“Fucking men,” Rina mutters as Ainsley and I giggle.
“They’re ridiculous,” Ainsley says, walking over to the double oven and pulling out the garlic bread.
Carbonara.I was trying to figure out which one of Ainsley’s favorite foods Ledger was cooking, and I’m not disappointed.
I can practically feel the drool on my chin.
“Do I not feed you well enough?” Oakley’s low voice hits me from behind.
“You do, but Ledger makes fresh pasta.”
“I could make fresh pasta,” he says in a petulant tone.
I rub my lips together to hide my smile before turning around. “You could make the best pasta, James.”
“James? Your real name isn’t Oakley?” Rina somehow hears with hypersonic hearing.
“James Oakley. I’ve gone by Oakley for most of my life, though. She’s the only one who calls me James.” There’s a very small threat weaved into his words. Apparently, I will be the only one to call him James.
“Well, okay then.” Rina grins at me. “Dinner ready yet, old man?”
“I swear to God, if you don’t stop calling me that, I’m not feeding you. I tweak my back one time lifting soil, and you badger me with old comments for weeks,” he grumbles.
“Okay, family.” Ainsley claps her hands. “Let’s eat.”
The rest of dinner is filled with our usual banter that I didn’t realize I missed so much.
Rina and Oakley are helping clean up when my phone rings. I take a peek with no intention of answering because this is family time, but when I see my editor, Ruby ,calling, I immediately think something is wrong.
Rushing out the back door, I answer on my way out.
“Hey, everything okay?”
“Holy shit, Will. Have you looked online recently?”
“Umm, not after I posted on my socials today, why?”
“Go check how many pre-orders you have.” She doesn’t answer my question, but I do as she asks anyway. I’m currently trying to push my new book hard on marketing, and because it’s so different for me, I just know something bad happened.
I pull up the website and do a double take.
“What the fuck?” I whisper.
“Put me on!” I hear Ruby yell through my phone that I’m still currently looking at.
“What happened?” I finally ask.
“The post from this morning blew up. Like, virally blew up. You can’t look anywhere without someone talking about it.”
“How— What? How did this happen?” I feel frantic and very confused.
“I don’t know, babes. It hit perfectly and people kept sharing it, and here we are.”
“What do I do?” I mean, I’m successful enough to afford the life I currently live, but I’ve never seen these kinds of numbers. And that’s just the pre-order.
“You keep pushing and marketing, and see how high you can take this.”
“But what if it sucks? What if people get it and then absolutely hate it? What if it doesn’t live up to the hype?” I whisper. Imposter syndrome never quite goes away, it seems.
