Page 49 of The Ruse of Romancing
I carefully locked the tablet screen and placed it in his bag before throwing my arms around Allen and all but tackling inhim an enthusiastic kiss. We had kissed several times since our first date, but this kiss held something deeper as his lips seemed to answer every unspoken question my lips posed.
As our kisses slowed, we pulled apart and settled back in to work and wait for the sunset, but my eyes were still drawn to him again and again. I could feel myself falling a little more in love with Allen with each passing moment, but I pushed the feeling aside. I lived in Utah. He lived in Idaho. And while both locations were only separated by a state line and a couple hundred miles, I worried what the distance would do once we returned to our homes. It seemed I was headed straight for heartbreak, and I wasn’t sure what to do about that fact.
The next day, Allen convinced me to give up an entire writing day for an adventure in Portland. He’d promised it would be worth it, so, much to Avery’s chagrin, I’d agreed. I’d kept Avery and the cousins apprised of the situation with Allen and, since I was making good progress on book two, Avery hadn’t protested too much when I told her I wouldn’t be writing today. I knew she was just concerned I was going to get my heart broken, but I remembered a time before she started dating Captain Vanilla when Avery would have run away on an adventure without hesitation. I hoped she could find at least a piece of that Avery and her happiness again.
As Allen and I walked down the street in Portland, a sign caught my eye and I froze, knowing immediately where he was taking me.
“Seriously?” I looked back and forth between Allen and the red and white sign above the store across the street. “You’re taking me to Powell’s Books!”
“When you said you’d never been, I knew I had to fix that,” Allen said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders as we walked across the street to visit one of the largest independent bookstores in the world.
As we got closer, I hesitated, realizing that I was about to walk into a bookstore without a disguise. And while being a famous author was a level of celebrity that didn’t come with much public recognition, being in a bookstore increased those odds exponentially.
“What if someone recognizes me?” I asked, slowing to a stop a few steps away.
Allen stopped beside me, seeming to consider the situation for a moment before taking off his hat and placing it on my head.
“How’s that for an instant disguise?”
I snorted a laugh. “Now the challenge is: spot the author in a hat.”
Allen paused, studying me before reaching over and tucking my hair back behind my ear.
“Now you’re really in disguise.”
Rolling my eyes, I took off the hat and, working quickly, tucked my hair up into the hat so that it came through the back. Then I snagged the sunglasses Allen had tucked into the neck of his shirt. I’d feel ridiculous wearing sunglasses inside, but it would have to do.
Even with my disguise, questions continued to circle in my mind, and I bit my lip, hesitating even as other customers passed us to enter the store. Allen watched me expectantly, seeming to sense there was more to my reticence than the need for a disguise.
What if someone recognized me? What if they started asking questions about book two? What if they hatedOf Curses and Pomegranates?
Yes, I had written the last several days and I was cautiously optimistic that what I’d written wasn’t complete crap, but I still felt like a sham. A fake. It was part of why I’d struggled so hard to write book two. No matter how many copies of my book sold, I still vividly remembered the words of my first few negative reviews. There was a reason I didn’t read reviews anymore if I could help it. The words “flash in the pan,” “overhyped,” and “a complete waste of money and time” echoed in my ears if I wasn’t careful. It terrified me to think the critics might be right and that I wouldn’t be able to live up to the hype with my second novel.
I guess that’s what came from being an “overnight” success. Though what the magazines and reviewers didn’t see were the years of work I’d put intoOf Curses and Pomegranates. The late nights writing and revising around my day job. The two unfinished novels that would forever stay buried on my laptop, never to see the light of day. The writing conferences and retreats and forums I’d participated in, trying to hone my craft and learn how to be an author. Yes, some people on BookTok and Bookstagram loved me, but did that really make me an author if all I’d done was publish a single book?
Would my career live past this summer and the initial hype of a book that happened to hit the trends just right?
If I couldn’t write a best-selling conclusion to my duology, I had a horrible, sinking feeling that I would fail on a fundamental level to the point that I’d never truly recover.
And yet, here I was, about to walk into this giant independent bookstore with a man I was starting to fall for, pretending like it was no big deal. Yes, he’d seen my books back at Seabreeze Reads, but it wasn’t quite the same. For some reason, this felt different. Would I even be able to find my books? Or wouldthey be relegated to a back corner, like some kind of dirty, unimpressive secret?
“You okay?” Allen asked, resting a reassuring hand on my lower back. It was a welcome contact, like he was trying to guide me through this emotional rollercoaster.
I bit my lip before nodding and squaring my shoulders. I could do this.
“I’m fine. It’s just always... weird walking into bookstores now that I’m published. Bookstores used to be my favorite places in the world but now...” I shook my head, not fully sure how to finish the thought. “Now it’s complicated. There are so many thoughts and emotions every time I walk through the door.”
“Tell me more,” Allen said, guiding me away from the door and off to the side, out of the flow of traffic going into and out of the bookstore.
“It sounds so stupid to say it all out loud,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh, even though I knew I needed to speak the words. “Every time I walk into a bookstore, it’s this obstacle course of emotions. Will they have my book? Won’t they? If they do, will someone recognize me? Do I want them to recognize me?” I pulled off Allen’s sunglasses to rub at the bridge of my nose, trying to relieve the pressure building behind my eyes.
“That’s a lot of questions,” Allen observed, watching me closely.
I gave a small snort. “That’s not even half of them. Those questions are just what run through my head when I go to a bookstore. It’s exponentially worse if I’m going to a book signing. Then I add in questions like: What if no one comes? What if hundreds of people come? What if they love it? What if they hate my book?” Here I paused, not wanting to give voice to the last thought that I’d been struggling with since the moment other people started reading my words. Taking a breath, I continued, my voice quieter than before as I finally spoke aloudmy biggest fear since I’d started this author journey, my throat constricting around the words. “What if they hateme?”
“Oh, Dani.” Allen’s voice softened and he pulled me into his arms.
I buried my face in his chest, careful to turn my head sideways so as not to knock off my hat, the soft cotton of his sweatshirt brushing against my cheek as I closed my eyes and fought back the tears that wanted to escape along with my confession. I hadn’t cried in front of anyone since publishing my book, and I wouldn’t start now. I couldn’t. Otherwise, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop.
