at once thrilled and terrified.

Because with growth comes notoriety. What happens when news about me travels beyond this city, beyond this state? What happens when one little unplanned speech threatens my carefully curated life?

The urge to pack up and run again is a steady thrum in my veins. But I’m hanging on to hope. Hope that the excitement will die down before it reaches across the pond. Hope that he’s long gone, dead or decrepit in some jail cell by now.

Hope that, even after I was so absolutely careless, I’m still, somehow, safe.

Thatsheis safe.

“You’re doing it again,” Rylan says softly.

I look up at her standing in the doorway to my office and drop my hand. Chewing on my nails is an old habit I thought I’d ditched years ago. I shrug and laugh as I say, “At least it’s not cigarettes.”

Rylan grimaces. “Don’t tell me you used to smoke.”

God, she’s adorable. Sometimes I forget just how young she is. “In my day, honey, we all smoked.”

“Gross.”

I just laugh and grab my tube of rosewater hand cream, then slather it on my hands. The strong perfumed scent will keep my fingernails out of my mouth for a little while anyway, an old trick I learned years ago.

I look back up at Rylan and frown. The circles under her eyes are a bit more pronounced than I’d like to see. I worry that the increased workload and stress from the backlash will affect her pregnancy, but she refuses to take time off until the baby comes.

I’m surprised her overbearing fiancé hasn’t forced her into bed rest and around-the-clock home care yet, but, now that I think of it, that time is probably coming.

“How are you, Rylan?”

She sighs and plops down in the chair on the other side of the desk, opposite mine, looking down at her belly as she runs her hands over it lovingly. “Nervous.”

I smile sympathetically.

“Cabot’s going to be great, you know? He’s great at everything.” She pauses, looking off into the middle distance and her eyes get that glazed-over, loved-up look in them again. I hope that man never takes her for granted.

Although, if he does, I could strangle him for the offense, and strangling someone like Cabot Reed might feel pretty good…

“It’s just…” She frowns, then meets my gaze again. “What if I’m not a good mom?”

“Oh, honey.” I set down the stack of submissions that have made it to my desk this week and fold my arms onto the desktop. “Rylan, your fears are valid and natural, but—and I mean this with love—completely unwarranted.”

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