Page 6 of Fake Dating the Silver Fox

My focus isn’t on the line of adoring fans waiting for me to sign their books. It’s lost in the unfinished manuscript.

I’m almost done with the first draft, and I’m way ahead of the deadline—for a change. Just a few more chapters, and then I can turn my twenty-fifth book in to my editor.

I can’t wait to be done with this signing so I can disappear back into a world where I don’t have to make small talk or smile so much my face hurts.

I’ve lost count of how many books I’ve signed, but judging by the cramp in my wrist, it’s at an all-time high. The line is so long it wraps through the thriller section, into the self-help, and out the door.

One by one, readers shuffle forward and thrust their books at me. Sticky notes with their names printed on them make it so I don’t even have to talk, but I still end up chatting more than I’d like.

I peek around the line with a frustrated sigh.

Be careful what you wish for.

In the early days of my career, I would have killed for a successful signing. My only fans were my family members, who I’d begged to read my books. I dreamed of having a line of people wrap around the building at a signing. Now, fifteen years later, I’d give anything to be back at my desk, finishing my next book.

My publicist, a tough-as-nails woman named Vanessa Blake, approaches me with a tall glass of water.

No ice and a lime wedge, just the way I like it. Vanessa knows me better than I know myself.

She sets the glass on the table far away from the stacks of books. “You’re doing great.”

I massage my hand and nod at the line snaking through the library. “How many more?”

She looks down her nose at me, mildly scolding. “This is a great opportunity.”

I hold back a heavy sigh. “I know.”

Flipping open the next book, I barely glance at the name on the sticky note. I sign robotically, taking the occasional sip of water.

Jennifer, Darren, Liza, Fred. They all blend together. I should be engaging with fans, but I can’t muster the energy. I’m just not cut out for this part of the job. I’m much more comfortable behind the scenes. Doing the actual work of writing.

“Have you found a date for the award ceremony yet?” Vanessa asks.

I take the next book, slide my hand over the smooth cover, and open to the title page. “I’m working on it.”

“I can handle it for you,” she says for the umpteenth time. “I have some pre-selected candidates.”

I bite back a reply just in time and shake my head. “I’ve got it.”

She props her hands on her hips, dialing up the disapproving glare. “Don’t wait until the last minute.”

I swallow a sip of water and stifle the grumpy retort before I get myself in trouble. Vanessa doesn’t play around. I hired her to take me to the next level, and she will die trying to get me there.

Vanessa glides away to restock the books for sale, keeping an eye on me from a distance.

Book after book lands on my table. Sticky note after sticky note.

I grunt greetings, and smile when prompted. Time drags on until an unusual name gives me pause.

Cupid.

I blink, clearing my vision to make sure I’m seeing correctly. My fingers tighten on the pen, and my heart leaps.

I slowly lift my gaze and meet sparkling blue eyes. All the breath whooshes out of my lungs.

It’s her.The coffee shop woman, with the so-ugly-he’s-cute mutt.

The noise of the library fades to the background as our gazes lock. For a moment, the line no longer exists, and even my desire to finish my damn book disappears.

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