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For years, she had poured her heart and soul into her column. She had given it her all, built a huge fanbase for herself. She was a resident celebrity. Important. Wanted.
If people were bored, where did that leave her? Who was she if she wasn’t Marti McBride, The Queen of Single?
Her heart thrummed a staccato beat. What if Blue was right? Marti was like a middle-aged NFL-star. Her talent had become stale, all her plays too familiar. Soon, everyone would move on to the next best thing. The worst part was Marti hadn’t even realized it. She had been oblivious.
She swallowed, shaking off the sting of Blue’s words. “I don’t know what to say. “I’m shocked.” She said, wracking her brain for something more intelligent to say. “Sorry.”
Blue scowled. “Never say sorry,” she chastised. “It admits culpability. If you learn at least one thing from me, l
et that be it.”
“Okay.” Marti didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Now, if you’re done groveling, let’s get back to the matter at hand, shall we? I’m afraid you’ve become redundant. The other day I asked if you’d consider a relationship to liven things up, spark some renewed interest in what you have to say. Then you hit it out of the park with your article about the loser and that Logan character. Your comments were really high. It seems people were intrigued by the dynamic between you two. I think people liked the love-hate thing you had going.”
“It wasn’t really a love-hate—”
“How old are you, Marti? Thirty?”
“Twenty-five, actually.”
“You’re a woman nearing her mid-thirties,” Blue said, fluffing her blond mane. “You’ve written a wildly successful column. You’ve made a name for yourself. Your stories and personal anecdotes on dating give people something to laugh about, to talk about with their friends, and relate to. They look at your glamorous single life, and part of them wants to be you. You’re the It-girl. The woman to aspire to. You write one of our most popular, top-grossing columns. To readers, you’re a character. It doesn’t matter if it’s real life or staged. Right now you’re a character with no growth. And I think that is the problem.”
“That I have no growth?” Marti asked, trying to keep up.
“Exactly.” Blue pointed at her. “Throw this at them and you get them reinvested. You show them your character arc.”
Character arc? Marti’s brows reached her hairline.
What on earth is she talking about? This wasn’t a novel. It was her column, a column based on her life—real life.
Marti shook her head. “I don’t understand. What am I throwing at them?”
“Haven’t you been paying attention?” Blue threw her arms out. “This Logan character. A relationship,” she said like Marti was stupid.
And then it hit her.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Her heart thrummed in her chest like hummingbird’s wings. “Are you saying you want me to get into a relationship with him?”
“He’s the one that said you were a closed-off prude, right?”
Marti scoffed. “Well, no, not in those words—”
Blue waved her away. “He’s the complete opposite of you, which is perfect.”
“Or a disaster,” Marti said.
“Definitely go with him.”
“Wait a minute.” Marti closed her eyes and brought a hand up to the headache forming at the base of her skull. “Is this just, like, a suggestion?”
“If by suggestion, you mean, do it or else your job is at stake, then yes.”
Marti gaped as panic seeped in her veins. “But . . .”
