Page 4 of Confessions of a Smutty Romance Author

Mia’s eyebrows rose. “What? A romance writer who hasn’t had her own happily ever after?”

“My version of an HEA is walking out of a store with a pair of Jimmy Choos paid in full.”

The audience laughed, but Mia narrowed in. “Now, Mara, how are we supposed to read about romance from a woman who doesn’t believe in love?”

I didn’t like that insinuation, that my fiction was somehow less valid because of my personal life. “The book’s fiction, Mia, it’s not a memoir.”

“But you must believe in love. I know you’re single now, but hasn’t there ever been anyone you could see yourself spending forever with?”

“What I believe in, really believe in, is a woman’s right to unapologetically chase after whatever she wants, whether it’s sexual pleasure or a career or lifelong friendship. Love is a nice concept to think about and dream of, but the reality is it doesn’t happen for everyone.”

Mia rocked back, then clapped her hands together and faced the audience. “There you have it, folks, a romance author who doesn’t believe in love, cashing in on women’s dreams. I’ll see you after this commercial break.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but it was already too late. Mia was getting off her chair, walking off the stage. “What was that, Mia?” I demanded, following her.

She turned toward me, disappointment in her eyes. “I’ve been reading your books for the last five years... Finding out that you don’t believe in what you wrote... it’s like finding out Santa isn’t real all over again.”

It wasn’t my fault she was holding on to false promises sold to her by greeting card companies. “So you admit, believing in love is like believing in Santa Claus.”

She shook her head slowly and walked away.

I watched her go until Charlotte grabbed my shoulder and said, “Mara, we have a problem.”

“What?” I asked, dread filling every pore of my body.

“The studio canned talks for a second movie.”

2

Mara

Confession: My career is the love of my life.

Birdie droveme back to her house because I was a complete and utter mess. Every bit of backup we had was invited, including Henrietta, my agent, and my publicist. I didn’t even know how I made it inside. All I knew was I was lying on the couch, cradled in Birdie’s lap, tears still streaming down my cheeks. This was worse than any breakup.

On the opposite side, Henrietta sat on the recliner, providing moral support. As soon as she heard the interview, she faked a stomach ache and dodged work.

“It’s over,” I cried into Birdie’s lap.

Cohen, her husband, set a steaming mug of cider on the coffee table and said, “This should help.”

I couldn’t bring myself to get out of the fetal position, much less drink anything, even if it smelled as amazing as the cider did.

Birdie ran her hand over my hair. “Surely you can convince them to get the deal for a second movie going again. They were interested in it once; they can be again.”

Jenny, who looked just as distraught as me (probably at the loss of potential income), stood by Ralphie’s cage. He was a white bird I’d known just as long as I’d known Birdie, and he was studying Jenny suspiciously.

Charlotte stood near the door, staring at her phone, like she was ready to leave. “It’s going to take a miracle to spin that interview around. We’d have to say Mara got nervous in front of the camera and have some very real evidence that Mara isn’t a sex-crazed porn fanatic like the media’s already making her out to be.”

Okay, that got me sitting up. “What exactly are they saying about me?”

Charlotte flipped her screen to face us and played a video for me.

“Hi, I’m Jeanie Walters, and I’m here with Georgia Pflumm, head of the WAP, Women Against Pornography, a California-based nonprofit that shares information about the dangers of porn both in visual and literary form. Georgia, I’d love to get your take on today’s interview with prominent ‘romance’ author, Mara Taylor.”

“Air quotes?” I muttered.

Georgia sat up straighter, her puffy sleeves so crisp they barely moved. “Jeanie, I’m glad you asked. This interview is a perfect example of the dangers of the romance novel. Women justify their reading habits by saying it’s all make-believe, but all the while they’re being indoctrinated on pleasure before purpose, sex before love. Is that the kind of message we want being spread in the world?”

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