Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“I know that.” I tilt my head, smiling. “Besides, if Whynot can handle Pap dating Sissy Givens, and Floyd supporting Morri’s drag shows, they can survive finding out Sam Rochelle writes steamy bestsellers.”
That gets a real laugh, bright and full, and he leans back against the counter, looking at me like I just rewrote his gravity. “You’ve got a way of making the world sound simple.”
“Not simple,” I say. “Just fair.”
He stares at me. “It feels good to share this with someone. The success, that is.”
Something soft twists inside me. “I’m honored,” I say, and mean it.
He nods once, looking down at the bottle in his hands, and for a heartbeat, the world feels suspended—just the two of us and all the unsaid things hovering in the air.
CHAPTER 7
Sam
Sunlight leaks through the bare windows, sneaking in through my eyelids until they’re forced to flutter open. I’m briefly disoriented.
The ceiling’s too high and the air smells of new paint. There’s no clatter from my duplex neighbor, and hell… even the mattress feels too comfortable.
And then I remember.
I’m in my new home.
My home.
I stayed here last night, for the very first time.
I let my gaze drift to the crown molding, a design I picked out myself. Just as I picked out every color of paint, every piece of furniture, and will eventually pick out future artwork.
I slept in my house, and it has been almost a year in the making—from the purchase of the property to construction to the final stages of filling it with all the things to make it livable.
I’ve long told myself I wasn’t ready to move in—that I liked the simplicity of my small place in town, but the truth is, I knew that living here meant I needed to embrace my full life.
I had to accept the new Sam Rochelle.
I reach over to the nightstand, grab my phone, and thumb the screen awake. A handful of missed messages glare back—most from Derek, my agent, who’s been relentless for days.
You can’t hide forever, Sam. This book’s too big.
We have to confirm the press tour. Decide.
Call me. Seriously.
And my favorite. My commission is definitely not big enough to deal with this shit.
Which we both know isn’t true. My upcoming release earned a seven-figure advance from the publisher, and my prior nineteen books have made it possible for Derek to buy a dream vacation home in the Hamptons.
I toss the phone aside and rub my palms over my face. I went out on a limb last night… bringing Penny in on my secret.
The memory of her voice drifts back, bright and sure, as if she’s still sitting across from me at the island, beer bottle in hand, and that soft pink shine on her lips.
“You can’t keep this hidden forever,” she’d said with such earnestness. I believed it. “It’s too wonderful not to share.”
Wonderful.
I never imagined anyone saying that about what I do. At best, I figured people would think it’s indulgent. At worst, they’d call it shameful. But Penny looked right at me—unflinching—and said it like fact. “I’m just really proud of you, Sam. I think you’re extraordinary.”
We talked until nearly midnight. Two beers apiece, laughter that came too easily, and this charged current that never quite broke the surface. We didn’t touch, but I could feel the mutual attraction between us. I didn’t act on it. Instead, I soaked in the friendship she was offering.
When I finally drove her home, neither of us wanted the night to end. We sat in my truck outside Muriel’s house for half an hour, windows fogged, just talking about nothing and everything.
She’d called me extraordinary.
The word still knocks the breath out of me. Not talented. Not successful. Extraordinary.
Penny Pritchard has no idea what that did to me.
I swing my legs off the bed and rub the back of my neck, staring out at the yard through the big picture window. The sun is coming up full now, brushing the tops of the oaks with light. This whole property feels like someone else’s life—a life I’ve been borrowing instead of living.
I pad barefoot into the kitchen and start a pot of coffee. The machine sputters to life, filling the air with the rich, bitter scent that most people—myself included—can’t seem to live without. My thoughts, though, are anything but calm.
Derek’s been right about one thing… my next book launch is going to be massive. The preorder numbers are on track, so I’ve got a shot at hitting that coveted number one slot on the New York Times bestseller list. The publisher wants interviews, TV appearances, book signings, which is pretty much all the stuff I’ve avoided for years.
Until now, I’ve hidden behind an androgynous pen name and a logo—no headshot, no public readings, no hint of gender. Most fans assume S. P. Rochelle is a woman, and I’ve let them. It was easier that way.