It was happening.
My book is being published.
Not just eBooks or preorders. Printed. Shipped. Real.
A real book with my name on the spine, in boxes on their way to Wisteria Creek, to be shelved alongside the paperbacks that had raised me.
I laughed. I cried. Then I bent down, picked up the mug, which had miraculously survived the fall, and set it on the counter with shaking hands.
Then I grabbed my phone.
Me:
It’s happening.
Greyson:
What’s happening?
Me:
THE BOOK. The shipment’s confirmed. I’m getting copies sent to Delilah’s and thehouse next week.
Greyson:
I’m locking up early. We’re celebrating.
Me:
You’re not serious.
Greyson:
Champagne’s already in the fridge, Bee.
Delilah nearly knocked me over when I showed up at the bookstore with the news.
“Oh, sweet girl,” she said, enveloping me in one of her perfumed, book-dusty hugs. “I’ve got your name written down in the back of that register next to all the authors who started here.”
I blinked at her. “You do?”
“Of course I do. I knew you had it in you since the first time you sat between those shelves and read five chapters aloud to the stuffed dragon in the corner.”
I laughed. “I think that dragon gave me my first bad review.”
Delilah waved me off and wiped her eyes. “You tell your publisher I want fifteen signed copies minimum. Front table display. And I’m putting it underStaff Favoriteseven if I’m the only staff.”
It was surreal. To stand in the bookstore where I once dreamed of getting published. Where I used to scribble poems on napkins and hide them between the shelves like secrets.
Now my name would be on the shelf.
My story.
My voice.
Greyson didn’t let me get out of the car without blindfolding me.
“I swear Grey, if this is another picnic in the orchard, ”
