Without a Net

by Blake, Jill

  So much for stereotyping. She wouldn’t have pegged him as someone who read publishing blogs as a cure for insomnia. Someone who streamed internet porn, maybe. Someone who nudged his Playboy bunny bedmate awake for a bout of vigorous sex? For sure. But someone who read industry news about the literary marketplace? Not so much. Maybe his libido had taken a hit, along with his knee.

  He leaned closer, the crisp sleeve of his oxford shirt brushing against her bare arm. “Want to know what else I learned?”

  She caught the gleam in his eyes, the suggestive smile on his lips. On second thought, there was probably nothing wrong with his libido. She swallowed. “What?”

  “Every indie writer needs PR.” His breath caressed her ear, sending shivers down her neck and back. “So how about it?”

  “How about what?”

  “Will you be mine?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My PR person,” he said. “Publicist. Cheerleader. Marketing guru.”

  “Oh.” Was that a hint of disappointment she felt? She ruthlessly quashed it and shifted in her seat, putting some much-needed space between them. “I sent you a proposal outlining what I could do for you. For your book, I mean. Did you read it?”

  He seemed amused by her prim tone. “Yes. What do we need to get started?”

  “May I?” She slid the food and drinks out of the way, making room for her laptop. It took a few minutes to open the right files. “You don’t have an online presence as an author yet, so we’re working from scratch. We’ll need to build you a website, put up a blog. Open some social networking accounts. Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, Google+. Start generating some buzz.”

  “How do know I don’t have accounts already?”

  “I checked. It’s called research.” At his raised brow, she blushed. Okay, so she’d looked him up shortly after their supermarket encounter. He wasn’t the only one who suffered occasional insomnia. And last she’d checked, there was no law against Googling. “You have a Facebook account as George M. Palmer, though you don’t seem to post much. Is it safe to assume you’ll want to keep that separate from anything you use for marketing?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Well, now’s the time to think. If you’re going to use your own name instead of a pseudonym, Max Palmer sounds much more approachable. And with all the privacy issues Facebook is having, it makes sense to have a different account for your public persona.”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. Now, about the book itself. Will you have hard copies as well as the digital version?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it. Why?”

  “It would help to have something to offer for contests and giveaways on Goodreads and reviewer blogs. People love to get free stuff. Plus it’s something you can autograph and sell when you do public appearances. There aren’t many brick-and-mortar bookstores left, but we can tap into some local libraries and other businesses that might be willing to host a reading. I’m sure there are plenty of book clubs or groups like the Optimist club that would be interested in having you do a talk.”

  “All that?”

  “Well, yes. You do want this book to sell, don’t you?”

  Instead of answering, he studied the questionnaire she’d pulled up on her screen. “Have you done this before?”

  “I’ve done marketing for all sorts of businesses. I sent you a link to my online portfolio.”

  “Yes, I know. But for writers specifically?”

  “The principles are the same. And you’re not the only one who’s been reading industry blogs.” To be honest, she hadn’t exactly had time to read them—after all, it was just yesterday morning that Max had proposed hiring her. But she’d bookmarked a number of sites to check out over the coming days. She was thorough, and she knew she could do a good job.

  He raised a placating hand. “I wasn’t questioning your credentials. Just curious.”

  “Fine. You’re my first. But I promise, you won’t regret hiring me. Whatever it takes to make your book a success, I’ll do it. You just have to keep writing.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Good. Then we’re on the same page?”

  He studied her for several moments before answering. “I’m going back to work, you know. As soon as my leg is a bit stronger. This—” he nodded toward the computer, “will have to take a back seat.”

  “And…?”

  “Just wanted to make sure you were aware.”

  “But you’re not going to just give up writing, are you?”

  He picked up his drink and took a long swig. “I don’t know. As long as doesn’t get old, I guess not.”

  There was a warning for her there, she was sure. A reminder of who Max Palmer really was. A good-time guy. Interested as long as things were fun and easy, but not the type to stick around for the long haul, or to be counted on when the going got tough.

  In her enthusiasm, she’d almost lost sight of that.

  “Fine,” she said. “We’ll take this one step at a time. Fill out the questionnaire and email it to me, so I can start working on the website. Can you write a few blog entries, say five hundred words each, in the next few days?”

  “About what?”

  “Anything. Your writing process. Where you get your ideas. A day in the life of an ER doc. What you think about the current state of healthcare. Whatever. Just make it short and snappy.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. I’ll put together a list of the social media sites we need to target. It’ll take two-three weeks to get everything launched, set up some appearances, maybe take out a few ads before you upload the book. How does your schedule look through the end of May?”

  “Pretty flexible. Some physical therapy appointments, but nothing I can’t change.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you know when I need for you to be available.”

  He laughed. “A woman who takes charge. I like that.”

  She flushed. After so many months of feeling helpless, swept along on a tide of one misfortune after another, she was finally taking control. Maybe that sense of empowerment had gone to her head, just like the alcohol. Max didn’t seem to mind, but she probably ought to tone it down a little if she wanted to attract and retain paying clients. In this business, where perception was all, she couldn’t afford to be seen as overly aggressive. Creative, yes. Knowledgeable, definitely. Hardworking, meticulous, flexible. Yes, yes, and yes. But overbearing? Probably not.

  A quick glance at her watch had her shutting down the computer and extracting a couple twenties from her purse. “It’s getting late,” she said, placing the money beneath her glass and rising. “Thanks for meeting with me. I’ll put together some things for you to review by Monday.”

  “Not so fast.” He signaled to the waiter for the bill, then fished out his own wallet and replaced her money with his. By the time he caught up with her, she was nearly to the exit. “Eva, wait up.”

  He wrapped his hand around her upper arm and held the door for her. She shivered, her nipples hardening beneath the flimsy T-shirt.

  “Cold?”

  Now that he mentioned it, she did notice the drop in temperature. Without the heat lamps creating a cozy enclave against the encroaching twilight, it was downright chilly. As a long-time Santa Monica resident, Eva was used to the sharp contrast between balmy days and cool nights. Usually she carried an extra layer with her, but when she’d gone to the library earlier, she hadn’t expected to stay out so late. This impromptu meeting with Max had caught her off-guard in more ways than one.

  She felt her shoulder bag being lifted. “What…?”

  He draped his jacket, still carrying a hint of his cologne, over her shoulders. “Better?”

  “Yes, thanks. But what about you?”

  He stuffed the folded bills he’d retrieved earlier into her bag and tucked the entire thing under his other arm. “I’ll be fine. Hot-blooded, you know.”

  She ignored his attempt at
humor. “I can carry my own purse.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “I walked.”

  “In that case, come on. I’ll drive you home.”

  He led her a short distance down the block, where he’d apparently managed to find a coveted parking spot. A red Ferrari convertible. Of course.

  He waited until she was buckled in, then handed over her bag and shut the door.

  “Where to?”

  She directed him, sneaking peeks at his profile as he drove. Straight nose, strong chin, wide shoulders and gym-sculpted arms that seemed to crowd her in the cramped confines of the front seat. She dropped her gaze to his fingers as he adjusted the temperature controls. What would those fingers feel like on her skin? Smooth, or a little rough? Her breath hitched.

  She blinked and forced herself to pay attention to the road. “It’s the next street on the right. There, in the middle of the block.”

  He pulled up to the curb. She fumbled trying to get the door open. By the time she did, he was there, extending a hand to help her out of the low-slung car.

  “You know, we never did have dinner,” he said.

  Motion-activated lights came on as they approached the house. “If you’re angling for an invitation in, I’m sorry,” she said. “My son will be home soon.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. Ben wasn’t due back for at least another couple of hours. But her words seemed to have the intended dampening effect on Max’s mood.

  “Well,” he cleared his throat. “In that case, I should get going.”

  She opened the front door and slipped off his jacket. “Thanks again.”

  Their fingers brushed, distracting her long enough for him to lean in and graze her cheek with his lips.

  “I’ll call you Monday,” he murmured.

  She watched him walk back to his car, jacket hooked over his finger, dark jeans sculpting the contours of his tight butt and muscled thighs with every step.

  Oh, God. How was she supposed to resist that?

  Chapter 10

  “We got three offers!”

  Eva shifted the phone to her other ear and saved the document she was working on. “Already?”

  “I told you we’d have a bidding war,” Nina practically crowed. “One of the offers is a hundred above asking, all cash.”

  “You’re kidding. Who has that kind of money?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for bringing some drug lord or mob boss into the neighborhood.”

  “You’ve been watching American’s Most Wanted again,” Nina laughed. “Don’t forget this is LA. Land of the uber-rich and famous.”

  Not to mention city with the highest unemployment rate and one of the highest poverty rates in the country, if you took cost of living into account. But Eva didn’t bother pointing that out. Until recently, she’d been pretty well insulated from those realities herself. Even now, despite all the legal and financial troubles following Roger’s death, she was managing to keep head above water.

  Nina didn’t seem fazed by her silence. “We can counter, if you want, but my advice is to take the cash. There may be some negotiation, depending on what the inspection shows. It’s relatively new construction, and Roger wasn’t the type to cut any corners, so I don’t anticipate any major problems.”

  Eva closed her eyes. If she’d learned one thing in the last year, it was to take nothing for granted. She hoped Roger’s failings didn’t extend to shoddy construction work or willful disregard of building codes and regulations. But she kept her worries to herself. Badmouthing her late husband at this point wouldn’t serve any purpose. Hopefully Nina was right, and the inspection wouldn’t turn up any surprises.

  “When can I bring over the paperwork?” Nina said.

  Might as well get it over with. “I’m home, if you want to come by now.”

  “Great. See you in ten.”

  Eva slumped in her chair. Between shuttling Ben to various sports activities on Sunday, she’d managed to finish the preliminary work on her friend’s project. That left her free to focus on creating a detailed marketing plan based on Max’s completed questionnaire.

  He’d called Monday morning, and they spent half an hour on the phone, reviewing his answers, and hammering out a timeline and budget. With his permission, she started opening social networking accounts in his name, keeping carful record of the details, and uploading the short bio and promotional blurb he’d written at her request. By week’s end, she planned to have a custom template for his blog, with a banner that could be recycled across various platforms, and a design proof for his author website.

  She enjoyed the creative aspects of the work, but not the tedium of repetition, which gave her too much time to think about things she had no business considering. Like what would have happened if she’d turned her head a bit when Max had kissed her goodnight. Like how his lips would have felt against hers, and how he would have tasted. Like whether the muscles she’d been admiring would really be as hard as they looked, once the intervening layers of clothing were gone. Like what those big hands of his could do if given free rein over her body.

  The doorbell interrupted her fantasies.

  If she sounded a bit breathless, Nina didn’t notice. They sat at the kitchen table, reviewing the paperwork Nina brought.

  “I included a leaseback clause for up to two months after closing,” Nina said. “It’ll buy us time to find you a rental.”

  “Thanks. Do you mind if I hang on to this until tomorrow?” Eva asked. “I’d like to have my sister look it over.”

  “No problem. Let me know if you have any questions.” Nina checked the time and stood up. “I’m heading over to pick up Connor. If you want, I can get Ben too, and bring him home.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Eva gathered the papers. “I need to get some air. Just give me a minute, and I’ll walk with you.”

  Franklin Elementary was two blocks south. In a city where most people practically lived in their cars, Eva considered herself lucky that she was able to walk Ben to and from school each day. Might as well enjoy that luxury as long as she could. It was unlikely they’d be able to find something for rent this close to school.

  “I heard you’re doing some work for Max.”

  Eva pulled the front door shut and locked it. Nina might be her friend, but she was also Max’s sister. “Thanks for referring him. I appreciate the business.”

  “My pleasure. If he gives you any trouble, let me know. I’d be happy to set him straight.”

  Eva smiled. “You know, I’ve been thinking. There are a lot of authors out there besides Max who are self-publishing.”

  “I guess.”

  “You’ve heard of Hugh Howey?”

  “The name sounds familiar,” Nina said. “He wrote some kind of futuristic dystopian sci-fi thing, right?”

  “It’s called Wool, and he self-published it. Made a killing. Anyway, he has a blog in which he talks about the indie publishing business. The statistics are pretty amazing. Did you know that independently published authors are selling more books now than traditionally published ones?”

  “Really?” Nina pressed the button for the pedestrian signal at the intersection. “I wonder how much of it is crap.”

  “I don’t know,” Eva conceded. “But I can tell you that your brother’s book is great. So is Hugh Howey’s. And Joe Konrath—you know about him? The Jack Daniels murder mysteries?”

  Nina shook her head.

  “I’ll send you a link. He’s clever, and fun to read, and is apparently some sort of guru for indie writers.”

  “Okay, so there are some good self-published writers out there. But how do you know they’re not the exception to the rule? At least with traditionally published books, there’s some sort of vetting process going on. It’s not a free-for-all where anyone can upload whatever they want and call it art.”

  “A corporate brand is no guarantee of quality.” Eva countered. “Just because yo
u recognize the publisher’s name doesn’t mean the book is well written or well edited.”

  “Touché.”

  “And ultimately, no matter how a book gets published, it’s the readers who decide whether it succeeds or flops. Books that are well written and have mass appeal will eventually find their audience.” She slowed down as they approached the school grounds. “The problem is that indie writers are at an inherent disadvantage when it comes to packaging and promoting their work. They don’t have the kind of resources at their disposal that a traditional publisher could provide.”

  “Like what?”

  “Editing, cover design, marketing. Don’t get me wrong, the services are out there, it’s just that they’re being offered piecemeal.” She took a deep breath. “What I’m thinking is, why not put it all together under one roof? Make it easy to access, efficient, and cost-effective.”

  Until last week, when Max first approached her to do his book cover, Eva hadn’t even considered the issue. But the more she read about the fundamental changes going on in publishing, the more she realized that Max was on to something. And he wasn’t alone. Scores of mid-list writers were leaving the big publishing houses and going independent. Many were reclaiming the rights to their backlist and using those books to jump-start new careers.

  They were far outnumbered, though, by writers who were jumping straight into indie publishing without bothering to vet the traditional approach. She understood Nina’s skepticism: there was bound to be some chaff along with the wheat. But overall, Eva believed the democratization of publishing was a good thing. How many writers in the history of literature had been rejected time and again, only to have their books emerge as classics years later? Now, thanks to indie publishing, such books could be fast-tracked. Both readers and writers benefited. A win-win, as far as Eva was concerned.

  And a wonderful business opportunity for someone with her skills. She wouldn’t be able to do it all herself, of course. She’d need to hire an editor, and maybe a dedicated PR person if things took off. But she could certainly organize and oversee things, and handle the creative design work.

  All she needed was time. And freedom from distractions.