Page 10 of Story of My Life
“I’ve never felt more like a has-been than I did today.”
Zoey nodded briskly. “Good.”
“Good?”
She blew a curl out of her face. “Yeah, because I know you, Hazel Freaking Hart. I’ve known you since the third grade. You’re always one ‘you can’t do that’ away from a full-blown ‘hold my beer’ training montage.”
My smile was on the pathetic side, but it was there. “You’re such a weirdo.”
“That’s why you love me. Now, listen carefully. All it takes is one good book to turn all those beautiful readers into Jennys and Andreas. You’re a kick-ass author with amazing stories to tell. And who knows, you might just find your own happily ever after.”
I blew out a breath through my teeth. That was the thing. I’d had my shot at HEA, and it had blown up in my face. If there wasone thing I knew for sure, you weren’t given unlimited chances in love. That’s why they called it “the one.”
Zoey unzipped the front pocket of the suitcase and shoved my barely used pen collection inside. “Aha! There you are, you sneaky little electronic turd,” she said, fishing her phone out of the pocket.
I shook my head. “You’re a walking disaster.”
“But I’myourwalking disaster. Now let’s go get a drink.”
“How about several?” I countered.
“Even better.”
We headed for the door, excusing ourselves as we cut through one of the long lines. I glanced up and caught the look of panic on the author’s pretty face as she scanned the sheer number of bodies.
Zoey’s phone rang again. “Ugh. It’s my boss. I need to take this.”
“Give me the bag or you’ll wander off and leave it somewhere,” I said, taking the suitcase from her.
“One time. Okay fine, four times.”
I shooed her away.
“Lawrence, to what do I owe the honor on a Saturday?” Zoey said into the phone as she strode toward the door.
I paused again and looked back at the author. She still had fifty people in line, and she looked exhausted. I debated for almost a full minute before rummaging through the suitcase until I found what I was looking for. I made my way up to the table, where an overwhelmed line attendant held up her palms. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait your turn with all the many, many other readers.”
“I’m an author, and I have something for”—I glanced at the signage—“Stormi Garza.”
“Make it quick. We’re already going to be here through happy hour unless my menopause takes me down with a hot flash,” she said, swiping her forearm over her brow.
“Here’s a little something for you.” I handed the woman a protein bar and a sports drink.
“Ugh! You’re a damn angel,” she whispered, then tore the bar wrapper open with desperate violence.
I apologized to the readers at the front of the line and slid in behind the table.
“Hi. I’m Hazel,” I said to Stormi. “I thought you might need a rehydration break.” I handed over another bottle of sports drink and set it on the table in front of her.
Stormi looked at it like she might cry. She was pretty, curvy, and oh so young with a cloud of wavy black hair. “Thank you,” she rasped.
“Drink up,” I ordered. “You’re doing great. You’re almost done, and everyone is so happy to see you.”
“My face hurts from smiling, and I think my hand is going to fall off,” she admitted.
“I’ve got something for that too,” I said, sliding the small zippered cooler over the pretty purple tablecloth emblazoned with her logo.
“Is it alcohol? Please tell me it’s alcohol,” Stormi begged.
