Chapter One
Jess
I used to love the holidays. All holidays, really, but Christmas in particular. I wasthatperson, breaking out my decorations the day after Halloween (I love you, Thanksgiving, but not enough to stave off the garland and lights and stockings hung by the fire for any longer than absolutely necessary). You could find me ordering a grande peppermint mocha the moment the red cups were released, Mariah Carey queued up the second the clock struck midnight on November 1.
To be totally honest, I still do all of those things. My tree is already set up in the corner of my studio apartment, decked out in all her sparkly finery. Lights wrap around the metal railing enclosing my tiny balcony. And a single, solitary stocking has been hung, though not by the fireplace because I can’t afford one of those. Instead, it dangles from a plastic hook right next to the tree, still hung with very much care. So yeah, I still do Christmas these days; there’s just slightly less joy and fervor to my holiday rush. Now it’s more like a holiday trickle. But I suppose that’s normal when you get dumped on Christmas (fine, itwas two weeks after Christmas, but it still counts and was remarkably shitty timing).
But this will be the year I get my Christmas groove back.
As I walk from the studio apartment the ad described as “cozy” down the five blocks to the coffee shop where I make most of my income, I try to focus on the holiday magic instead of lingering on my ghosts of Christmas past. It’s been five years, but the holiday season always brings memories to the surface. So this year will be all about making new memories.
The shop is packed, and after I clock in, I barely have time to greet my favorite coworker, Josie, before I’m pulling espresso shots and foaming milk.
“Does this count as a holiday rush?” I ask her with a groan when the line has finally died down and we both have a minute to breathe.
It’s the Monday after Thanksgiving, but with the crowds swarming the shop, you’d think everyone was fueling up for another run at Black Friday deals.
Josie wipes down the counter while I restock the baked goods. “All I know is that there’s been a serious lack of holiday tipping.” She tucks a strand of her long black hair back into her bun that’s veered from sleek to messy, her golden-brown skin flushed from running around.
I suppress another groan. The owner of the coffee shop pays us well, but I was counting on some tip money this month to help tide me over until my next payment from my publisher.
People tend to be surprised when they find out I’m apublished romance author. Not because I don’t seem like the type—I probably fit the stereotypical bill as far as appearances go—but because they assume authors make enough money to not have to work at coffee shops. Well, you know what they say about assumptions.
My phone vibrates in my pocket just as I’m about to head to the back for my break. My feet are already aching, and I’m only halfway done with my shift, but my mood lifts slightly when I see the email notification.
The subject line of the email from Sonia, my agent for the past seven years and also a friend, is promising.Incredible Opportunity, it reads.Respond ASAP.
Lately the only emails I’ve been getting from Sonia have been incessant questions about when she can expect my next manuscript. Hopefully this sense of urgency means something good is coming. Maybe an offer for a new IP project, or some promising news from my editor. Maybe one of my books finally earned out its advance and my next royalty payment won’t be as pitiful as the last one.
I scan through the email quickly, eyes searching for something with dollar signs, some good news, something to celebrate.
It’s the absolute opposite of good news. As a writer, I should maybe know a word or phrase for “opposite of good news,” but spoiler alert, I spend half my writing time googling “synonym for smile,” so I got nothing.
I force myself to go back to the beginning of the email and read it again. Surely Sonia is playing a very mean prank on me and is not actually suggesting what she seems to be suggesting. Because what she seems to besuggesting is fucking ludicrous, and she knows I would never, not in one million years, accept this “opportunity” she’s so thrilled to present.
Jess,
I spoke with the pub team earlier today and they wanted me to pass along this invitation. As you know, the annual SVP holiday ball is coming up in just a few weeks and they would love for you to be involved in the awards ceremony!(For a second here, I thought she was going to tell me I was to be presented with an award, which would be amazing, even though as far as I know there’s no money attached to any of my publisher’s annual vanity awards.)Nick Matthews is going to be receiving the Romance Author of the Year award and they want you to be the one to give it to him!(There are so many things I would like to give Nick Matthews, and an award is nowhere on that list.)I know you and Nick don’t have the best history(this is when I snorted out loud while reading—both times),but I think this could be a great opportunity for some exposure. Plus, if you say no(obviously I’m going to say no),it makes it look like you don’t want to be a team player, and you know how important it is for everyone at Saint Valentine’s Press to show support for one another.(Gag.)WHEN you agree to do this, as I know you will because you are a smart woman who will take personal issues out of the equation and focus on the business(sure, Sonia),it’s going to position us favorably when we pitch your next book. So think about it. Seriously. You need to say yes, Jess.(Ugh, I can hear her voice in that tone that lets me know this “choice” is no choice at all.)Bonus, as a presenter, SVP will cover your hotel room for the night of the ball!(Well, there is that one piece of good news because I don’t think I could afford to go otherwise.)I’ll wait for your official yes before I respond. Which I expect to receive shortly. Don’t throw your phone at the wall—you can’t afford a new one.
Warmly,
Sonia
My grip tightens around my plastic phone case—red and sparkly with a reindeer on the back, though I did forgo changing my ringtone to “Jingle Bells” this year—and I’m tempted to ignore her instructions, but Sonia is, as always, right.
I don’t respond immediately to her email, like I normally would. Instead, I tuck my phone into my back pocket and vow to ignore her for at least two hours for having the audacity to even ask me to do this.
Sure, my career is not exactly flourishing. Sales for my last two books have not been what anyone would call stellar. I suppose there is a small chance that my publisher, SVP, could decide to decline my option for my next book—a book I have yet to write because writing a book requires an idea and I have exactly zero of those at the moment. But my backlist still does okay. I earned out the advance for my first contract, eventually, and even though I’m not making any bestseller lists anytime soon, I have a dedicated fan base who really loves my books.
Books that only got published because my fantastic editor, Hannah, saw something in me and in my writing. Shehas been with me for all five books, and the thought of not working with her anymore gives me for-real pangs in my chest. I don’t want to leave her, and I don’t want to leave SVP. Not just because I don’t know that any other publisher will have me, but because I truly love my team.
And it’s not their fault SVP publishes Nick Matthews’s stupid books. Stupidly successful books that ride the coattails of the romance genre without actually being romance books themselves. The lack of a happily ever after in literally any of Nick’s books hasn’t stopped him from topping theNew York TimesBest Sellers list with every new release. It hasn’t stopped the TikTokkers from blowing his books up, hasn’t stopped Netflix from calling with their big movie money. And apparently, not writing true romance won’t keep him from being named SVP’s Romance Author of the Year.
Sigh.
Nick Matthews is the worst.
I hate him.
