Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
My stomach knots at the thought. I run my finger over the raised gold of his name on the dust jacket and feel my thighs clench, heat sparking from the memory of his hands, his teeth, the hungry way he used to say “Kitten” as if it meant more than any real name could.
I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. But I’m going.
I text Simone: Next Tuesday. I’ll be there.
She sends back a GIF of Buffy arming herself for battle, then a string of heart emojis.
By the time I leave for class, I have the book in my bag and a plan in my head: go to the reading, sit in the back, and watch Talon try to charm a room full of strangers. I’ll keep my coat on, keep my hands in my lap, and if he even thinks about acting like the Talon from the cabin, I’ll walk out and never look back.
Unless, of course, he looks at me and says something real.
I laugh at myself, but it’s the kind of laugh that tastes like hope.
It’s stupid. It’s dangerous. But for the first time in months, it feels like my story isn’t over.
The week passes in a haze of assignments, coffee, and obsessive re-reading. I highlight passages. I scribble in the margins. I write my own lines—rebuttals, retorts, the things I wish I’d said when we were together. I even dream about Talon, some nights: sometimes he’s chasing me, sometimes he’s waiting for me, but always, always, he calls me “Kitten.”
The night of the reading, I dress in black tights and a clingy top, hair up in a messy bun. I wear the skirt. Fuck it. I look like the version of me he wrote, except stronger, sharper, as if I’m the one who gets to author the ending this time.
I pause at the entrance to the bookstore, heart hammering. I’m a little late, but it’s okay. I walk into the store, book clutched tight, heart banging around my ribs like a caged thing, and scan the crowd for Talon’s face.
I don’t see him yet.
But I know he’ll see me.
And when he does, maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally know how the real story is supposed to end.
16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN – THE BOOK READING
Talon
You’d think after a decade of being an author, I’d be immune to nerves at a book reading. But right now my hands are shaking so bad I can barely hold my drink, and every time I shift in this designer blazer my ribs creak like floorboards in a haunted house. My entire body is on high alert, every sense raw, every muscle wired. I’m at the front of Century Pages, a small indie bookstore, about to do a public reading of my first romance novel—a sentence that would have made past-me puke.
It’s a little past seven, and the place is fucking packed. I count six rows of folding chairs, filled with mostly women. Some are attractive co-eds, all of them clutching copies of Angel’s Share like it’s the new Fifty Shades. The crowd is loud, caffeinated, and chattering with eagerness. I see maybe two men in the audience: a balding dad in a Star Wars tee and a grad student who looks like he’s been dragged here under protest. The rest are young women—some giggly, some serious, all with that same look of expectation.
It’s a full house, standing room only. There’s a line snaking between the poetry section and the check-out, people holding hardbacks and phones, some recording, some posing for selfies with the cardboard cutout of my “author photo.” Where did they even get that? Nonetheless, I look handsome in cardboard and in person, judging from the appreciative glances of the ladies in the audience. They’re here for man meat tonight, definitely.
I spot Jeremy, the owner of Century Pages, darting through the aisles, wielding a tablet and talking fast to a college kid in a “Team Edward” tee. Isn’t it a little late for Twilight fandom? I suppose it never dies. There’s a barista at the back steaming oat milk like it’s the apocalypse. A woman in a peasant dress is putting out a tray of “virgin” Shirley Temples and a single bottle of whiskey for me. I swallow a laugh, then swallow the urge to run.
I scan the crowd for her. For Kat.
I don’t see her. Not yet.
I keep scanning. Every blonde girl with her hair down, every round bottom in a skirt, every nervous flicker of a hand. Not her. Not her. Not—wait.
No. False alarm. Just some undergrad with similarly lush blonde locks. But this woman’s figure is stick straight, with none of the curves that I adore on my woman. Heart sinking, I look back to my notes, force myself to go over the opening line again. But it’s useless. All I can think about is the last time I saw Kat: the way her face looked, frozen with tears on her cheeks, when she realized what a bastard I really am. The way her ass looked when she walked out the cabin door, duffel bag over her shoulder, back ramrod straight even as she was breaking inside.