“Actually… I haven’t figured out exactly what I want to do yet.” I shift awkwardly in my seat. All this would be easier if he wasn’tlookingat me like that. “I started a library program, but it didn’t work out.”
Yes, I dropped out.
Far from a college grad, I’m a quitter and a loser.
Two fun terms shelved right next tofailurein Mom’s girthy thesaurus.
“You left?” His brows pull together. “And you were studying to be a librarian? Damn. I always figured you’d be a big-time writer or something.”
Or something, indeed.
“That’s a hard thing to break into. You need to know the right people, or you need a small fortune for ads and influencers to promote your stuff. Cranking out books doesn’t pay the bills unless you’re super lucky.”
“So what’s the new plan?”
“I work at a bookstore. For now.”
He laughs gruffly.
“I’m glad, Pages. You always were a book brat. Remember when we were kids and Margot would run off to tan or look for crabs? You’d hide in the shade with a book. The monster stories were pretty cool, though.”
“You mean the Greek mythology?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, that. The guy who got jerked around for years, trying to come home… feels relatable. The Odyssey? That’s what I get for sleeping through classic lit. Frankly, I would’ve been pissed if you didn’t wind up with books.”
I giggle lightly.
“Better a book brat than a money brat, I suppose.” Although this whole conversation digs into the nagging thought that never quite leaves my head.
The hateful little voice that whispers,you’ll never live up to your full potential.
Mom always said I could be anything if I just put my mind to it—including thin.
Instead, I’m a plus-size college dropout who can’t even afford all the shiny new books on her wish list.
No part of that screams ‘American dream,’ much less ‘billionaire trophy wife.’
“I was the money brat,” he concedes.
“And you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Flattering. You really think that, don’t you?” His lips curl up mischievously. “It’s not like I have you looking for Stephenie Meyer, do I?”
“Wait, what? She’s here? Why didn’t youtell me?” I whip around in my chair, giving the room a once-over.
When he laughs, I realize he’s repeating the same dumb prank he pulled on me the summer I was thirteen.
He almost got medrowned.
Ethan told me the huge yacht parked next to Leonidas’ boat in Portland belonged to Stephen King. I was in my horror stage where I readPet CemeteryandThe Shiningreligiously, so yeah, I was a little excited.
Dumb little Hattie plunged right into the water and tried to swim over.
Stupid, I know.
But at the time, I was so fricking excited I couldn’t contain myself. All I wanted was to be close to the King of horror and score an autograph.
Only, it turns out swimming while you’re fully clothed in chilly harbor water wasn’t nearly as easy as I thought.
