Dedicated to the One I Love, page 2
“Can’t let you forget.”
This was one of the reasons Joe liked having Liza as his literary agent. Talking to her was like talking to his sister—and that was one of the best compliments he could ever give Liza. His favorite person in his family was his younger sister, Abbie, not that he would ever admit that to his mom.
He bit into the sub, savoring the smoky, mildly spicy bite of ham, mortadella, capicola, and provolone cheese topped with shredded lettuce, tomatoes, and just the right amount of mayo and olive oil.
“Tell me the good news already.” Joe took a swig of water as he carried his phone and the remainder of the sub to his favorite chair in the living room, stretching out to continue the conversation. For Liza’s sake, when he turned on the flat-screen TV, he kept it on mute, only paying partial attention to whatever sports show was on ESPN. “They loved the manuscript, right?”
“Not exactly, Joe.”
“Wha—?” He choked on the wad of bread, cold cuts, and cheese. Sat up. Coughed. Wheezed.
“You okay?”
Joe grabbed the water bottle and took small sips. “What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”
“You know sales for your last three books have slipped.”
“Every author I know has struggled with sales numbers this past year.” Joe gulped more water. “Well, except for that romance writer who hasn’t even had a book out in the last few years … what’s her name?”
“Veronica Hollins?”
“That’s the one. But she can probably live off the royalties of her last two books alone for the rest of her life.”
“It’s interesting you mentioned Veronica Hollins.”
“Because?”
“After reading your manuscript, the editors suggested you should add more romance to the story.”
“There’s romance in the story, Liza.”
“Barely. No one holds hands. No kisses. It’s elementary school romance. You could cut the sexual tension with dental floss.”
“I write about espionage and double agents and—”
“I know what you write,” Liza interrupted him. “Your editor wants you to up the romance angle to pull in more female readers.”
“I have female readers.”
“Joe, I need you to listen to me. Really listen.” Liza’s voice lost any sense of humor. “Romance is the top-selling fiction genre. Women read romance. Recognize these two facts and add a strong romantic thread to your book and you will automatically reach more readers.”
“Wow.” Joe closed his eyes as he pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
This was not what he’d expected when Liza scheduled this phone call. He’d lost Liza’s favorite-client ranking. He’d do anything to improve his manuscript.
Almost anything.
Joe pointed the remote at the TV screen and turned off the muted sports show. Tossed the remote aside. “This isn’t a discussion, is it?”
“You and I are talking.”
“Liza.”
“This is me bringing you in on the discussion.”
“I turned in a good manuscript.”
“You did. The story is classic Tate Merrick. But this is about making your manuscript better. About reaching more readers.”
“I’ve been doing everything I can to connect with readers.”
“I know.” Liza’s voice was calm. Supportive. “We’ve endlessly brainstormed different ways to do that. You spent your own marketing dollars. But people are tired of war and political infighting. Readers want happier stories. They want romance.”
Joe huffed out a breath, paced the length of the room, searching for something—anything—he could say to change Liza’s mind.
“If you think about this for a minute, you’ll realize the idea has great potential.”
“There is a romantic interest in the book.” Now he was repeating himself.
“Again—we need you to make it stronger.”
“I’ve never read a romance in my life—not even something as basic as Cinderella.”
“Maybe that’s where you start.”
“As if I’m going to walk into the children’s section of the library—”
“Joe! If you keep being such a grouch, you’ll fall out of favorite-client status.”
He hadn’t already?
His award-winning author status was slipping through his fingers. He was as unsettled as if he were waiting to see if his first manuscript would be accepted by a publisher. Any publisher. Right now, it sounded as if Lethal Strike wouldn’t be published at all, not if he didn’t do what they wanted, which meant changing how he wrote his stories.
A few moments later, Liza signed off with a quiet goodbye.
This wasn’t the first time his life hadn’t turned out the way he planned.
Joe retreated to his office and collapsed in the chair behind his grandfather’s rolltop desk. He didn’t mind the disorganized bookshelves with books stacked however they came out of the packing boxes when he’d moved into the house near the Denver metro area five years ago. Fiction. Nonfiction. Even some textbooks from his favorite college classes. A large glass jar sat in the corner beneath the window, filled with all the pennies, dimes, nickels, and quarters he emptied out of his pockets at the end of the day.
No photos of Cassidy—of course.
No family photos.
He just didn’t do photos.
Awards, yes. Tangible reminders that he was a good writer. A successful writer. Not that he looked at them every day. Liza always let him know when he received some sort of accolade. He’d celebrate with a glass of good cabernet. Call Abbie so she could shout, “Bravo, brother!” Call his mom because he was a good son. Let her tell Dad because, well, he wasn’t impressed.
Never had been.
Never would be.
He couldn’t explain why he’d given up a “perfectly good career in the military” to write stories. To this day, despite the fact that he was thirty-four years old, his dad’s words echoed in his mind, no matter how many awards he racked up.
“You’re being irresponsible, but of course, I’m not surprised.”
Joe shoved away from the desk, walked out of his office, shutting the door with a decisive click.
CHAPTER 2
Dear Kylie, Have I mentioned I’m a sore loser? I come by it honestly. Everyone in my family—both my parents and my only sister—are super competitive. (She’s younger than me by three years.) Growing up, game nights in my house were cutthroat. It didn’t matter if we were playing Candyland or Monopoly or Risk. If you cheated, you were banished to your bedroom. I only cheated twice. Once, when I was six years old and too little to understand my dad knew exactly what I was doing. Then once again when I was sixteen and I thought I was smart enough to pull one over on my dad. Didn’t happen—and yeah, I was banished to my room, just like when I was six. Only this time, I snuck out my bedroom window and walked over to a friend’s house. When I came back three hours later, Dad was waiting in my bedroom. My return didn’t go well. And that’s all I’m going to say about that. I found out years later that my friend’s mom called my mom to tell her where I was. My dad wasn’t all-knowing, like I thought.
Now you know one of the dark secrets from my past. Here’s a question for you: Where did the Jolly Rancher Candy Company originate? Joe
P.S. I admit defeat on the snowflake question. I googled it and found out the world’s largest snowflake, according to the Guinness World Records, was 15 inches in diameter and 8 inches thick.
Joe spent the rest of the afternoon in front of his laptop, with random trips back to the kitchen for a Pepsi or a bottle of water. The sandwich sat in his stomach like a huge wad of chewing gum. Between kitchen runs, he alternated reading chapters of his manuscript, googling book trends and book sales, and skimming recent reviews for his work.
Two hours later, the space behind his eyes ached. The only thing he’d written was a comment on iread4thrillz85’s two-star review of his last book, a reader who thought the plot was predictable and that he—or she—could write a better ending than Tate Merrick.
Joe would like to see iread4thrillz85 try.
He deleted the comment and closed the tab. He knew better than to get stuck in the mental maze of reading reviews. It was one thing to read funny one-star reviews for someone else’s book. He had no emotional connection to any of those. But when he read reviews for any of his books? Too personal, both the positive and the negative.
When his friend Tucker texted him half an hour later with a brief, Mallory says we have way too much food. Want to come for dinner? he replied, I’ll be right over, shut down his laptop, grabbed his keys, and turned his back on all things related to books.
Tucker and Mallory’s apartment was also in Highlands Ranch and was almost like a second home. Tucker and Joe had met in college and Joe had been Tucker’s best man when he married Mallory. The trio shared a love of CrossFit and Mallory treated him like a brother—just the right mix of love and sass.
When Joe arrived, Tucker slapped him on the back as he toed off his shoes. “Dinner’s ready.”
Joe followed him to the combo living room and dining room, inhaling the aroma of tomato sauce and Italian seasonings. “It’s good to be here.”
“I hope you like chicken parmigiana.” Mallory appeared wearing a bright pink apron and set a platter of chicken breasts coated with breadcrumbs, tomato sauce, and melted cheese at one edge of the small square table.
“Are you kidding? I started drooling the minute Tucker opened the door.” He dropped into a chair where a Pepsi was already waiting for him. “If I was home, I’d be throwing a bagged salad onto a plate and slicing up some store-bought chicken on top of it.”
Tucker carried in a basket of rolls and a salad. “No bagged salad here. And the parmigiana? It’s Mallory’s grandmother’s recipe. It’s one of the reasons I married her.”
“It’s true.” Mallory motioned for Joe to hand her his plate. “Tucker, bless the food, please, and then I’ll serve.”
Tucker removed his Rockies baseball cap, hanging it on the back of his chair, and did as Mallory requested, then passed Joe the salad.
Tucker palmed a roll, and then spoke around a bite. “How’s the writing going?”
His friend didn’t know he was done discussing writing—or anything related to books. “Had an interesting phone conversation with my agent earlier today.”
“Interesting … how?”
“She called to talk about the manuscript I turned in a few weeks back. My editor wants me to add more romance to the story.”
Tucker raised an eyebrow beneath his shaggy blond hair. “You don’t write romance.”
Joe leaned back in his chair and raised his hands in the air. “Thank you very much!”
Mallory added salad to her plate. “But they said, ‘add romance.’ That’s not the same as writing a full romance novel. It could be fun, Joe.”
“Fun would be hearing they love the manuscript and want normal edits.” Joe sliced into the steaming chicken parmigiana.
He refused to let this conversation ruin his appetite. Romance just wasn’t his thing, in fiction or in real life. He had Cassidy to thank for that. Time to focus on this delicious dinner and his good friends. Joe took a bite of Mallory’s dish, savoring the chicken coated in Mozzarella cheese. Raised his glass. “Here’s to your grandmother.”
Mallory sipped her iced coffee, then said, “Joe, I was thinking—”
Tucker cut her off. “Honey, we weren’t going to talk about this tonight.”
“I never agreed not to talk about it.”
“Mallory.” Tucker raised his hand like a traffic cop.
“Tucker.”
Joe chuckled. “Hey. Still here. Can I get in on this conversation?”
“No.” Tucker shook his head.
“Absolutely.” Mallory offered him a Cheshire cat smile.
Mallory’s and Tucker’s responses collided. “Tucker, it’s okay. Let Mallory have her say.”
“You’re gonna regret this, man.”
“Hush! He said he wants to hear what I have to say.” Mallory focused on Joe. “How long have you been emailing Kylie?”
“Emailing Kylie?” Joe pressed his lips together at the unexpected question. “Five months.”
“It’s way past time for you to meet her.”
Tucker crossed his arms over his chest. “I tried to warn you.”
“Meet?”
“I was reading a magazine article that said when you connect with someone through a dating app, the first meeting should happen in three to five days. You guys are way past that.”
“Kylie and I didn’t meet on a dating app.” Joe took a drink of his soda. “We’re not dating.”
There. He’d shut down that idea. He wasn’t dating Kylie—or anyone else. If he could, he’d emphasize that point by standing and digging his heels into the ground, um, carpet.
Joe shoved a forkful of salad into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed, or rather tried to swallow. He’d forgotten to put any dressing on the mix of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, and red onions. He poured a generous amount of the homemade vinaigrette over the remaining salad on his plate.
Mallory had her say. No harm done.
“I didn’t suggest you date her.” Mallory tucked a lock of her dark hair with purple highlights behind one ear. “I suggested you meet her.”
Uh-oh. Mallory wasn’t done with the topic.
“Based on an article you read about couples who met on dating apps.”
“Ye-es.” Mallory shrugged. “It’s the same thing.”
“The goal for those people is dating, so it’s implied they’d meet at some point.”
“Come on, Joe.” Mallory leaned forward. “You’re being difficult.”
“Calm down, Mallory.” Tucker spoke up at last.
“I am calm.”
Joe had to laugh. “You almost threw your roll at me.”
“I didn’t—” Mallory let out a huff. “You’re so infuriating.”
“You started this conversation.”
“Joe, be honest. You’re just going to email this woman forever?”
“Sure.”
“I refuse to believe you’ve never thought of meeting her.”
Now Mallory had backed him into a corner. He could keep protesting. Say she was wrong. But that would be a lie. And Joe didn’t lie. It was the latent Boy Scout in him.
Mallory continued to stare at him across the table, waiting for his response. But Joe refused to answer. Shoved the idea aside like an annoying twinge of a toothache he didn’t want to deal with because … well really? Who wants to go to the dentist? Great. He just compared meeting Kylie to going to the dentist.
“You’ve got an odd look on your face. What are you thinking?” Mallory’s question intruded on his thoughts.
“Nothing.” Joe cleared his throat. “Fine. I have thought about meeting Kylie—but just as friends.”
“Aha!” Mallory clapped her hands. “I knew it!”
“Stop gloating.” Tucker pointed a finger at her.
“Sorry.” Mallory didn’t look the least bit repentant. “When are you going to meet? Because I know the perfect time.”
Tucker leaned back in his chair. “You never should have admitted you’ve thought of meeting Kylie.”
“I don’t lie, Tucker. You know that. And I’m not planning on dating Kylie. We’re just friends.”
“Fine.” Mallory smiled her wide grin again. “This is a perfect ‘just friends’ way to meet.”
Joe had to laugh. “Go ahead and tell me what you were thinking.”
“Invite her to the Memorial Day cookout, of course. It’s casual. Low-key—”
Joe gave a sharp laugh. “There is nothing low-key about that cookout. My parents just invited themselves out from Arizona for the weekend. Abbie and her boyfriend will be there. You and Tucker … Oh, I see your evil plot.”
“No evil plot.” Mallory’s voice was pitched just a bit too high. “It’s a small group of family and friends. Casual. And with us there, you don’t have to keep the conversation going all by yourself. We’ll be there to help you.”
“You’ll be there to check Kylie out.”
“I promise no flashing of scorecards. And besides, you wouldn’t tell me any important details if you met her for coffee.”
“Ha! You admit you want to meet Kylie too.”
“Of course I do. I don’t lie either, Joe Edwards.”
Their laughter blended at Mallory’s declaration. They were like the Three Musketeers, without the swords. They were loyal, with a heavy dose of humor.
Mallory had never cared for Cassidy. Joe had ignored her comments early on in his relationship with the country singer, but she’d been right. Cassidy was a lot of flash and bling, but no depth. Maybe it would be wise to have her meet Kylie—if he was going to meet her.
“Just as friends?”
Mallory stopped laughing. “Are you seriously considering inviting her to the cookout?”
“As a friend … maybe.”
Mallory raised her hand. “I vote yes.”
Tucker served himself more chicken parmigiana. “We know you do. You suggested the whole thing.”
“Joe will never know if he wants to date Kylie unless he meets her.”
“Do not consider this an audition, Mallory.” Joe resisted the urge to shake his finger at his friend.
“You already know she does, Joe. And don’t try and talk her out of it. I’ve been listening to her mind run wild about this for a week.”
“Guilty as charged.” Mallory didn’t try to hide her smile. “I promise to behave at the cookout. Really.”
“I can just uninvite you.”
“What a mean thing to do to me and Tucker.”
“I didn’t say I would uninvite Tucker.”
Tucker threw his head back and roared as Mallory gasped. “My husband wouldn’t go without me.”
