Page 17 of Smoke and Fire
It wasn’t an answer to her question. At least, not really. But it was all I had right now. Her nose wrinkled in an expression I couldn’t hope to read.
Nor could I stand the silence.
“And,” I continued, “you read romance novels. If you can open a web browser and type on a keyboard, you could figure the rest out.”
I set that comment down as a test. She hadn’t been very excited about me knowing her love for Jess’s books yesterday. How would she react when Ireallybroke the news? If she’d giggled at me being a romance author, she might faint when she found out that I was Jess.
“Doesn’t mean I’d be good at what you need,” she said.
“Would you?”
She bobbled with a response before letting out a soft raspberry. “Yes,” she replied, with just a touch of arrogance. “I’d kill at it. Could I do it on my own hours?”
“Of course.”
“You would trust me to do it while you’re on a fire and probably out of reach?”
“Yes.”
She eyed me. “What do you pay?”
“$30 an hour.”
Her eyes widened for half a moment, then returned. “Acceptable,” she said, slightly strangled.
What did she make at the coffee shop? I’d probably shot too high, but I’d be paying her for more than just social media responses and email coordination. This woman held my privacy in her hands.
“Being an author isn’t an endgame for me. It’s the means to an end,” I said, feeling shaky. “I need this to work. Honestly, if no one ever knew that I was Jess, then I’d die a happy man. She’s going to stop writing books at the end of this thirty-book series anyway, if all goes according to plan. And if things work the way I want, this launch is what will make my outside goals happen. Then I won’t be a slave to my computer for the rest of my life.”
As I spoke the words, I felt the cowardice in them all the way to my bones. They weren’t true. Maybe parts of themweretrue, but put together like that? Not at all true.
Writing was one of the only things I’d ever been fully honest with myself about. I loved it. It thrilled me. The quiet of a room and the clack of keys made everything fit.
Dahlia had gone oddly pale. Too late, I’d realized my slip.
“Did you say Jess?” she whispered.
Hesitantly, I nodded. “Yes. My pen name is Jess.”
“One name, Jess?”
“Yes.”
Her voice lowered to a whisper. “TheJessof the book I was reading when you came in last night?”
I sucked in a sharp breath.
“Yes.”
“And this morning?”
Several moments of shocked silence passed. Clearly, the reality of what I’d just said began to click in her mind. By the time her brain caught up, she glowered. Why it was so much worse knowing my pen name, I had no idea.
“You’re not joking?”
“Do I seem like the type to kid around?” I asked calmly.
“No, not at all. You are Jess? Jess . . .” She trailed away, voice faint. “The originator of Rodrigo and Rashaad and . . .”
