Page 59 of Doctorshipped
I giggle. “Nice try, but, nope, not even then.”
“Ella Mae’s notthatbad,” Em says.
The rest of us turn toward her with looks of incredulity written across our faces.
Em holds her hands up in surrender.
“I’ll figure it out. I only need to get one thousand followers. It shouldn’t be so hard, right?”
From the expressions looking back at me, I know the answer. I’m doomed.
After a morning at the salon, I head over to the flower mart. I’ve only been working at the florist on Saturdays and an occasional afternoon here and there now that I’m tutoring Fiona. The owners are super flexible. They only really need my help on high-demand days like Mother’s Day and Valentine’s, or for the occasional wedding or funeral. I’m putting together a late-summer bouquet for Laura’s aunt when the bell over the shop door tinkles.
As if summoned by our talk about her this morning, Ella Mae walks in. It’s more of a stride, really. The woman owns whatever space she enters, I’ve got to give her that. Today she’s wearing a yellow and white sunflower print halter top that harkens back to the 1950s. She paired that with white shorts and a pair of white, strappy-heeled sandals. It’s so beyond what most people around here wear. I mean, we’re a farm community. And in town we keep it relatively casual. Not Ella Mae. She’s on a planet of her own—an obviously fashionable planet where the rest of the solar system relies on her posts for sustenance.
“Heya, Jayme.”
“Hi, Ella Mae. What can I do for you?”
“Oh, no. You have that all wrong. It’s not what you can do for me. It’s what I can do for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rumor has it you need help with social media.”
“How on earth?”
“Did I find out? Girl. It’s Bordeaux.”
“True.”
“So, are you going to let me help you? You know there’s no one more qualified. And I am always willing to help someone in need of this kind of intervention.”
“Intervention?”
Oh, sweet baby pickles. What could she have in mind?
“You know. Like when those people have done a bunch of drugs and the family circles the wagons and calls in an expert to tell the person to stop using and face the music? That’s an intervention. Well, sometimes, I’m that person.”
“The one on drugs?” I deadpan.
“Ha ha. No, silly. I’m the one they call in. Well, they don’t call me, but they should. Oh, yes they should. Not to stop the drug use, though I’d be glad to do that too. I’m the one to help people like you in their time of need.”
“And bytime of needyou mean?”
“Need to get with the times. Need to develop a fan-base. Need to find your tribe. Need to enhance your feed.”
“My feed?”
She fans herself as if she’s suddenly suffering from heat exhaustion.
“This may be harder than I thought. Please tell me you know what a feed is.”
“Like at the Seed-N-Feed?” I’m goading her. I know. It’s a little cruel, but honestly, an intervention? We’re talking social media here. It’s not like I’m a candidate for an episode ofHoardersorMy Six-Hundred Pound Life. I could use a few meetings of stress-bakers anonymous, but we’re not going there. No one complains when I over-bake.
I picture Grant enjoying my muffins and cookies. Why is that man in my head so much today?
Ella Mae continues, undeterred, as usual. “Face it. You’re a single woman writing romance. That doesn’t sell. I mean, obviously your version of romance has sold, despite the creepy subject matter, but to really sell, to make this …” She pauses to add air quotes. “... ‘next level’, you need to show you are the consummate romance expert.”
