Page 60 of Doctorshipped
Ella Mae takes a breath. I’ll admit—and I’m only admitting it here, and only this once—Ella Mae has my attention.
“And how do you convince the world of your expertise in matters of the heart?” she asks, pointing a well-manicured fingernail in my direction. “How do you convince your readers you are the one to turn to for all things love-life?”
I shrug.
“You have a romance!”
Um. No.
“I’m not going to have a romance.” My tone sounds like someone faced with a root canal.
“See. This right here is what I’m talking about. You have all the enthusiasm for romance that a junior high boy has for self-care. Just ewww. I’m telling you. You need to up your romance game—personally. Trust. A few posts with images of you staring into someone’s eyes, or a hint that you have a smoldering romance outside of spending the bulk of your life staring at that screen on your laptop, and you’ve hooked your readers. They’ll want what you have. And then, voilà! They’ll want what you’re writing.”
I stare at Ella Mae. No words come to mind, which is unusual for a woman who composes words for a living.
Finally, I say, “Is there anything else you can think of? I follow plenty of romance authors who don’t share their personal lives.”
“Yada, yada. So what? I’m not talking about them. I'm talking about you. And you need this. There’s something about you that’s too buttoned up. You need to show your readers the real you. Get your socials buzzing about romance and you’ve set this situation on FIRE! You’ll be skyrocketing into romance author fame!”
Does it occur to her that the real me is not in a relationship? I can’t begin to imagine pointing out that little discrepancy in her idea ofthe real me. The real me does stare at my laptop screen, lives with two cats and an unusual bulldog, and has absolutely no desire for personal romance.
Grant’s annoying, gorgeous, grumpy, sexy face flashes across my mind—as it always does in the most unexpected and uninvited moments. Gah. That man.
No, grumpy Grant, I don’t desire romance with you either.
Do I?
No. Absolutely not.
Even if I notice his jawline, and arm muscles, and the way his green-gray eyes shift hues with his moods.
Even if his love for Fiona makes me swoon.
Even if he winked at me last night and something fluttered inside my belly when he did.
Nope. No. Nuh-uh.
And do I even want to skyrocket into fame?
No. I don’t.
I’d rather live in a cave, unknown and obscure, with my friends nearby, of course. Fame is the last thing I want, unlike Ella Mae, who lives for the accolades and attention of others.
But, I want my books to reach more readers, and I want to make my agent and this potential publisher happy. Still, I’m not going to get romantically involved with anyone to make my publishing goals happen. That’s just ludicrous.
Grant is proof I’ll never enter into a romance. He’s the only man I’ve found remotely attractive in years. And, we all know there’s no way I’d ever date him. We barely enter the same room without banter and antagonism coursing between us. We’re both devout singles—card-carrying, super-fans of the solitary life.
“I won’t be dating,” I reiterate to Ella Mae.
Steadfast and brazen as usual, her face breaks into a confident and slightly disarming grin.
“We’ll see. First, you are going to need a makeover.”
20
JAYME
Ican’t believe I let Ella Mae talk me into this. My face feels like it’s not quite my own. She went light on the makeup, according to her, but I’m wearing concealer—which she says covers those “ungodly” bags under my eyes—along with foundation, blush, mascara, eyeliner, and some brown eyeshadow. Then she talked me into wearing lipstick. I’m more of a Chapstick girl, myself. I had to draw the line atVamp in the House,a shade of red that said, yes, a vamp is most definitely in the house.
