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)
The square looks like someone declared a holiday by committee. Handmade posters flap off lampposts—BOOKS & BOURBON NIGHT, FEATURING WORLD-FAMOUS AUTHOR S. P. ROCHELLE!—using a photo of me behind the bar at Chesty’s. I consider tearing one down just to stop seeing my own face everywhere, then figure it’s good practice for embarrassment.
Inside Chesty’s, it’s all laughter, glasses clinking and some country music on the jukebox. Lessa’s behind the bar tonight and she’s hopping because it’s packed.
Pap is at the door to welcome patrons, and he beams me a Fourth of July smile. “The star has arisen.” He cackles and slaps me on the back.
I take in the crowd, mostly faces I know and a few I don’t. My nerves fire hot and I decide this was a very bad idea. I have to force myself not to pivot and walk right out, instead shaking Pap’s hand. “I appreciate your support.”
“Of course, my boy. Of course,” he says and then points to my left.
Floyd has built himself a makeshift bookstore with two tables shoved together and covered with a checkered cloth. He’s got stacks of my books with a hand-drawn sign that says $15 signed paperback, $25 signed hardback.
Larkin’s husband, Deacon, stands behind him, beer in hand and talking to Morri, who’s perched in glitter heels and a tank top that says READ ME GENTLY. He’s gesturing with a glass of wine that miraculously doesn’t slosh over the edge.
And then there’s Penny.
She appears through the crowd like I pulled her forth from a dream. Jeans and boots and a soft blouse, her red hair in loose braids over each shoulder. She looks 100 percent Whynot and not an ounce of Washington, DC. When she spots me, something brightens in her whole face and knocks loose my last bit of nervousness.
She comes toe to toe and stares up at me. “Let’s put the gossip mill into meltdown mode.”
Before I can even garner what that means, she puts a hand up over my neck and pulls me down for a kiss. She has zero fucks to give if anyone’s watching, and neither do I, for that matter. Vaguely, I hear someone wolf whistle and when I pull back, I find Morri bearing a shit-eating grin as he nudges Deacon in the ribs.
“You ready for this?” she asks as we break apart.
“I was born ready until five minutes ago,” I say. “This is either a really good or a really bad idea.”
“It’s a fantastic idea,” she says, looping her arm in mine. “We’re showing those stuck back in the Dark Ages that romance and sex is natural and not going to land everyone a seat in hell.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be that easy, but I appreciate the sentiment,” I assure her.
Pap appears and hands me a copper mug. “A new drink I created today,” he announces. “I call it a Romance Mule. Tastes like love with a hint of ginger. We made it with bourbon, though, rather than vodka.”
I take a tentative sip and lick my lips. “That’s really good.”
Pap slides me a look that says, Of course it is, son.
Suddenly, the jukebox cuts and I hear Floyd’s voice come over the speakers. I look to see he’s got a mic at his mouth, and it crackles, then shrieks like a banshee. The whole bar flinches in unison and he gives it a hard shake until it behaves.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellows, and I swear he sounds exactly like the pastor in the pulpit. “I would like everyone to give a warm welcome to our guest of honor tonight… Whynot’s very own Sam Rochelle!”
The applause is thunderous with an adjoining chorus of stomping feet and whistles.
Floyd eats it up, patiently waiting for the din to die down before continuing. “Now, we want to celebrate our very own hometown boy as he embarks on a new career, but for those of you who don’t know, Sam has already reached levels of success that make him a celebrity. He’s a New York Times best-selling author and for those of you who didn’t know, he just built a multimillion-dollar house out on Haws Run Road.”
People gasp and my face flames red. I turn to Penny. “Why did he have to say that? It’s so embarrassing.”
“Just go with it,” she murmurs back.
“Sam has graciously agreed to read to us from his newest book that’s releasing next month called The Ruin of Gods. I can tell you, folks, I got an advance copy, and it’s a humdinger. I’m already smelling another bestseller. So, let’s give it up for Sam!”
The room erupts—whoops, whistles, one voice that absolutely yells, “Take off your shirt!” I laugh since dying is not an option.
Floyd picks up my book from the table and flips to a page that he’s already marked. “This here is a really good passage. I like the hero, Maddox. Honestly, it sounds like he needs therapy and a hug,” Floyd declares, then stage-whispers into the mic, “which we offer here on Thursdays.”