Page 5 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
Not someone like Zane Ryder. No. Zane Ryder. And she said it like someone casually suggesting a haircut.
I didn’t think anything of it. And maybe she didn’t either.
Not yet.
3
I was knee-deep in the seventh rewrite of my novel’s ending—the good one, the final-final “this-time-it’s-really-done” draft—when my phone started vibrating. One word flashed on the screen:Dad.
I hesitated.
I’d just survived Tess’s Greek tragedy, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for another.
Conversations with my parents always felt like five-act dramas—only with less pathos and more passive-aggressive judgment.
I sighed and answered.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Did you find a job yet?”
Delicate as ever.
I started pacing in circles around the room, like I was way too busy for this call. I was hoping the movement would help me improvise.
“Yes, I’m in talks with two companies. Final round of interviews. It’s competitive, but I’mplaying my cards right.”
“Mmh.” His tone was that of a man who’d just realized his crypto portfolio was now worth exactly zero. “And what kind of companies are these?”
“Import-export.”
“Import-export?”
“Yes.”
“Both of them?”
“No. One imports. The other exports.”
“Ah.” Long, skeptical pause. “And what exactly do they import and export?”
“Consumer goods.”
“Like?”
“Well... the first one imports pasta, cheese, extra virgin olive oil. The other exports ketchup, Coke, barbecue chips... you know, the crème de la crème.”
I heard my mother’s voice in the background, a sharp whisper traveling down the line: “Tell her this is the last month.”
Silence.
My father hesitated. Then, a split second before he could say it out loud, I beat him to it.
“I heard.”
He surrendered with the grace of a man passing the baton in a war he already knew he’d lost. “I’ll put your mother on.”
“Bea?”
