Page 102 of Will Bark for Pizza
I suddenly wished I still drank, because a margarita sounded really nice right about now.
I stared at the paperback copy of my latest book in front of me, in some combined state of shock and awe. I picked it up and examined the brilliant details my designer crafted into this cover. I hadn’t ordered physical copies of my own books in almost two years, despite Lila’s insistence that I sell signed copies from my website. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t evenhavea paperback option online. After I recovered from the epic shock of all this, I owed her a phone call.
“How long? How long have you all known?”
“Your mother nevermeantto tell us,” Carlos said, adjusting his thick, purple-rimmed glasses.
“My mom?” Of course, I told Mom that I wrote a book. She begged me to do a book signing at her shop, but I swore her to secrecy until I was ready.
She passed the day before I was going to tell her I would.
“It was her turn to pick a book,” Lotti explained. “She didn’t tell us it was yours. Not at first.”
“But dammit, wedevouredthat book like the fucking delectable dessert it was,” Thelma added.
“Your mom was so proud of you that the truth practically burst right out of her,” Carol Ann added, her smile soothing.
“She was . . . proud of me?” I didn’t consider my first book to be very good at all. It sold well enough, but I figured it was because that first book set up the entire Veltori universe. My first series was . . . rough at best.
“Of course she was proud,” Carol Ann said, her eyes shiny. “We all were.”
“We allare,” Thelma corrected.
“When’s the next one coming? I’m dying to know!” Lotti gushed.
The swell of love that surrounded me evaporated in a single stuttered heartbeat. I didn’t know how to tell the group that there would never be another Diana Davenport book. It seemed like a shitty way to end their final book club meeting at Brenda’s Book Nook. I wished like hell I could give them another one. I wished the characters hadn’t gone on an extended vacation, refusing to talk to me. Or that the words hadn’t dried up, no matter how many days I put my butt in the seat and tried to write anything at all, only to be met with a blank page night after night.
“Stop fucking pestering the girl,” Thelma chided. “The next book will come when it’s ready. Isn’t that right?”
Beckett’s gaze penetrated from across the table, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet it.
“Right.”
“For now, let’s talk about that sexy vampire, Darius, and his very talented tongue,” Carlos insisted.
The group erupted in chatter aboutForever Forbidden. I, as the author, was instructed to sit quietly and not give a single opinion, or answer any questions, until they were finished with their very lengthy discussion. I thought Beckett would get a little squirmy with all the free-flowing sex talk, but he seemed to be enjoying himself.
Iwas enjoying myself. The way they talked about my characters as though they were old friends—or in some cases mortal enemies—warmed a place deep in my soul.
For the first time in over a year, I felt the inkling of a story forming. A whisper from a character I hadn’t yet met. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I discreetly slid a pad of paper toward me anyway, and scribbled a note on it.Mateo needs a woman who challenges him.
I turned the pad over, and when I looked up, Beckett’s gaze was trained on me as though he knew exactly what happened.
I spent over an hour answering questions about the Veltori universe, not just from this book, but from all of them. I’d forgotten about some of the side characters, ones I once intended to write spin-off series for. Maybe, just maybe, thiswasn’tover yet.
I wanted to believe that so badly.
“You should move home, Kira,” Lotti insisted. “That way, we can help you brainstorm.”
“She doesn’t want our fucking help,” Thelma chided.
“I don’t want any spoilers,” Betty said. “But I’d love it if you moved back. We all would.”
My gaze kept snagging on Beckett’s, which only confused me more. Because the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to be back in Bluebell Springs.
“But what would I do here?” The question slipped out as easily as it did last night, before I could wrangle it back down my throat. But this time, the first suggestion was not to write more books.
“Take over the bookstore,” Carlos said, as though it was the most obvious answer.
