Page 12 of Role Play
“Sure,” I mutter, plucking the card from between his fingers.
Dane clutches his chest, and ducks his head in what seems like gratitude. “You’re a sweetheart, Sora. Thank you. If I could snatch up J.P. Cooper”—he blows out a sharp breath—“I mean, that’s it. My dream list would be complete.”
Keep dreaming.Dad is going to file this business card with all the others—in the trash.
Dane’s palms collide against the top of his thighs with a loud smack. “Whew, okay. Well, I should get going, but I have to say meeting you was the highlight of my week.”
“Thank you. Likewise,” I add.Bleh! What?Damn my word vomit. I can’t even control it. I’m hardwired to spew out niceties. It’s why I’m getting my ass kicked in this industry. I’m too soft. Meeting Dane was not the highlight of my week. Not even close. In fact, scalding the roof of my mouth on hot soup this past Monday was preferable to learning that my dream agent thinks I’m unremarkable, “dime a dozen,” bait.
When Dane rises, I do as well, extending my hand. I glance at the mugs on the table in front of us. Mine empty, Dane’s untouched. Maybe he doesn’t like flat whites. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t even thank me for ordering him something.
“By the way, I know a guy who could probably help with your situation,” he adds, shaking my hand.
A little flutter of hope tickles my chest cavity. “Oh?” I fail at sounding nonchalant. “An associate of yours?”
“In a way. He’s a marketing guru a lot of my well-established authors use. Indie publishing is built on luck and ads. Sounds like your luck hasn’t been fantastic, but my guy could get your ad game going strong. The only problem is, he only takes on serious investors. Can you rummage up about sixty thousand to start?”
What the fuck?He better mean sixty thousand pennies. “Um…what?”
“Too steep?” He scrunches his nose.
That’s more than I make in a year from all my books combined. But I want to save face and not sound as low on the totem pole as I feel. “Is he worth it?”
Dane nods slowly. “Worth every dime. I’ll have my assistant email over his information. Sound good?”
I nod, wordlessly.
Dane pats my shoulder, pairing it with a quick wink. “Take care, Sora. Keep writing. I can’t wait to see you on a bestseller’s list one day.”
When Dane is through the café door, I release the low growl of agitation I’ve been holding in for twenty minutes. I don’t have words for whatever that was that just happened. Today was supposed to changeeverything.
I clench my fists together, feeling my skin stretch over my knuckles. With a deep breath I try to tell myself it’s just business. Of course Dane would seize an opportunity for access to J.P. Cooper. The commissions from selling my dad’s series could probably carry Spellman Literary single-handedly. It isn’t personal, except itis, because there’s a big part of me that is so sick of being jealous of my own dad.
I’ve never read his books. Not because I’m bitter. I’m too scared to be humbled…or maybe more accurately, humiliated. I come from greatness, yet I’m not great. I’m not even a little bit great. My dad’s readers think he’s the next Messiah. What I did not just need is a wakeup call to everything I’m lacking.
I slump back into my chair and slide Dane’s untouched coffee to my side of the table. Running my fingers over the rim, I debate drinking it. Instead, I stare at the coffee that’s cooled, ruminating over how rude it was for him to not take a sip, not thank me, not even acknowledge the gesture. I would’ve done all those things to be polite. It’s moments like these that I feel like my brain is just on a different wavelength than most people—shackled by conscientiousness.
“She didn’t eat it. It’s still sealed.”
My eyes fly to the tall man standing in front of me. Hot dad holds out the still-wrapped cookie, but I don’t take it. Issuing a thick sigh, he places it on the table next to me. “Truce? Sorry. It was a crappy way to break the ice earlier.”
I force myself to match his gaze. “Thanks. But I’m not hungry.”
“Well, chances are you’ll get hungry later.” His lips twitch into a small smile as he taps the cookie. “All yours,” he answers as he glances past me.
I look over my shoulder to follow his stare. He’s angled himself so he can speak to me and also watch his daughter who’s sitting at a nearby table, mindlessly eating a bag of pretzels. She’s fully immersed in the phone she’s holding. Once hot dad is satisfied that his daughter is fine, he continues, “How was your meeting?”
I’m not about to pour my bleeding heart out to a stranger. So, I change the subject. “If she didn’t want the cookie, then why was she crying over it?”
A glint of amusement flashes in his face. “Because she’s four.”
It triggers me. Maybe it’s the simplicity in his explanation. Like I’m the only childless spinster in the world who doesn’t understand crocodile tears.
“You know what? I’m having a really bad day, and I just can’t take one more conversation with a snarky asshole wearing a charming smile. So, if you’ll excuse me.”
He sucks in his lips and raises both eyebrows. “Wow. Unexpected.”
My eyes, on the other hand, narrow. “What? The charming part or the asshole part?”
