“This contestant’s writing is just slightly above eleventh-grade level,” Nicole began to read.
Felicity closed her eyes as a pang of sympathy washed over her. Poor Roy. She wished she could shut out the hurtful words she knew was coming, but she had to brace herself for her own.
Nicole continued, “The language was really simple and full of the same words and phrases over and over. His dialogue was awful. Every single time his hero spoke, he added the word see at the end of his sentence, see?
“I also felt like the balance between telling and showing was way off. Some explaining is a necessary evil, but perhaps find a more entertaining way of informing the reader of a character’s backstory than just nattering about it for three pages. And by the way, I don’t need to know every freaking detail about every freaking character that’s introduced. If so-and-so appears in the tale for only one page, why, oh why, do I need to know what school he went to, what he ate for breakfast, etcetera?
“That being said, despite it all, the story itself was interesting. I don’t believe I’d read this particular tale again, but I would read whatever he puts out next, just out of pure curiosity, with the hopes he had a good editor.”
Ms. Roberts glanced up from the page in front of her. “You’ve been given three stars. Anything you’d like to say in your defense?”
Roy’s face was flaming. “Regarding the simple prose, it was because of my first critique on this show, over the big words and well, I-I was trying to meet the required word count in a certain amount of time. Perhaps I added some unnecessary stuff to meet that requirement,” he confessed.
“You’ve got talent, Roy, but you seem to have missed the mark here slightly.” Mr. Brown arched a brow. “Let’s see who else did. Who’s up next?” He turned to Ophelia.
The talk show host glanced down at her page. “Felicity.”
This is it. And after hearing Roy’s review, she wasn’t looking forward to hearing this.
She stepped forward and gulped, unable to get a word around the knot in her throat.
The screen behind the judges changed, and Ophelia began to read. “I dig the romance genre, so I was looking forward to this one, but there is nothing I hate more than a too-stupid-to-live heroine, and in the beginning, this chick is so dumb I wanted to jump in and slap her! She whines incessantly and does nothing to fix her situation. She just sits there and waits for a man to rescue her, and this is a contemporary, not an old Viking romance.
“I’m lucky I put this document on my Kindle. The fact of possibly having to buy a new device is the only thing that prevented me from throwing it against my wall.”
Felicity placed a hand over her mouth as tears welled behind her eyes. This was worse than she’d expected. She was doomed. She had no place in the writing industry.
It’s just one person’s opinion. Buck up.
Ophelia continued reading, “However, I got a whopper of a surprise thirty percent into the story. I did not see it coming. The clues were there, but the author managed to place them just so that I didn’t piece them together. Was this done on purpose? No idea, but it worked.
“In the end, the heroine’s TSTL behavior made sense, and the ending of the book showed us a new, stronger heroine because of it. And the best part is she didn’t need a man to save her, but rather, the hero showed her how she could save herself.
“The setting takes place on a lovely cruise ship with exotic destinations. I could picture each stop vividly in my mind as the author uses a perfect balance of describing and also leaving just enough for me to use my imagination. It’s a second-chance romance with a sweet ending.
I give this a four.” Ophelia placed the white page flat on the desk, clasped her hands on top of it, and sat back. “Felicity, any words?”
“I’m sort of in shock here. It didn’t sound too good for me in the beginning there.” Felicity blinked tears back and laid a hand over her pounding heart. “But all in all I understand what she’s saying and will try to make them a little less … stupid, but it was that way for a reason.”
“Roy,” Ophelia turned her attention back to the red-faced man. “She scored a four, and you scored a three. You have shown remarkable skills and talent these past weeks, and also improvement in some areas, but there can only be one bestseller, and it’s not going to be you, not today anyway.” She gave him a sad smile. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to withdraw to the loft.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Been an experience and an honor to just be here,” Roy quietly stated before he turned and clasped Dez’s hand in a shake and enclosed Felicity in a hug.
She patted him on the back. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as he let her go and turned to the stairs. She hoped he didn’t give up writing, but improved based on what the reviewer had said.
Now it was Dez and her. She wouldn’t be sorry to see him walk away.
Head held high, shoulders back, she awaited the reading of his review.
“Dez, come forward,” Mr. Brown instructed.
Dez stepped up, his gaze moving left and right. A trickle of sweat ran down his cheek.
The literary agent cleared his throat, removed his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and placed them back on his nose.
Dez restlessly fidgeted. Felicity chewed her bottom lip. The man was killing them.
Finally, he began to read at the same moment the screen changed. “One thing I really want in a mystery is a surprise. I do not want to figure out whodunit by page ten. It was so glaringly obvious. Someone is stalking and leaving threatening notes all over the place. Naturally, it’s someone the woman trusts. Done. To. Death.
“Then the big crime is committed and there’s a suicide and note, and of course everyone believes they are safe now. Done. To. Death.
“And what’s with the big words? Who is this author trying to impress? There’s too simple, and there’s ‘let me wow everyone with my extensive vocabulary’, which only works if you know how to properly use the words you are using.”
Dez chuckled, a sound filled not with humor, but with sarcasm. “Great. Now what’s the however or the but?”
He was obviously losing patience.
Mr. Brown stared at him with a hard expression as he lay the paper back down on the desk. “There is no but,” he said, then quoted, “‘I give this two stars. I really have nothing nice to say about it, except the author at least puts his punctuation in the right spots.’”
“What?” Dez looked ready to snap, to throttle someone. Veins protruded from his forehead. His fists were clenched at his sides.
“Dez,” Ophelia quickly interjected in a soothing tone, “I’m afraid the outcome is clear. You had a good run with us, and you are one of the last ones standing. You made it to the top three. That in itself is an honor.”
“Fuck,” was all he said.
Ophelia ignored him. “Felicity.”
Felicity gulped again, then took a breath. Were they eliminating her? They kept changing the pattern of how they announced things, effectively throwing them all off. “Yes,” she squeaked.
There was a long pause. Nobody said anything for what seemed forever. Ophelia merely gazed at her as though sizing her up, contemplating something.
Finally, “You are the first-ever winner of The Next Bestseller. Congratulations and well done. Representatives are here from Bright House to meet with you in the back room. Pick up your check on the way out. You’re free to go home.”
And as Felicity released a breath of air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, the talk show host winked at her and gathered her papers.
That was it. It was over.
She’d won.
Epilogue
Though it was actually metal and rubber underneath her feet, moving her along, Felicity felt as though she were walking on the clouds still. It hadn’t quite sunk in. It probably wouldn’t, not until she had a solid copy of her novel in her hands with the Bright House logo on the spine.
And that would happen wi
thin the next year.
The moving walkway came to an end, allowing her to step off onto tiled floor. Fellow flyers moved around her, dragging suitcases on wheels, when she didn’t move fast enough toward a ticketing line.
She heard a giggle and turned her head just in time to see a couple walking past her, holding hands, the woman smiling and whispering in her beau’s ear. They look so happy and in love.
Some of Felicity’s elation faded.
After talking to the Bright House representatives, shaking hands, signing papers, and collecting congratulations, there had been no one there to pick her up, swing her in his arms, and tell her how proud he was of her.
After being handed a huge check for a hundred grand and posing for a ridiculous number of pictures, there’d been no one there to grin at her and say, “Look at all this good fortune!”
Since her parents’ death, Felicity had learned to cope with aloneness. It was a necessary evil in a writer’s life. She’d been content with her memories, her computer, her heroines and the men they loved, but now … now it wasn’t enough.
In the face of good fortune, she found she still wanted more. She wanted to hold a man’s hand and whisper in his ear.
“Young lady, do you know where you’re going?” An old man in a baggage handler’s uniform stood next to her right arm. “Do you have any luggage I can collect for you?”
“Oh.” Felicity blinked and felt her face warm. She’d been standing there in the middle of the airport like a nimrod. No wonder the man’s voice was so cautious.
“I’m okay,” she responded, a new lightness to her tone. “I was just thinking. I should probably move out of the way. And no, my bags were sent ahead.” A new wave of people coming off the moving walkway parted to move on either side of her toward the counters and lines. Chattering, children crying, and frustrated grunts as people lifted their luggage sounded like a cacophony around her.
The old man smiled, the wrinkles on his face moving down as his lips pulled up. “Sometimes we just gotta do that, stop and think. I hope you got it all worked out, missy.”
“I do. Thank you.” Felicity smiled back at the man. “You have a good day and be careful with the heavy bags.”
The man doffed an imaginary hat before turning to assist a couple struggling to fold a baby stroller.
With a confident stride, Felicity walked to the nearest desk featuring the airline logo she was flying with.
The line moved quickly thanks to an efficient and polite agent.
When it was her turn, the woman behind the counter offered a warm but tired smile. “Hello. What is your destination today? Can I be of assistance?”
Felicity reached into her jacket pocket, fingered the credit card provided by the network to cover her traveling home expenses.
Only she wasn’t going home, not her physical home anyway.
As she handed the card over to the waiting agent, Felicity felt a weight lift from her shoulders. “Miami. I need to go to Miami.”
Her bags were already on their way to her house in Detroit, but everything she needed and wanted was in Miami.
The funeral was over. The food put away, and the guests long gone. He was alone, really and truly alone, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
As he sat on the plastic-covered couch and cradled his forehead in his palm, Victor mused on what he’d done and stared blankly at the off-white stationery he held in his other hand.
He’d given it up. All of it: the money, the contract, the fame, the girl.
He was stupid. Oh, he could live without the money now, and he could land a contract by his writing alone. The letter in his hands attested to that. His work could stand up to the highest scrutiny. Fame, he could take it or leave it. Authors didn’t really get featured on TMZ. But the girl … that’d been dumb.
Could he contact her? Find her on Facebook? Would the show divulge her data? Doubtful.
The words blurred before his eyes. He didn’t really need to read them again. He knew them by heart now, but it was the only thing in his life that wasn’t fucked up at the moment.
Brown, Anton, and Coolidge Literary Agency
Dear Mr. Guzman,
We at Brown, Anton, and Coolidge Literary are pleased to inform you we wish to represent your current manuscript, Die A Little Each Time, upon its completion.
Mr. Allen Brown was most impressed with what he read of it on the set of ‘The Next Bestseller’. It is upon his high recommendations that we are offering you a contract. We believe we could find it a most lucrative home.
Please contact us at your earliest convenience to further discuss the matter.
He rose to pour himself a drink, walking to the bar in the corner of the room where he placed the letter. It was a silver lining behind a bunch of dark clouds, but he couldn’t muster the enthusiasm it warranted, not in light of recent events.
His suit hung loosely around him, wrinkled. The scotch burned the back of his throat, but didn’t numb his heart or quiet the thoughts reverberating back and forth in his mind.
Fool. Idiot. Find her.
I will, he mentally yelled back. I will!
He slammed his glass down on the counter, feeling new resolve, when his doorbell rang.
“What the fuck? More people?” He groaned and contemplated not answering it. He was in mourning, and he was tired. That was a good enough excuse.
Ding dong!
Someone was persistent.
It only took him ten strides to reach the front door and pull it open. He stared in shock at the woman standing there. She wore jeans and a tank top. Her skin glowed in the Miami sun. Her lips were lightly glossed and slightly downturned. Her hair hung in tendrils over the ebony shoulders he longed to touch, to kiss.
“I found myself in Miami.”
“Felicity,” the name left his lips like a caress.
“Victor. I’m sorry about your mother.”
“I’m sorry I was an asshole. I have no words. I just-just — God, Felicity,” he ran a hand through his hair, “I’ve been wanting to apologize more thoroughly, I mean, I was going to go find you.”
“Can I come in?”
“Yes. Please.” He stepped aside. His heart quickened a beat as she brushed against him. The scent of her, vanilla and musk, invaded his nostrils. He couldn’t believe she was here, in his house, in front of him. He just had to reach out …
“You could have won.” She turned to face him, standing close to him, just a hair away. “You would have won.”
“My mother —”
“I know, and you had to be there for her. I’m sure she appreciates that from wherever she is. No, I know it.”
“I failed her. I failed her in so many ways.”
“How? How did you fail her, Victor?” She grasped his jacket lapels, rubbed her fingers over his buttons. “You could not have made her healthier. You could not have kept her alive. You were doing what you felt was right — providing for her.”
“But you don’t understand,” Victor choked out. “I should have been there sooner. I should have stood up for her more when all those men —”
“She chose those men, Victor.” Felicity placed a finger over his lips. “She chose them for whatever reason. Not you. But she loved you, right? I know this because you took care of her, and she apparently took care of you and raised a fine young man. The love shown in your eyes every time you spoke of her, and I imagine she felt the same. And I feel she knew you were there in the end. They always know, Victor.” She laid her hands on his chest, over his thumping heart.
He was reminded that she’d been through this. If he hurt this much losing one parent, what had she felt losing both? And yet, even after he’d treated her callously, she was here comforting him. “She never got her happy-ever-after,” he whispered, raising a hand to toy with a soft curl.
“Yes, she did. It was you.”
He blinked in surprise, and those three words set his world right again. He’d never thought of it that way b
efore. Could she be right? Before he could say anything else, Felicity took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and began speaking in a rush. “Speaking of happy-ever-afters, I have a query for you. The story is about a man and a woman. They’re on a reality show. 100,000 dollars and a publishing contract are at stake. Only one can win.”
She opened her eyes. They were filled with emotions, dark with them.
He welcomed the change of subject and wondered if he dared hope for what he wanted to come next.
“He doesn’t believe in love ‘cause he’s never had it, not this kind anyway, and she has to make him realize he has the ability to love, to be loved, and above all, deserves to be loved. He can have a happy-ever-after.”
A knot formed in his throat. He tried to swallow around it. “And her? What’s in it for her?”
“Well, he tries like a son-of-a-bitch to throw her off her game throughout the show, and he does. He’s handsome, he’s funny, and even though he tries to be a badass, in those moments they sit at the little table and talk, she sees past his exterior. To make a long story short, she likes this guy … she likes him a lot, and after the show is over — she wins, of course,” Felicity grinned cheekily, “she goes to find him, to continue what they started.”
“And do they?” He held his breath, watching, waiting.
“In my book they do. What about yours?” Worry lines appeared around her eyes as she stared at him intently.
“They definitely do in my book.” He grasped her by the waist and pulled her toward him, drawing her breasts against his chest, causing his dick to throb uncomfortably beneath his jeans. It was amazing the joy this woman could bring into his life in such a brief time. “What’s the estimated word count?” He was getting into this banter now.
“Forever or as long as you want it.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe until their lips were almost touching, her gaze boring into his. Her breath tickled him, tantalized him, set his nerves on fire. Her voice shot desire through his body.
Plotting to Win Page 15