Page 34 of Haunted Spurs

Me: I'm blocking you and finding a new agent. I just have to decide in what order.

Jessica: I know deep down you can't live without me! XD

I feel exactly like I did when I was about to sign my first publishing contract.

I remember having this ferocious nausea, a knot in my stomach that kept pulling tighter and tighter during those long, endless silences. I'd held it together right up until the last second, only to bolt to the bathroom and puke my guts out the minute the ink dried on the page.

Well, I really hope I don't puke today.

It would be incredibly embarrassing to do it on live television.

I feel a sudden touch on my arm.

I stiffen instinctively, but the heat seeping through the fabric of my dark sweater is so solid, so reassuring, that my muscles surrender almost immediately. I hate physical contact. I loathe it. But this touch... I hate this one for a completely different reason. I hate it because I like it.

Why the hell does Ron Willers have to have this effect on me?

I tear my gaze away from the imposing iron grates of the Haunted Spurs gates and turn toward him.

His hand is still resting gently on my forearm.

Ron smiles at me. He has the exact same happy, enthusiastic puppy-dog face as his Labrador, Ollie, who is sitting right by his side, wagging his tail so hard he's kicking up dust from the driveway.

"Relax," he murmurs. "It'll be fun."

"I am relaxed," I snap back. Too fast. Too bitter. Too tense even for my own standards.

His thumb moves slightly against my arm. I hold my breath, terrified he's about to pull his hand away. But he doesn't. His thumb strokes the knit fabric in a light caress.

I hate how much this tiny gesture calms me down. The oppressive nausea is still there, lurking at the base of my throat, but... the icy vice around my lungs loosens. I can breathe now.

"Sure!" He exclaims, his smile widening, taking my grumpiness in stride with his usual ease. "Of course you aren't tense. I just meant... if you happened to be, in some parallel universe, you'd have absolutely no reason to be. Everyone out there loves you."

"Everyone loves you, Ron. Not me," I shoot back, crossing my other arm over my chest like a shield.

"Have you read the articles this week?" he counters, leaning in just a fraction to catch my eye. "Your fans are thrilled. Social media has been going crazy ever since the trailer dropped."

"I stopped reading the articles," I lie under my breath. Or rather, it's a half-truth.

When Jim and I broke up, it was an absolute media shitshow. He started giving endless interviews, going on podcasts, and selling out the details of our breakup just to scrape together a few followers and stay in the spotlight.

I, on the other hand, did the only thing I know how to do: disappear. I hate being the center of attention. I didn't even respond on social media to defend myself against his toxic little digs. I just left little black hearts on the comments from my most loyal readers, the ones who sent me sweet messages or defended me in the comment sections of tabloid posts. Jessica stuck her neck out for me, too. She released a ruthless, flawless statement in my defense, but... she's my friend. And she's my literary agent.

"Well..." Ron's voice suddenly goes much more serious, much deeper, pulling me back to the present. "Just know there are a lot of people out there rooting for you. And I'm really happy to be doing this reality show with you."

He drops his hand from my arm to brush the brim of his hat in an almost nervous gesture.

The spot where his skin pressed against mine goes cold instantly. I already miss his touch.

Christ, I'm pathetic.

"I'm serious, Selene," he continues, and his tone comes out a little rushed, like the words are tripping over each other trying to get out. "I've always appreciated you so much as a writer, right from your first book. But over this past month and a half... I've started to appreciate you more and more as a person, too. Not that I didn't before, obviously! I mean... not that you've ever really given too many details about yourself so I could get to know you deeply. You're locked up almost as tight as Grant is, and that's saying something, but there's something about you that..."

"Why are you telling me this?"

I cut his monologue off sharply, almost ruthlessly.

I sound defensive, I sound like the usual cold, standoffish Selene. But the truth is, he doesn't know me at all. He's talking nonsense. He only knows a tiny fraction of my awful personality. His words are just meant to soften me up and make me emotional.