CHAPTER 2
Ali
I clutch my phone to my chest. My heart pounds so hard I worry for a second that I might be having a heart attack. I’ve been sitting this way for twenty minutes, ever since the call from my agent. I was sure she was going to call back to say, Just kidding, the offer from Carmichael Publishing was a prank and we’re back to square one. But nope. She was calling to tell me that not only is the deal really on the table, but the CEO wants to meet with me to discuss my book.
I flop against my couch, face in my favorite throw pillow, and let out the scream I’ve been holding in for almost an hour.
Once I get the wild emotion out of me, I dial my mom’s number. She picks up on the second ring.
“Hi, Ali. It’s not Tuesday. What’s up?”
“Guess what?” I pant.
I can almost see Elaine’s eye roll. “You know I hate guessing games.”
“I got an offer on my book! From Carmichael Publishing!”
Mom squeals. “Honey, that’s incredible! Bob,” she yells, calling for my father. He’s probably down in the hardware shop he owns below their apartment. “Bob, Ali is going to be published!”
I cringe. “Mom, please don’t yell in my ear.”
“Sorry, honey, I’m just so proud. My little girl, a published author,” she gushes.
“Nothing is set in stone yet, Mom,” I say quickly. “My agent just got the offer today. She still has to look over everything. But the CEO said he wants to meet with me tomorrow to talk about the offer.”
Elaine squeals again. “Ali! That’s incredible. We have to celebrate. Why don’t you come over for dinner?”
I glance at the clock. It’s nearly five, the time Dad closes up shop and heads upstairs for dinner.
“Okay. I’ll be over in thirty minutes.”
She squeals a few more times before hanging up, which makes me wince. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mom, hands down. She’s a poet, so being published isn’t new for her. Elaine’s won awards for her poems, which she displays proudly in my parents’ modest apartment.
Because unfortunately, poetry doesn’t pay much. And with Dad owning his own small business and my mom writing for a living, we didn’t have a lot of money growing up. Mom’s creativity doesn’t churn a lot of dough, and Dad puts a lot of his money back into keeping the store running. It’s not cheap running a hardware store just outside of New York City, but he’s been able to stay open for decades now. I get my hard work and perseverance from him.
My apartment is only a few blocks from where I grew up. I love my parents and even when I earned my Bachelor’s in creative writing, I remained less than an hour away from them. I can’t imagine ever living away from my family. We may not have had a lot of money when I was a kid, but there definitely wasn’t a shortage of love.
After a quick shower, I check my email and see that my agent, Darla, sent me the contract from Carmichael Publishing. My phone rings like she can see me.
“Hey, Ali,” she says as soon as I pick up. “I just sent you the contract. Did you see it?”
“Yeah, it’s in my inbox.”
“Perfect. Under no circumstances are you to sign it. I don’t care what Chris Carmichael tries to smooth talk you into at your meeting tomorrow. You sign nothing until I’ve okayed it. Got it?”
I laugh. “Got it, Darla. Thank you so much for this. You’re making my dream a reality.”
“Hey, you have the writing chops, kid. This is all your doing.”
“I may have written the book, but you believed in it.”
“You’re going to make me cry!” she says. “Listen, I’ve got to go. My panel is starting soon. I’m back in the city next week, though. We’ll meet and talk about the contract then. Mr. Carmichael is giving us until the end of next week to accept or decline their offer.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you next week, Darla. Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome, kid.”
Darla hangs up, leaving me even more excited than before. I want to curl up on the couch and read my potential contract a hundred times, but I know I wouldn’t understand much of it. My advisor suggested I take a contracts class during college since I told him I wanted to be a writer, but I was too busy overloading on creative writing credits to consider anything else.
I leave my laptop on my table and head to my parents’ place. Since they live so close, I walk instead of drive. The brisk fall air feels good against my face, and my mom runs out of the hardware store door the second she sees me.
“Ali, my baby girl!” she coos. “I am so proud of you.” Elaine smothers me in a bear hug, nearly breaking my ribs. I hug her back, resting my head on her shoulder. My mom and I are right around the same height, though my hips are almost twice as wide as hers and my boobs at least three times as big. Mom says I take after my dad’s side of the family in those areas.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say into her shirt. Tears prick my eyes. All I’ve ever wanted is to be a published author, and that dream is finally coming true.
“You deserve this, honey. All of that writing you’ve been doing since you were a kid. It’s about time someone else saw how amazing you are.”
“You have to say that. You’re my mom,” I say wryly.
She smiles. “You’re an adult now, Ali. My obligations as your mother ended the day you turned eighteen. This is the truth. You’re a talented writer, and now the world is going to know that, too.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. We pull apart from our hug and link arms. She leads me into the hardware store entrance where Dad is waiting to lock things up. There’s a separate entrance to the apartment, so we don’t have to go through the store to get upstairs, but it looks like Bob was just about to close up anyway.
After the doors are locked, it’s my dad’s turn to hug me. “Ali, I’m so proud of you. I can’t wait to read your book.”
“I can’t wait for you to read it.”
“You could give it to us now,” he says slyly. “Save us the wait.”
We head for the stairs to the apartment. “Not a chance. You know the deal. You don’t get to read this book until it’s published.”
“Well, it sounds like we won’t have to wait too much longer,” Dad says excitedly. “My baby girl is going to be a published author!”
“Hopefully,” I say, pulling open the door to my old home. My bedroom is the first door on the left. It’s exactly the way I left it. My parents say it’s so I can come home whenever I want, but really if it weren’t for the storage they have downstairs at the store, my room would be filled with boxes and antiques by now.
“What do you mean, hopefully?”
I follow my parents into the dining room. Dinner is already finished since Mom likes to have it on the table right when Dad gets up from the store.
“I haven’t signed the contract yet. Darla still has to go over it, and I have that meeting with the CEO. What if he doesn’t like me?”
My mom strokes my wild curls reassuringly. “Oh, honey. Editors aren’t like agents. They care about your book and that’s pretty much it. Unless you’ve done horrible things like hurt other people, they’ll publish you even if they don’t particularly like you. Agents are the ones who want a relationship.”
“Still. I’m scared I’m going to blow my chances at this meeting tomorrow.”
Dad sits at the head of the table, and Mom brings over the spaghetti and meatballs she made for dinner. It’s my favorite, and she always keeps the ingredients on hand for me.
“You don’t have to worry, Ali. You’re going to blow the socks off this guy.”
I take a bite of my food and nod, though I’m not convinced. I’ve never been good at wowing people. With my writing, sure, but not with my personality or with my looks. I thought I finally made it there when I was in college, and I had this awesome boyfriend, but then I caught him sleeping with my roommate. Even now, my heart aches with the memory. So clearly, I’m not great at reading people. I thought I understood my ex, but obviously not.
Taking a deep breath, I smile at my dad. “I hope so.”
Elaine takes my hand in hers. “Your dream is coming true, Ali. It’s okay to be happy about that.”
“As soon as I sign that contract, I’ll be happy.”
More like as soon as my book is on the shelf for people to buy, I’ll be ecstatic. This entire thing can be taken away from me at any moment. I have to make sure that doesn’t happen.
After dinner and ice cream, my parents beg me to stay and play a board game with them, but it’s getting late, and I’m exhausted. The excitement of the day has worn me out. I walk down the dark, quiet street to my apartment and flop down on the couch once inside.
I scroll through the contract on my laptop. It’s probably a good idea to familiarize myself with it before the meeting. I read through it once, and then a second time, but I’m not grasping much. Darla is going to have to explain this to me.
But I get curious. Who is this man I’ll be meeting tomorrow? Who is Chris Carmichael? I type his name into my search engine, and I’m not surprised to find a bunch of photos of him at various rich people events. The guy who started one of the fastest growing publishing companies in the country certainly deserves a lot of coverage. I enlarge the first photo, and I’m immediately struck by how gorgeous he is. Holy shit, this is him? Bright blue eyes stare at me underneath a comma of coal-black hair. He’s dressed in a perfectly-cut tux that shows off those broad shoulders and long, powerful legs.
I try to get my pounding heart under control. Staring at the perfect planes of Chris Carmichael’s face like some love-struck teenage girl isn’t going to tell me about the guy I’m meeting tomorrow.
“Who are you?” I murmur breathily, mouse scrolling furiously. I switch to the articles instead, my eyes devouring the text.
“Wow,” I whisper to my computer screen. The first page I pull up is Mr. Carmichael’s biography. He was abandoned as a baby and grew up in foster care. He built the company from the bottom up when he graduated from college and is now one of the richest men under thirty in the country.
I flip to another article about Chris Carmichael. This one is a list of thirty women he dated in the past. Living outside of New York City, I know these tabloids can exaggerate when it comes to relationship alerts. The general consensus, though, is that the man is a playboy who’s never had a serious girlfriend in his life. It’s amazing that a guy who bounces from woman to woman can hold down a career and manage a company as awesome as Carmichael Publishing, but I guess we’re all contradictory in some way or another.
Clearly, I’m out of my league. Because this man has accomplished a million different things, whereas I’m just plain old Ali. A wannabe author. The girl with frizzy brown hair and curves that go on for days. Most guys don’t even see me. Their eyes skate by like I’m a piece of furniture.
So? The voice in my head says scornfully. It’s not like tomorrow’s a date. Tomorrow is where you meet a publisher who’s interested in your work. It’s a work meeting, Ali. Get with it.
The voice is right, and I close my laptop ruefully. Trust me to get carried away. What woman wouldn’t, seeing those photos of Chris Carmichael? But still, I have to stay in my zone. I’m there to negotiate a book deal… and not to lose my head over the most gorgeous man I’ve ever set eyes on.