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Prologue
Theresa
“I DIDN’T BECOME A WRITER so I could sit around doing interviews,” I grumble, looking around the room.
It’s packed.
Everything about this place is packed. I’m not going to say it’s body-to-body, but it’s pretty close, and the worst part is that it’s all for me.
Well, it’s all for Terri Jones, my alter-ego.
When I decided to become a romance writer, I never dreamed that my career would take off to the point where I would be the star of book signings or book launch parties. I never really considered that people would actually want to read my stories. I mean, sure, we all have big dreams from time to time. We all have things we wish we could do.
But this...
This is something else entirely.
And when I look out at the crowd, I’m surprised that I don’t feel the way I think I should. I don’t feel happy. I look out at the crowd and I just feel anxious.
Nervous.
Watched.
I feel like a bird on display in some gilded cage.
I feel like a monkey at the zoo.
“Interviews are one of the most important parts of being a writer,” my personal assistant tells me. I look over at the beautiful woman. She’s tall and slender and somehow, still very busty. She’s gorgeous, actually, and I don’t know how I managed to get someone as organized or as persuasive as her to be my assistant.
She helps manage every aspect of my life aside from writing. The only thing she’s not managing, actually, is my weekend getaway with my kids. A couple of days spent camping in the woods is going to do me some good.
At least, I hope that it does.
I need it to help.
“They’re the worst, Em.”
“Chin up,” she says. “You’ve got this under control.”
I don’t feel like I do, though. I feel like I’m under a microscope, like every bit of me is being watched by other people.
The problem with being famous, even if it’s just a little bit famous, is that people seem to think that they know you. They read a book or watch a movie and they feel like they understand who you are as a person.
They get this idea in their head that not only are you friends, or in some sort of relationship, but that you owe them somehow.
It’s a bit dangerous, and a bit strange, and a bit uncomfortable.
“Take a deep breath,” Em tells me. “And then get back out there.”
She gestures to the room o
f people. I know why she wants me to mingle. We’re here celebrating the launch of a new book I wrote, and while I’m proud of my work, I’m also kind of a shy girl. I’m not exactly the type of person who just throws myself out there.
I’m not the type of person who just goes for it.
Even when it comes to promoting my own work.
“Fine,” I tell her. After all, I hired Em to push me. I pay her to help me overcome my awkwardness and to put myself out there no matter what it takes. “But tomorrow, I’m leaving for my trip.”
“Camping with your kids?” She shakes her head. “You’re nuts.”
“They’re going to love it.”
“Maybe, but you never know what could go wrong. Wouldn’t it be better to just stay at some nice, quiet resort?”
“Maybe,” I tell her.
But that’s never been my style. I guess that’s part of what makes me a good writer. I’d rather go take a chance. I’d rather take a risk. I want to do things and explore new places and just be.
I don’t want to be the person who takes the easy route, even if it’s staying at a luxurious hotel, just because that’s what people expect.
I’d rather go get lost in the woods.
I’d rather have an adventure.
“How old are your kids, anyway?” She asks. Em has never come right out and said it, but I’ve always gotten the impression that she doesn’t really like the fact that I’m a mom now. I don’t think she thinks this is a good career move. I can’t really blame her because she’s not wrong. Being a mother is exhausting, especially since I’m doing the entire solo-parenting thing.
I’m definitely putting books out at a slower pace, and I’m booking fewer events, but it’s not because I have kids. It’s because I have the freedom to slow down a little bit. I’m not less of a writer because I’m a mother now. I just happen to have made enough money writing that I can afford to reduce my workload and start doing the other things that I want to do.
Life exists beyond the pages of a book.
I don’t always feel that way, but it does.
“Old enough.”
Em shrugs and pushes her hair back before looking back out over the crowd.
“It’s a good group. You should mingle.”
She gives me a gentle push. Well, as gentle as a physical push can be, and I move out into the group of people. This is it, then. This is my moment to shine.
