Page 5 of Smoke and Fire
Interviews.
Podcasts.
We need to talk.
The words carried more implication than anything else. Pri wasn’t wrong. We did need to talk. Since last year, my sales had been expanding like a slowly inflating balloon. The lines bumped up and up on my reports, sometimes stabilizing at a new plateau. An advertising push would raise them again now that the marketing team had proof that people wanted my work. Rarely did sales drop drastically, although the days popped up and down in any normal pattern.
Then . . . they exploded.
A few strategic influencers on Instagram got a hold of Rodrigo and a wildfire of fandom began. Jess raced like a freight train toward new popularity this summer. Social media growth became exponential. Fan groups popped up in book clubs, online, at conferences, romantic gatherings. Invitations to speak at conferences, talk with experts, and meet fans flowed in constantly.
With the launch of my twenty-first novel, I stood to break my own record—and maybe some others—in sales.
If you’re serious about this career and the money that you want to make,Pri had said before I left last time,we’re going to have to reveal Jess.
Of course I was serious.
Protective-younger-brother serious.
The building plume behind the mountains drew my gaze, and I stifled a frustrated head shake. We just finished a two-week rotation on another fire and had forty-eight hours off to do laundry, recover some sleep, and pretend like we didn’t overuse our bodies on a daily basis. Food would be paramount. So would rest.
Certainly not answering fan mail.
That plume would likely be the next assignment for my hotshot crew. The fire had been named the Pinegulch fire. It was probably ten miles west of the highway between Pineville and Jackson City and originated from a lightning strike start, I’d wager. Might have smoldered for a few days before conflagrating, because the only lightning storm in this area passed last week. Aside from a sprinkle here and there, weather reports had been dry all summer.
A beep drew me out of my thoughts. I glanced over to the counter where it originated, then quickly back to my computer.
For whatever reason, the saucy little barista had rattled me. First, I’d wanted to wrap my hand around her wavy black hair and feel it between my fingers. Something about her sparky, dark brown eyes caught my attention, and I had a feeling it was her wit. Second, I wanted to lay a kiss on those full lips. It had been a while.
Alongwhile.
In the same breath, she also spurred an idea of a totally different nature. A far more acceptable nature, anyway, than how soft she’d be in my arms. Spurred by the idea, I turned back to my email.
Computer keys finally rattled under my fingertips after I navigated onto a fresh email.
Pri,
Sorry about the delayed reply. What will happen if we continue to do no PR work? Or what if I hired someone to pretend to be Jess and do the appearances?
Those are my two preferred options.
—Bastian
Damn, but I sounded like a total ass.
Still, that’s where reality lay. I never misrepresented myself to Priyanka, and I wouldn’t start now. No work—which is what I’d been doing for the last couple of months—or someoneelsedoes the work. It’s all I could offer.
After I sent the email into the void, I leaned back against the seat with a sigh. So, there went that, the worst idea ever. Someone else be Jess? Probably too stupid to follow up on. Privacy issues abounded, not to mention who would do it? What would happen if we were found out?
I toyed with those questions all the time anyway.
With any luck, Pri would be at her computer, probably frustrated that I hadn’t responded in two weeks. My lack of a decision would compound her emotions over the topic and she’d probably advocate harder for me to reveal myself as Jess. Then I’d push back and . . .
A truck roared by outside and the sound drew me out of my deepening spiral. I sucked in a sharp breath and looked up as a plate clinked in front of me.
The girl behind the counter—her name tag said Dahlia—avoided my gaze as she set a coffee mug down. A long lock of hair, almost to her elbow, slipped off her shoulder. She began to retreat, but I didn’t want her to go. Not yet.
I grabbed her wrist.
