“I’m only going back on the interview if that picture won’t be brought up. I’m here to talk about my books, not my friendships.”
Tomi clicks her tongue. “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”
“What if I join her?” Max says.
My eyes widen and Tomi’s nearly pop out of her narrow head. “What?” she says.
“Restart the interview. Bring up the photo. And I’ll join Julie on the couch and explain that we’re friends. She could even spin this is as something about how authors’ lives are in the public view and people try to discredit them. She can turn the interview around into something she approves of.” Max looks at me. “What do you think?”
I don’t even realize my mouth is open.
Tomi answers for me. “We could do that. I can’t prevent Zoey from asking the tough questions, but you can have another shot at how you answer them.”
“Okay,” I say. My stomach is all butterflies and anxiety like I swallowed a gallon ofwhat the heck is happeningjuice. One glance at Max soothes my nerves. He’s magical like that. I nod, more eagerly this time. “Yes. Let’s do that.”
* * *
The interview takesforty-five minutes the second time around. Zoey isn’t apologetic. She doesn’t even admit that anything went wrong. She gives the interview, and I’m better prepared to rebuff the insulations that photo gives off, especially with Max at my side. Before I know it, they’re packed up and gone.
Now it’s just Max and me.
“Thanks for that,” I say, hands shoved in my pockets while we watch the van back out of my driveway and leave.
“You look really beautiful.”
My head snaps around to him. “Huh?”
“I mean, you’re always beautiful. But today… you look really nice, is all.”
“It’s not me,” I say with a snort. “It’s the hair and makeup guy’s talent, not mine.”
“Hair and makeup only helps if you’re already beautiful.”
I really hope that airbrushed foundation keeps the blush from showing on my cheeks. I could really use a coffee right now, or even a milkshake from Roger’s Diner, but after all the awkwardness with Max, I’m not about to ask him to lunch with me. For all I know, more paparazzi could be lurking around, waiting to snap a photo.
“I can’t believe they did that to me,” I say, exhaling a deep sigh. “I guess it’s the only way an author can get fancy interviews like that. No one cares about books unless they can trash the author somehow.”
Max shoves his hands in his pockets. He’s so much taller than I am, but right now he looks almost like a kid who has had the wind knocked out of his sails. “So is this why you didn’t want anything more to happen between us? The anti-romance thing?”
I shrug, my throat feeling like it’s full of cotton. “Sort of. I got a huge advance to write these books. I can’t be dating men when I’m the face of single women everywhere.”
“You can still be an anti-romance author,” he says, peering at me through hopeful eyes.
“No,” I say with a sarcastic chuckle. “No, I can’t. That’s the very definition of hypocrisy.”
A tiny part of me hopes he’ll keep arguing with me, keep trying to convince me to change my mind. Because if I’m being honest, this time with Max has been happier and more fun than any relationship I’ve ever been in. But he doesn’t argue with me. He just nods softly, giving me the smallest little smile.
“Okay,” he says. “I understand. Good luck with your books.”
And then he’s gone.
For real.
Twelve
Two months later
I readover my editor’s email for the third time. It doesn’t get any better. Turns out reading it yet again doesn’t somehow change the meaning of the words she used. She doesn’t like my new Love Sucks manuscript. She thinks Rosa Ramirez is too bitter, the plot is too slow, and the characters are cliché. To put it simply, the next Love Sucks book, well, sucks.
