Page 86 of A Billion Dollar Romance
I nodded, blinking back tears. “And he wants to publish it,” I managed.
“Well, he didn’t say as much to me, butyouknow he’s desperate for a new romance author–”
And there it was.
“I can’t accept,” I said.
“I understand,” Sam said. “I know you’ll want to shop it around, but remember–”
“No, I mean, I can’t publish this book. Not with you, not with anyone. I don’t–” I stopped to take a ragged breath. “I know James needs a romance, but… It won’t be mine. James and I are over.”
Sam was quiet.
“Ah,” she said at last. “I see.”
“Yeah,” I said. “So, no. When I was writing it, I thought–” I cut myself off. WhathadI thought? That it would becuteto write a romance novel? That James would pat me on the head, give me a gold star sticker and a book deal? “I can’t publish it. Not knowing now how he really felt. It’s too…” It waspathetic, is what it was, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that to Sam. “I don’t want to let him cheapen this any more than it already has been.”
“Edie,” she said slowly, after another long pause. “Are you talking about the article?”
“You read it, did you?”
“I did, but that’s not my question. Are you talking about the article, Edie, or are you talking about James?”
“Who else,” I said, “who elsewouldeveragree to get engaged to his employee and then lead her on while hecared so littlethat he’d want to publish a fictionalization of their relationship? Who else but James,” I said, my voice growing quiet. “This was probably his plan all along.”
I’d been so foolish.
But–
“Jameslovesyou, Edie,” Sam said.
I scoffed. “He had me fooled, too. There’s a reason he’s such a success with women,” I said, remembering the way he’d looked at me, like I was the only star in the sky.
“No, no, Edie, that’s not– IknowJames. Helovesyou. Listen, Edie, please take this as strictly professional advice, I’m not a matchmaker, I just want to sell books. But he does.”
I was quiet.
“You know if you sold this book to Verity, you could rewrite the story,” she said at last. “Set the record straight.”
I shook my head before remembering she couldn’t see it. It didn’t matter, what theWeekhad published about me. It didn’t matter, because it had been true, even if I hadn’t seen it myself.
“It doesn’t matter,” I told her. “I can’t.”
“Because of James.”
“Yes.”
“Because it hurts,” she said, “too much.”
“Too much,” I said, through the lump in my throat. My vision blurred.
“Then talk to him, Edie. I say this as your friend,” she said, “and as your agent, if you’ll let me. James loves you. And I know you love him, too. I know becauseI read your book,” she said. “And Ifelt it.”
The tears spilled over.
“Andthat’swhy I want to represent you. Bye, Edie.”
The line went dead.
