Lily blurts out a laugh and then looks over at me. “I like her. Is that your problem, Evan? Do we need to sugar you up some to make you more palatable?”
I glare at my sister. “Don’t you have some work to do?”
Lily drops back into her chair. “Thanks for the latte, Rachel. Good luck with my brother.”
I turn around quickly, clenching my fists as I walk the short few feet back to my office, leaving the door open for Rachel. I don’t turn around to face her when I hear her gently close it.
“Your sister is nice,” she remarks.
“She’s nice to those who hate me,” I muse, sinking down into my chair behind my desk. I watch as Rachel looks around my small office before choosing the couch over the uncomfortable wooden chair across from me.
“So, she’s nice to everyone?” Rachel questions, her eyes flicking up to me. She takes a long sip of her latte, looking out of the small window in my office that has a view of the busy street below.
“Everyone doesn’t hate me,” I say as I pretend to look at something important on my computer screen.
“That’s true,” she mumbles.
I glance over at her, surprised she would agree with me.
Then she adds, “Most people haven’t met you except through the bio on the back of your books. That version of you seems nice. At least I had thought so.”
“Is this the way it’s going to be for six weeks?” I question. I’m already growing tired of her witty remarks, or maybe it’s just that I’m realizing it’s going to be a chore to keep up with her.
“Well, that depends…” She leans back comfortably, not afraid to make herself at home on the plain black couch.
“On?” I question, arching an eyebrow at her.
“On how you treat me, Evan.” She looks directly at me, not even flinching slightly, even though I meet her glare evenly.
“It’s Mr. Michaels, please,” I insist, if only to annoy her.
“I’m not calling you Mr. Michaels like you’re some schoolteacher and I’m your student.” She cringes before she sits up straighter, pulling her shoulders back. “I’m your equal, and as far as I’m concerned, we’re partners on this book tour.”
“We are not equal. Aren’t you a fan? I mean, you do write fanfiction over my words that are published. Do you not?” I question her, hoping she hears my mocking tone with every word, even though I feel a slight twinge of guilt for saying we aren’t equal. I’ve been there before, feeling like I don’t matter and that I’m beneath the importance of others.
She crosses her arms, latte still expertly righted in one hand as she does so. “Wasa fan. Then I met you. Well, met you the second time, but you wouldn’t remember me from our first meeting.”
I blink. “First time?”
“A few years back,” she begins. “Iwasa fan after all. I waited in line to meet you, and you signed my copy ofMidnight Confession. There’s no way you’d remember me with how many women flock to your events.”
I don’t say anything. I just look at her, watching as the silence drives her crazy. First her foot begins shaking, then she exhales sharply, then she uncrosses her arms, then she sucks her cheeks, making a ridiculous fish face with her lips.
“You don’t intimidate me, you know,” she finally says, her voice tighter now. “Your name may be on the cover and mine is currently covered up with a username, but that doesn’t mean you are a better writer.”
I lean back in my chair, my eyebrow raised. “And yet, here you are, about to go on my book tour.”
She crosses her arms again. “I have fans, you know.”
“I’m aware,” I reply. “That doesn’t mean I’m one of them.”
“Lots of them,” she adds.
“Eight hundred fifty-four thousand, but I’m sure it’s more than that now since it’s growing,” I state, keeping my eyes firm on hers.
“They love what I do,” she says, her eyes as intently focused on me as mine are on her.
“So it seems,” I reply dryly.
