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“Oh, and one more thing,” she says.
I turn to look at her. “Yes?”
“She said she hopes you have”—she lowers her voice—“two bottles of Sweet Bitch on ice for her.”
I blink.
It takes a second for it to register before I burst into laughter. Sweet Bitch is the favorite wine of my friend and line sister Jasmine. We’ve been best friends since kindergarten, more like sisters. And there’s not one secret we haven’t shared with the other. Well, okay. Maybe there’s one or two that I haven’t shared.
“That fool.” I wave Shayla on. “I can’t with her.”
She looks at me inquisitively. “I take it you know her?”
I nod, wondering why she hadn’t called me on my cell. “Unfortunately, yes. And, you’re right. She is a nut.”
She shakes her head, then says as I walk away, “Good luck with that.”
I chuckle, quickly making my way down the corridor, passing walls lined with framed book covers, autographed author headshots, plaques, and awards. Reaching the end of the corridor, I swipe my laminated ID through the silver card slot, wait for another set of glass doors to slide open, then walk through.
The doors hiss shut behind me.
I turn down another corridor, passing a nest of sleek glass cubicles, then step into my spacious, 1,250 square-foot office with a huge window, Calacatta marble flooring, built-in bookshelves, and a marble-and-steel wet bar over in the far-right corner. On the other side of my office near the window overlooking the New York skyline, there’s a plush white leather sofa and two matching chairs and a French vintage gold leaf coffee table.
I smile taking in my sophisticated, yet chic, office. Many years ago, I was a girl with a dream and a plan armed with a degree. Now here I stand. A woman with the kind of life and career most can only dare dream about. And I have a husband, a partner, who loves and supports me in everything I do. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a fairytale. It feels so surreal.
I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m still breathing, and that everything around me is real.
It is.
My smile widens as I walk around my large, centered desk and stow my Hermès handbag in the bottom drawer. Just as I’m preparing to sit, Shayla buzzes me and tells me Lenora Samuels of LS Literary Agency is on the line. Lenora is the head of one of the top literary agencies in the publishing world.
“Good morning, Lenora. How’ve you been?”
“I’m fabulous, darling.”
“That’s great. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“I have a manuscript I’d like you to personally take a look at.”
“I—”
“Let me stop you, my dear,” she cuts in
not giving me a chance to protest. “Before you tell me you’re too busy and try to send me chasing one of your lovely editors. Know this. This book is sure to cause a bidding war. Trust me on this. It’s so hot and juicy. Flooded with drama and lots of steamy sex.”
My ears perk up. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“Well, it’s titled Prison Snatch…”
I blink.
She says it’s written under a pen name. Heaven. By a woman who spent several years in state prison after she tried killing her lover. She tells me it’s fiction. Erotica. But that it’s based loosely on her freaky sexapades during her incarceration.
My mouth waters at the thought of some burly stud-boo salaciously dishing out all her dirty prison deeds. I bite into my bottom lip, imagining a tight-bodied studboi with a twelve-inch dick jutting out of a spiked harness, fucking the shit out of me while a soft, feminine, lipstick and stiletto doll squats over my face and lowers her sweet pussy on my mouth. I lick the drool gathering at the corner of my mouth.
“Have I gotten your attention yet, my darling?” Lenora questions. I can practically feel her beaming over the phone.
I swallow. “Oh, yes, yes…you have. Send it over.”
