Once Upon a Date - Susan Hatler
Chapter One
After building up the guts to submit my romance manuscript to my dream publisher, I just received a rejection email calling the book of my heart unrealistic, unimaginable and unpublishable. Talk about brutal. You’d think I’d be at home right now banging my head against my laptop and screaming, “I don’t get why you hate my novel! Where did I go wrong, world? Where did I go wrong?”
But, no.
After receiving the worst news of my life, my best friend thought it would cheer me up to accompany her to a masquerade ball at the Geoffries hotel in downtown Sacramento. Due to the aforementioned trauma, my bumbled brain didn’t have the forethought to decline the invitation. This was why I was currently climbing out of a taxi behind Krista and wishing I were at home in bed with my head under the pillow.
“Remind me again how being in a crowded ballroom while wearing a black silk dress with a rhinestone crisscross halter is supposed to be helpful when I’m feeling—and likely looking—my worst?” I asked, shutting the cab door.
“You look fabulous, Michelle,” she said, giving me a sympathetic look. “And, for the umpteenth time, I’m not going to let you stay home and be miserable over this one rejection. Another publisher is going to love your book and buy it, the right publisher.”
I sighed. “My unrealistic, unimaginable, and unpublishable book?”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Just one annoying editor’s worthless opinion.”
“Prince & Company is well respected,” I reminded her. We were striding down the sidewalk in our heels when all of the sudden a bug or something flew into my eye. Ouch! I blinked rapidly. Hadn’t my day been traumatic enough? Apparently not. Sigh. “Did I mention that Prince & Company was my number one choice for a romance publisher?” I asked.
“A gazillion times,” Krista said, dabbing gloss on her lips as she glanced at me briefly.
“Well, it bears repeating,” I said, since she didn’t seem to get what a huge blow this rejection was to my future career. Pain stabbed my cornea and I rubbed my eye trying to get the gnat out of my vision as the editor’s words echoed through my brain again. “Unrealistic, unimaginable, and unpublishable. That was his professional feedback on my novel.”
“Well, that editor obviously has a miserable life and he wants everyone to be just as miserable, too. I mean, how hard is it to say ‘no thanks’ or ‘not a good fit for me’? Not hard. Now, stop rubbing your eye or you’ll look like a panda,” Krista said, smoothing the front of her long red dress. “We both need this night out and we’re going to enjoy it. You’ll see.”
I sighed, hoping she was right. I glanced her way through my blurred vision, knowing I needed to push the rejection out of my mind so I didn’t ruin her night.
“You look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman,” I said, admiring the red off the shoulder gown that clung to her every curve before falling to the sidewalk in a graceful fishtail. Then I blinked and nudged the corner of my eye with my knuckle. “Fancy is a good look on you. I’m used to seeing you in athletic wear, especially those outfits from the new Fashionably Fit line.”
“What can I say? I’m versatile. Seriously, though, stop rubbing your eye.”
I raised a shoulder. “So what if I look like a panda? Pandas are cute, right? With their black and white fuzzy fur, looking all soft and cuddly while they eat bamboo shoots on top of a mountain.”
“We’re in Sacramento, not China,” Krista pointed out.
“I really need to lay off the Disney Nature movies,” I said, shaking my head.
“You definitely needed to get out tonight.”
“If only I could get this thing off my pupil,” I said, widening my eyes and blinking fast, hoping to dislodge whatever bug had rudely invaded my vision.
Krista stopped outside the hotel, giving me a concerned look. “You look like you’re chewing a hornet.”
“Something is in my eye. I can feel it.”
She leaned close, staring into my eyes. “I don’t see anything . . .”
“It feels like a gnat or something,” I replied.
“Could it be a speck of dust on your contacts?”
“It’s possible . . .” I took a deep breath and a brilliant idea hit me. “Maybe I should run home and get my glasses and then—”
“No way, not happening. I know you too well, my dear. Getting your glasses is just an excuse for you to go home and