Work In Progress (Red Lipstick Coalition #3) - Staci Hart
Unforgivable Sins
Amelia
Three more people.
The girl in front of me shifted the weight of her bag on her shoulder, the bulk of which rested under her arm like a pack mule. I eyed the bag, wondering how many books were inside, like one of those How Many Jelly Beans Are in the Jar? games I was terrible at.
There were eleven, if I had to guess.
I might not have spatial awareness of jelly beans, but I could probably sniff that bag and determine how many books were inside.
Two more people.
Sweat bloomed in my palms as we all shuffled a few steps closer to the table where Thomas Bane sat.
All I could see between bodies was an unrecognizable sliver of face and a bit of his elbow, clad in a black leather jacket.
I took a breath—a deep, thick, anxious breath—and recited the words on the damp piece of paper in my back pocket.
It’s nice to meet you.
I’m Amelia Hall with the USA Times.
Please sign that generic.
I’m fine, thank you.
Yes, I’ve read every word you’ve ever written.
No, I actually didn’t enjoy them at all.
Okay, that last one wasn’t on the list. And the truth was, I’d devoured every book he’d written since he broke out six years ago. I might have hate-read them, but read them I had, every word.
Thomas Bane, the sensation. At twenty-four, he’d shown up first in pop culture, dating a Hollywood It girl—the one tapped to star in half a dozen romantic comedies in half as many years. The crowd went wild, the media clamoring to find out everything they could about the tall, dark, and cavalier Thomas Bane. And in the height of the media frenzy, he’d dropped his first fantasy novel.
He was a legend, the name on everyone’s lips. There were entire websites devoted to speculating about his girlfriends—comprised of a long and famous list of models and pop singers and actresses—and his relationship status. He had somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty bazillion followers on Instagram, and there was a fan account devoted strictly to his hair.
His hair, guys. His hair had its own Instagram.
I’d say I didn’t follow it, but I was a terrible liar.
And there he was, just a few feet away. And in two—shit—one person, it would be my turn to meet him.
The best I could hope for was that I could survive the meeting without fainting, running away, or squeaking like a farmhouse door.
If it wasn’t for my brand new gig blogging for the USA Times’ book division, I never would have found myself standing in the hip little bookstore in the East Village. But my boss, who happened to be a terrifying, brilliant shark, had assigned me my first real gig—come to the book signing, meet Thomas Bane, have a few books signed, and try not to have a stroke when I had to have an actual conversation with him.
My therapist had said the exposure would be good for me. If I was ever going to pursue my dream of editing for a publisher, I figured I’d have to learn to speak to strangers.
The girl in front of me unloaded her haul onto the table with shaking hands.
…nine, ten, eleven. Ha!
A rumbling laugh from the other side of the table. He said something I couldn’t make out, something in a snarky, smoky baritone that did something inexplicable to my insides.
I chalked it up to nerves.
Remember the ABCs—acknowledge, breathe, connect, I recited to myself matter-of-factly, sucking in a noisy breath through my nose that garnered me a glance from the girl in front of me.
I hadn’t purchased groceries at the actual market in well over a year. I hadn’t answered the phone for anyone but my best friends or parents in at least five. And I didn’t go anywhere without a buffer who, in case of emergency, could speak for me.
It was almost always a case of emergency.
My speechlessness wasn’t an enigma, but it was most definitely inconvenient. God knew I had enough words in my head, words in my heart, chittering chattering words that never saw the light of day when the spotlight was on me.
It didn’t even have to be a spotlight. A flashlight was plenty.
It was rare to hear me speak outside the company of people who I knew loved and accepted me. People I could trust.
Thomas Bane was most certainly not one of those people. And if he recognized my name, I was well and truly fucked.
I’d reviewed every book of his at three stars or less.