Felicia sighed. “Readers of chick lit forgive their heroines for many things from poor judgment to lack of backbone to downright stupidity. Part of the fun is rooting for them to come into their own and earn their happy endings. You know?”
I nodded. “Definitely.”
Felicia gave me a closed-lip smile. “But some mistakes are easier to forgive than others. I think readers will pull for Laurel through her uncertainty over her relationship with Henry and even her flirtation with other guys, but if she crosses the line and cheats on him, I think you’ll lose them.”
I exhaled. “Oh.”
“Do you feel strongly about this subplot?”
I silently counted to three to collect my thoughts. “Not really. The truth is, I was afraid writing a novel about a book blogger would naturally lend itself to telling my own life story, and I was trying to avoid it. Laurel does things I’d never consider—like cheating on my boyfriend.”
Felicia nodded in understanding. “Fair enough. But my advice is to avoid infidelity by Laurel. And if you want her to end up with Henry, I would choose something besides cheating on either of their parts as the major conflict. You want the reader to pull for the couple getting their happily ever after, but if Henry cheats, they might turn against him too.” She shrugged. “That’s my free advice, even if you don’t choose to work with me.”
Oh. My. God. My voice barely a whisper, I said, “Are you saying you want to be my agent?” I crossed my fingers.
Felicia grinned. “I love your voice, and if you’re open to rewrites, yes, I’d like to represent you. I’d be happy to brainstorm some ideas with you.”
My mind was already churning. “I have some thoughts.”
Giving me an amused smile, Felicia said, “You don’t have to decide this minute. Think about it. It’s your baby, and you need to trust your instincts.”
I debated playing it cool. “I’ve thought about it, and I’m in. All in.”
Raising her palms in the air, Felicia pouted. “I didn’t even get to my hard sell.”
With a crooked smile, I said, “Yeah, I suppose I should ask you more questions, find out where you see my future as an author, right? I’m clearly playing this all wrong, aren’t I?”
Felicia gave me a reassuring pat on the arm. “You’re doing fine. I’m excited to work with you and already have some editors in mind. Chick lit is not the easiest genre to sell, but contrary to public opinion, it’s not dead. Although I might be selling it as humorous women’s fiction or romantic comedy depending on the house, chick lit by any other name is still chick lit. What else are you working on?”
Buoyed by her confidence in the genre, I was thrilled to provide details on my work in progress. “I’ve started another chick lit novel about a country girl who takes a summer internship in New York City and rents an apartment on Stone Street not realizing it’s one of the liveliest streets in the city. The story revolves around the constant drama playing out in the half a dozen cafes and bars lining the cobblestone street.” I came up with the idea one night when Bridget, Jonathan, Nicholas, and I sat outside drinking beers at Bavaria Bier House on the street. We got dizzy watching people, mostly tourists, walk back and forth past our table, and it was so loud, we could barely hear ourselves speak. I wondered out loud what it must be like to live in an apartment on top of one of the cafes and inspiration struck.
Felicia’s face lit up. “I love it. You can call it Love on Stone Street.”
“You’re brilliant!” I lifted my hand to give her a high five, but blessedly got my wits about me before it was too late. I placed my glass of champagne on the table and pushed it out of arm’s length.
Tilting her head to the side, Felicia asked, “So, what are these ideas you have for revising A Blogger’s Life?”
I shared my thoughts with Felicia, and as we bounced possibilities back and forth, I became more and more convinced she was the perfect agent for me. Besides having a confidence-inspiring track record—she helped turn Hannah Marshak into a bestselling chick lit author—she loved my voice, my writing style, and my story, was impressed with my existing social media platform and ideas for promotion, and it sounded like she might go after a two-book deal. And, let’s not forget how forgiving she was of my tardiness.
“The popularity of Pastel Is the New Black and the volume of your Facebook and Twitter followers will be a powerful tool to reach potential readers, but it’s never too early to build an author platform separate from the blog. I did a quick search and saw that www.kimberlylong.com is available. You should get on that.”
I removed my pink silk-screen journal from my bag and jotted down: Talk to Bridget about buying author website. Facing Felicia again, I said, “Got it.”
She pointed to her own black leather-bound journal. Smiling, she said, “With modern technology, printed journals are a dying breed.”
I glanced at my journal and grinned. When Nicholas bought it for me before we even started dating, he said he hoped it would inspire me to write great things. “I never leave home without it.”
“Glad to see I’m not the only holdout,” she said before tapping her chin and appearing to contemplate. “Have you considered getting associate reviewers for Pastel Is the New Black?”
Nodding, I said, “I have. I’m inundated with reviews and coordinating blog tours on top of a day job, writing, and trying to maintain a personal life, but I’ve always found a reason not to do it.” I gave her a sheepish grin. “I’m kind of a control freak about my blog.”
Chuckling, Felicia said, “I understand. I just think as an author, you’ll need to be careful about reviewing other books. I’ve read your reviews. They’re well thought out and thorough. And sometimes brutal.”
I remembered Nicholas saying the same thing when he first read my blog. “I’m very frank in my reviews, yes.”
“Honesty is a great characteristic in a book reviewer.” Laughing, she added, “Although I’m sure some authors would disagree with me. But when you’re one of them, it gets tricky.”
I bit my lip. “So you don’t think I should review books anymore?”
I’d defined myself as a book blogger for years. Giving it up would leave a gaping hole in my identity I wasn’t sure even writing my own novels would fill.
Felicia shook her head. “Definitely don’t do away with Pastel Is the New Black. Besides posting book reviews, you can cross-promote with other successful and up-and-coming authors. But maybe consider getting an assistant so you can pick and choose the books you want to review. Perhaps the ones you’re more certain you’ll review positively. That way, you can be honest without calling attention to yourself or possibly asking for bitter authors to slam your books in retaliation. Anonymously, of course,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Felicia had a point. There were many trolls who left one- and two-star ratings on Goodreads, and I often wondered if they were other authors doing it to keep the competition at bay. There wasn’t much I could do to prevent it, but I didn’t have to invite it by posting negative reviews on my blog.
“Anyway, you don’t need to decide anything right now. Just something to consider,” Felicia said.
I exhaled deeply. “It’s a lot to think about. I’m not complaining, mind you.”
“I’ll send you a contract in the next few days. It’s a standard contract, but you should review it with an attorney.”
I smirked. It was about time my association with so many lawyers worked in my favor. “I’m pretty sure finding legal counsel won’t be a problem. My boyfriend is a lawyer and so is my boss. And my best friend is a website designer who can help me with Kimberlylong.com.”
Felicia stood up. “Aren’t you lucky to have friends in such important places? And let’s not forget Hannah.” She smiled.
I raised myself to a standing position and nodded. “Definitely. Hannah’s a great friend,” I said, my voice c
atching. The words sounded so odd rolling off my tongue. “Thanks so much for the champagne and for…well…everything. I’m so excited.” We walked side by side toward the front of the hotel.
“My pleasure, Kim. I’m eager to see the changes you make. How much time do you think you’ll need?”
“I’ll get started right away. Is two weeks, give or take a few days, okay?”
“Sounds perfect to me.”
I feared “give” was more likely than “take,” but hoped for the best. I’d buckle down and write every evening after work and part of the weekends, devoting lunch hours to my blog to avoid falling desperately behind. Nicholas would understand. He was an expert at putting work before our relationship lately. My mind wandered to the text I sent him before I left and the two panicked voicemails I’d left him, but I brushed it aside. I refused to let anything diminish the awesomeness of this conversation—not even the possibility my boyfriend was too busy to support me on one of the most important days of my life so far.
When we got outside, we stopped momentarily on the sidewalk. Felicia pointed east. “I’m heading this way.”
I pointed south. “I’m grabbing the train on 23rd.”
“Have a great night, Kim, and I’ll be in touch.” She extended her hand to me.
Shaking it, I said, “Great.”
For an instant, I worried it was all a dream and pinched myself to confirm I was awake. If it were a sleep-induced hallucination, it topped even my most erotic dream to date. I walked to the subway station with an extra bounce in my step and a huge smile on my face, tempted to announce my news to every passing pedestrian. When I arrived on the platform, I checked my phone. I assumed Nicholas would have called me back by now, but there were no voice messages or missed calls, just a quick text. “Breathe, Kimmie. Just give Felicia a call if she’s not there. I’m sure she’ll understand. It’s not life or death. Good luck and keep me posted.”
I chewed at my lip, disappointed that Nicholas was so nonchalant over a situation that could have been a major disaster and roadblock to my dreams of publication. Choosing to focus on the fact that despite the rocky start, the evening ended with an offer for representation, I wrote him back: “I found her in the bathroom of all places. She heard me crying to you on the phone. I told her what happened and she was totally cool. Even better, she wants to be my agent! Celebrate tonight?”
I made a conscious effort to keep my mouth closed on the train, but my lips had a mind of their own and insisted on grinning shamelessly from 23rd Street to Spring Street. My legs bounced up and down as I sat, impatient for the doors of the train to open so I could hurry home to Nicholas. Over a bottle of wine, I would tell him everything. Then I would lavish in his admiration and pride. Finally, we would undress in a frenzy and make love late into the night.
At last, the train arrived at my stop, and I plowed through the crowd, jogging up the subway stairs and out onto the street as quickly as my three-inch heels would take me. I whipped out my phone and smiled when I saw a text from Nicholas.
“Awesome! I’m so proud of you. Unfortunately, I have an insane deadline at work. I promise to make it up to you. How about tomorrow?”
Feeling like a tire diminished of air, I slowed my steps. Nicholas liked to joke about “the glamorous life of an attorney,” but as the suffering girlfriend, I wasn’t laughing.
In no rush to go home to a celebration of one, I switched directions and walked toward the coffee shop. There was no time like the present to start my rewrites—right after I dished the big news to Bridget and my parents who, unlike Nicholas, wouldn’t be too busy to celebrate with me, albeit telephonically.
Chapter 20
I woke the next morning to the sound of the shower running and stretched my body across the empty bed. I hadn’t heard Nicholas get home the night before and slept through his alarm clock too. Either he was being especially stealthy or I had slept hard. Slowly, the events of the prior night came to me. After Nicholas’s work ethic stuck a pin in my happiness balloon, I had called my folks and Bridget, whose reaction to my news lifted me back up. Besides being thrilled for me, they encouraged me to put my disappointment with Nicholas into perspective. He was a lawyer and working late came with the initials “J.D.” I was well aware of this when we started dating and had no expectations of his career obligations changing once we moved in together. And besides, he was delaying our celebration by twenty-four hours, not blowing it off completely. Rather than mope around our apartment all by myself, I’d headed to Ground Support Café, where I made a nice dent in my edits over a decaf latte and a grilled cheese sandwich. By the time I got into bed at eleven, my eyes were heavy, and my bones weary and ready for sleep. I had dreamed about movie deals and Nicholas devouring me until the sun came up. I hoped at least one half of the dream would come true that night.
Nicholas stepped out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips and approached the bed with a smile. “Sleeping Beauty wakes.”
I lifted my arms over my head and yawned, not bothering to cover my mouth.
“What time did you get home last night?” I scooted closer to the center of the bed to give him room to sit next to me.
“It was about twelve thirty. I would have woken you, but you were dead to the world.”
“I’m surprised I was able to fall asleep. I was so psyched up.”
“With good reason. I’m so happy for you, Kimmie.” He leaned down and nuzzled my neck.
I patted the bed. “Can you snuggle for a minute?”
Nicholas glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand before joining me on the bed. “Just for a minute.”
We lay facing each other—me under the covers and him on top. “It was close there for a while,” I said.
Nicholas’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
I pinched my lips together. “Did you even listen to my voicemails?”
“Of course I did, but by the time I heard them, it was later in the evening. I assumed if Felicia hadn’t been there, you would have left another message.”
“Daneen almost messed things up for me big-time.”
Nicholas frowned. “Do you really think she would sink that low? What was in it for her if you missed the appointment?”
I shrugged. “Seeing me miserable?”
Nicholas smiled softly and ruffled my hair. “I say, all’s well that ends well.”
My gut told me Daneen purposely tried to sabotage my meeting, but Nicholas was around so infrequently lately and I didn’t want to spend the precious time we had together arguing over her. I missed him too much for that.
Nicholas placed his forehead against mine and whispered, “What’s with the sad face, Kimmie?”
I hadn’t realized I’d made an unhappy face, but since he’d brought it up, I asked, “Are we okay?” Confrontation was not my favorite hobby, and I braced myself for his response.
Pulling away, Nicholas gazed at me with his eyebrows drawn together. “Of course we are. Why would you ask?”
“I don’t know. We barely see each other anymore. Is your dad pressuring you to put in all these extra hours at the office?”
Nicholas stared down toward his feet. “He only wants to guide me in the right direction. He means well, and he’s right. I need to up my game.”
I didn’t consider Warren’s mode of tutelage “guiding” as much as “coercing,” but I held my tongue. “I miss you madly.”
“I know I’ve been around less than usual, but work is insanely busy right now. Bear with me, okay?”
I nodded. “I will. But can you say it back?”
“Say what back?”
“That you miss me too, buster. Do I have to beat it out of you?”
Nicholas chuckled. “I’m not sure I can defend myself against someone of your stature.”
I shifted closer to him. “So, do you?”
Nicholas cocked his head to the side. “Do I what?”
I didn’t buy the innocent act. “Miss me,” I said, playfully kicking him from under the covers.
His eyes widening, he said, “Oh, that. Yes, I miss you, Kimmie Long. But I will have my way with you tonight.” He got out of bed, leaving the towel behind.
I gazed at him longingly. “You promise?”
“I swear on my left testicle.” Nicholas winked as he pulled his boxers over his hips. Glancing at the clock again, he asked, “Shouldn’t you get up?”
“Oh yeah, work.” I reluctantly lifted myself off the bed. “But the sooner I get to the office, the sooner I can leave and celebrate with you.” I walked over to where Nicholas was standing and placed my hands on his hips. Lifting my chin to meet his eyes, I said, “Right?”
“Right.” Nicholas nodded.
Chapter 21
“To Kim,” Rob said, raising his glass of water.
David and Lucy repeated an enthusiastic, “To Kim.”
Rob took a bite of his Oriental chicken salad. “I’m sorry we have to rush the celebration, but with the Judge’s Dinner tonight, I need to be as productive as possible this afternoon.”
In honor of Felicia’s offer for representation, Rob took the squad out for a quick celebratory lunch at California Pizza Kitchen a few blocks from our office. Rob, a health nut in his mid-fifties with the energy and workout ethic of a thirty-year-old and a wife twenty years his junior, opted to eat salad instead of pizza. So did Daneen and Lucy. Only David and I shared a pizza. Then again, we were the only two who didn’t need to save our appetites for the dinner to honor the Federal Judiciary that evening at the Waldorf Astoria.
“Thanks, guys. You have no idea how thrilled I am. I’m just glad it all worked out. I was this close to missing the meeting.” After I said it, I made eye contact with everyone at the table, including Daneen. She didn’t even flinch.
“What happened?” Lucy asked before taking a forkful of salad.
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