“A good query letter with a good manuscript lands across my desk, and you could be like Nightfall, on the New York Times bestseller list for 235 weeks with 116 million copies sold.”
“Well said, Ms. Alexander.” Ophelia smiled at them as if they were all her little boys and girls. “You have four hours to retreat into your writer’s caves, find an agent suitable for your work, and write the perfect query. Per the rules of the show, your computers and iPads have been assigned and contain no prior research or files from you except for the manuscript you are currently working on. You may use your manuscript for this competition. Whoever writes the best query will be allowed to manipulate the elimination challenge, and your time starts … now.”
At first nobody moved. Felicity shook herself from her stupor and turned to head to her little girl writing cave and ran smack into a solid chest.
Victor. The man was always there. It was exasperating. And so were his clothes — his tight t-shirts showing off all his assets, his jeans that seemed to be baggy everywhere but the butt, which fit his tight rear end like a glove, and —
“Excuse me,” he said in his deep voice, as his palms burned holes through her blouse on her upper arms. Wait — why was he touching her?
“Yes, excuse me.” Felicity tried to ignore the strong scent of cologne and go around him, but he moved at the same time, in the same direction.
“Sorry. Seems we just keep bumping into each other.” He grinned down at her. Oh my God, he has dimples.
And her body was on fire. “Will you just move please? You are wasting your own time as well as mine.”
This time, he let her go. The ‘cave air’ cooled the warm heat marks his hands had left behind.
“Good luck,” he said and walked toward his own cave — right next to hers.
“You too,” she choked out. But she wasn’t sure she meant it. Victor was a threat. The sooner he was gone, the sooner she could relax and win this thing.
Hmmm, this ‘cave’ isn’t so bad. At least it has a window, even though the view is more distracting than helpful.
The window with a box seat looked out onto a very busy New York City street, not conducive to writing, which was why she settled on the frilly daybed with the iPad.
First, she Googled literary agents that specialized in romance. To her dismay, it took her a full hour of searching to find one currently accepting queries. Once she had that information saved, she did some research on writing the perfect query. There were too many websites to choose from, all vowing to help her land that literary agent.
Just pick one and get on with this. Just need a guideline.
She knew how to write a professional letter. Her previous career in a law firm had required her to write thousands of letters, all in a professional tone. She knew what key words to use and what not to say.
This was all about selling oneself, and wasn’t that what being an author was all about? Selling yourself and your work? She’d better get used to it.
Cross-legged on the daybed with the iPad in her lap, biting her lip as was her habit when in deep concentration, she got to work.
She wondered how Victor was doing next door. Had he found an agent yet? Was he enjoying the free coffee? If she sniffed really hard, she thought she smelled cappuccino.
Victor smacked his lips as he lowered the plastic coffee cup to the tiny table. The caffeine helped him keep his energy up, especially after a very sleepless night. Trading beds with Tiffani had not been the best idea he’d ever had. His plan had had the opposite of his intended effect. He could swear the pretty romance writer hadn’t moved all night, just the barest of shifts under the covers, but him — whoa, he’d tossed and turned with a hard-on until dawn broke through the few windows they had.
What sleep he’d managed had been interrupted with dreams of chocolate brown eyes, pink lips, and giant sandwiches. The latter was frightening due to the alarming noises it made.
He blamed Dez’s nighttime ‘serenade’ for the nightmare.
What was she doing now? Was she laid out on that daybed, maybe one slender ankle crossed over one shapely leg?
He took another sip of coffee.
There. He’d found his agent. Now he just had to write his letter. He was clearly on top of his game.
Swoosh. The curtains opened once again, controlled by some hidden mechanism. “Time’s up. Fingers down. Please hit print on your chosen writing device and gather here in thirty minutes for judging.”
There were some sighs and grumbles as the contestants convened in the center of the cave. Felicity stretched, reaching her arms to the sky. She’d literally been in bed all day. As she sighed in contentment, she felt someone’s gaze on her. A quick glance upward and she met his dark eyes. He seemed riveted to the tiny strip of flesh made visible between her blouse and slacks. Quickly, she lowered her arms and felt her face heat.
“Hey, Vic, how about a coffee? You got any other cups in your cave?” Arnold asked.
“Oooh. That does sound good,” Tiffani agreed.
And much to Felicity’s relief, Victor and his clothes-removing gaze went back to his cave.
“How do you think you did?” She turned to make small talk with Roy, who’d just come up beside her, but had to stifle a gasp. “Oh, you poor man, you need some sunscreen, actually a hat would be better.”
He nodded, looking embarrassed. “I’m going to be asking the officials for some. This is going to hurt later. I can feel it.”
The man was beet-red. Felicity felt a stab of pity and a rush of relief that she hadn’t gotten that cave. Though her dark skin didn’t burn like that, anyone, after a while, would feel the sting of those lights.
“But to answer your question, I don’t have doubts in my ability to write a query.”
They stood there for a while longer, chatting about mundane things. Felicity discovered the man was a former Army soldier and had served in Vietnam. His goal was to get a military historical piece published and donate half the funds to Vietnam vets.
Felicity was touched and couldn’t help but think this made her own agenda seem so small, so insignificant. Should she win this? She knew she could, but was she worthy?
When she laid her gaze on cocky Victor striding back to their circle, she had to refrain from curling her lip. Well, why not? It sure beat that arrogant I’m God’s gift to women guy walking away with the prize.
She reminded herself the prize would be awarded to the most deserving and talented, not the most noble or cocky. I got this.
“Everyone, please stand in front of the desk and prepare to hear the results of our query judging.” Ophelia was a petite woman, but she sure knew how to dominate a room with her loud voice and her equally loud colors. Today’s suit was bright orange.
Felicity and the other contestants lined up in front of the large desk in the back of the room and awaited their fate. Excitement sizzled in the air. To her right was Roy, to her left, Victor — how did he always sneak in next to her? The man was exasperating!
The four judges took their places behind the desk. Ophelia — as usual — took control.
“Tiffani, how do you feel you did on this?”
Tiffani smiled and stepped out of the line. “I feel I did pretty good, because I’ve had to do this before. I am published, and I queried them when I subbed the publisher.”
Ms. Anderson leaned forward to peer at the erotic writer. “Actually, you did very well with your query. It was well-written, contained a blurb — not too long or too short, and you appear to be able to follow instructions. Definitely one of the best. I can’t say I would ask to see the full manuscript as I’m not interested in shape-shifting dolphins engaging in ménage activities, but I’m sure someone out there would.”
Next to Felicity, Victor made a choking sound. Was he trying not to laugh? Felicity bit the inside of her lip, hard.
“Arnold.” Mr. Brown appeared to be tackling this one.
“Yes, sir.”
“Your query leaves much
to be desired. Do you know how to use spell check?”
“Um, yes. I’m not real familiar with that compu —”
“Regardless, to misspell a word in your very first paragraph,” the older man shook his head, “is not a good sign. They are not likely to even read the rest of what you have to say. Automatic delete.”
Arnold’s face turned as red as his hair, and his shoulders slumped as he stepped back into the line. Felicity felt a stab of pity for the young man. She hoped her critique wasn’t that harsh.
“Victor,” Ms. Roberts called.
“Yes.” He stepped forward, his arm slightly brushing Felicity’s.
“Your query was darn near perfect, spelling was great, etcetera, but you did one thing wrong, and it clearly says you can’t follow instructions. The agent you chose said to paste the first three chapters of the MS, so why did you paste four?”
“Shit,” he said under his breath. Felicity bit her lip to keep from smiling and watched his shoulders tense. “I thought they might need a bit more? It’s good stuff.”
Tiffani giggled at the other end.
Ms. Roberts shook her head. “Always follow directions. Not following directions can cost you an agent.”
“Carmen,” Ophelia announced.
“Yes.”
“The first paragraph is an introduction. The second paragraph is a blurb. The third paragraph is your credentials. We’ve already gone over spelling and following directions. Now we’re going to talk about lying. Do not make up fake credentials. Agents and publishers do know to look that information up. Do you mind telling us when you won a Nobel prize?”
Felicity covered her mouth to stifle a gasp.
“Well, I thought since it was fake …”
“Wrong. If you aren’t going to take this contest seriously, we aren’t going to take you seriously, and the road to being a bestseller is not paved with lies.”
“Felicity.”
This was it, her first judging. Her heart rose in her throat as she stepped forward.
“Felicity,” Ms. Anderson repeated, “you did a great job. It’s a perfect query, in great order, with no misspellings. I’m being completely nitpicky here, matter of fact, but there must be a clear winner as well as a clear loser. You did one thing wrong. A few others have done this too.” The blonde cast a stern look over the crew in general. “Queries should always, at all times, be Times New Roman, twelve point. Only Tiffani and Victor did this. Your biggest error, Felicity, was choosing a fancy font.”
“Thank you, ma’am, I’ll keep that in mind for the future.” Swallowing the knot in her throat, she stepped back into the line. That hadn’t been too bad, but she didn’t like losing to that smug Tiffani. It was a struggle not to allow her shoulders to slump in defeat. She hadn’t lost, but she hadn’t won either.
“Roy,” Mr. Brown called. He hardly waited a beat before continuing, “Your query itself…” he faltered as he got a good look at Roy’s red face, “your query itself is impeccable, but why did you, a military writer, send your manuscript to a romance agent? Did you stop and read the description by the agent?”
Roy’s red face paled, and he cleared his throat. “I thought — it seemed — they were all romance or young adult —”
“Each agent, like a publisher, is seeking certain genres. Part of being a writer is being patient and taking the time to do the right things at the right time. You must pay closer attention. That’s a wasted query.”
“Dez,” Ms. Roberts said.
“Ma’am.”
“You go on and on about the book for four paragraphs. In the query letter, they ask for a blurb, not an entire synopsis of the story. Do you know what the difference between a blurb and synopsis is?”
“Apparently not.”
Laughter and chuckles sounded. Felicity found herself sharing an amused glance with Victor. A tingle ran up her spine, which she quickly tried to ignore.
“A blurb is like what you read on the back of a book to determine if you, the reader, wants to read it or not. A synopsis is a play-by-play summary, outlining every chapter, the conflict, the ending. According to the literary agent you chose, the instructions were to attach a separate synopsis, not combine it all in your blurb. So once again, I cannot stress enough the importance of following instructions.”
In unison, the contestants nodded.
“The winner of the first challenge is Tiffani,” Ophelia announced. “Tiffani, you will have the power to manipulate the first elimination challenge.”
“Yes!” the erotic writer screeched.
“We’ll never hear the end of this,” Felicity murmured to Victor, surprising both herself and him.
He leaned into her, his breath caressing her ear and causing her heartbeat to race. “Fornicating dolphins. That is all.”
Felicity threw her head back and let loose a freeing and invigorating burst of laughter. It felt good after the tension of being judged.
As they headed back to the loft, she vowed this would be her only minor setback.
“How do you feel about the first challenge?” the cameraman asked.
Tiffani shifted, and the top of her dress shifted with her, revealing a daring amount of cleavage. “I’m thrilled. I came in here to win this thing, but from the get-go, I got an attitude from Miss Know-It-All and I didn’t appreciate her comments the other night. I think I’m going to kick her ass to the curb and she’s gonna be hella surprised. I write sex because I like sex. Who doesn’t like sex? I mean, besides that prude in there, ya know?” The blonde grinned as she pointed in the direction of the loft. “Probably never been kissed.” She let out an unladylike snort. “Just think she may end up pretty surprised.”
“So, we never got to finish our talk last night.” The words came from behind her, and Felicity swung around, resting her back against the balcony railing so she could focus on him.
“What talk was that? How you’re trying to throw me off my game?” She couldn’t help but smile at the handsome Latino, even though she was supposed to be mad. He was throwing her off her game — a little bit.
Victor laughed — a head thrown back and white teeth flashing kind of laugh —sending an ache straight to her groin. Competition or not, she was attracted to this guy, at least physically.
He stood next to her and braced his elbows on the iron rail. Below them, cars and people vied for space in the New York City streets. Pieces of trash caught rides on the breeze. Pigeons walked with their awkward gait on the sidewalk, dodging feet and seeking scraps. Sunlight glinted off his sunglasses.
“You started a thread last night, but we got sidetracked, about why we write what we do.” He looked at her. She could smell him, his aftershave, and she fought the urge to take a deep whiff.
“I write romance for two reasons. One,” she held up her index finger, “so I can dispel the notion that all women in romance novels are damsels in distress. Mine aren’t those ditzy ladies. Two,” she raised her middle finger to go along with the other digit, “so everyone can have a happily ever after.”
“But it’s not like that in real life.”
Felicity reeled back a bit. “Say what? Sure it is,” she argued, lowering her hand to her hip. “My parents had a happy-ever-after. They were married for forty years, and every day before I left home, I saw them shower each other with respect and love. They never lost that loving feeling, you know?” She peered up at him, for some reason she couldn’t explain, wanting him to get it. It was a struggle not to get misty-eyed, remembering her parents, their playful arguments around the kitchen table, the silly slaps on the butt when they thought no one was looking, the giggles from behind closed doors. At the time, it had seemed gross, but looking back, Felicity knew that was love. She wanted to recreate that, wished she could find it herself. There’d been a few times she thought she had, but something deep inside her balked. None of the men had felt right, perfect.
“No. I can’t say I do. I’m afraid I didn’t see that growing up. My mom raised me alo
ne … along with some bad boyfriends.” His jaw hardened, and she imagined his eyes did too behind his shades. “But she was a good mother, the best,” he added quickly, his posture becoming defensive. “She provided for me and kept me out of trouble.”
Felicity wasn’t sure what to say. The man obviously felt strongly for the woman who had raised him, but there were bad memories from some poor choices she had made. Too many women went down that path — one of the reasons Felicity never rushed into relationships, at least never had. “I’m sure she had quite the task raising a kid as stubborn as you,” she said in an attempt to lighten the mood. “You must get that from her.”
He laughed. “I guess so.”
Throughout their conversation, they’d inched closer and closer to each other, until he was close enough that she could kiss him if she just rose on her tiptoes, but that would be ridiculous. Where was her mind going?
She took a deep breath to calm the butterflies in her lower region and turned around to look over the balcony. “It’s true we tend to use what we grew up around as an example, but just because your mom didn’t have a great relationship, doesn’t mean you can’t. You could have a happy-ever-after too, but not if you close yourself off to the possibility.”
He made a scoffing sound, and she decided to change the subject. “Where do you live?”
“Miami, born and bred.”
“Aw. That explains your crime writing. You get a lot of it there.”
“Never a dull moment.” He smiled. “I like hard, cold facts. I like to analyze and piece things together. I also get to go to some seedy places at times.” A waggle of eyebrows accompanied his words.
A vision of him in a strip club with a couple of women on his lap caused a pang of jealousy — sharp and deep — to pierce her. She shook her head at herself. Getting way too carried away, girl.
“So, forty years. What happened after that? You said they were married forty years. He traded her in for a younger model at some point, right?”
Plotting to Win Page 4