Chapter 1
Was this real? Maybe tiredness from the night shifts was making her hallucinate. To check, she pressed her cell hard against her ear and said, “Would you mind repeating that, please?”
The caller chuckled. “I said, ‘you’ve been chosen.’”
She shook her head, letting the information sink in at last, as she mumbled, “I can’t believe this.”
“Believe it, Sarah. It’s happening.” The man’s tone was one of clear happiness for her.
She listened to the rest of the call in heightened awareness. Plane tickets––two, she frowned a little at that––an exclusive hotel, a chauffeur, formal dress code, a speech, a private meeting with Joan. It all sounded so fancy . . . and nerve-racking.
Especially the meeting part.
A few minutes later, she hung up. When she placed her phone on the coffee table, her hand shook. Her heart felt like it wanted to expand out of her chest. She made herself inhale a slow, deep breath.
Once she was calm, it hit her.
This is real.
An excited scream pierced the silence of the apartment. It took a few seconds before she understood the sound had come from her. She rose from the sofa she’d been sitting on. She stood frozen on the spot, not sure how to react. Adrenaline coursed through her veins.
She jumped up and down on the shaggy lime-green rug that covered her living room floor. She didn’t care if the noise echoed through to the apartments below. A dark-brown tress of hair flicked into her eyes. She pushed it away then plopped back into the sofa.
“This is really happening.”
She screamed again. This time, it was deliberate. She smiled. If someone had seen her at that moment they would have thought she’d won the lottery. She felt like she had. Because now she would be viewed as a serious writer. She couldn’t be told by anyone she had no talent ever again.
She would never believe them again.
I’ve got to tell someone.
Sarah grabbed her phone, found a preset number, and dialed.
After a couple of rings, a voicemail message answered, “Hi, you’ve reached Amy Benson, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
There was a beep.
“Hey Ames, it’s me. I have news, call me as soon as you get this.”
She hung up and called another number. Please answer. She needed to tell someone or her heart would burst.
“Hi, baby girl.”
Thank goodness!
“Mom. I’ve got something to tell you . . . but you have to promise to keep it a secret until Friday night.”
“What’s this about?”
“I need you to promise first.”
“Okay, I promise. What is it?”
“You know how you convinced me to enter my manuscript into that mentoring program a few months back?”
“The Joan Morgan mentorship?”
She used every ounce of control she had to make her voice sound steady, “Uh-huh.”
“Have you heard back?”
“Yes . . .” Sarah paused for effect then shouted the next part, “And I was chosen out of five hundred and sixty-seven applicants.”
A scream, resembling the ones she’d released a few moments earlier, echoed through the line. Sarah giggled.
Her mother stopped long enough to gush, “I’m so proud of you. I knew you could do it.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Her mother had been her biggest fan from the moment she’d written her first story at the age of five. Without her encouragement and praises, Sarah would have given up long ago. She’d long believed her mother was biased. Hadn’t she been told that for years?
But this . . .
Her mother pulled her from her thoughts by asking, “When does the mentorship start?”
“They have to announce me as the winner first. They’ll do that at the Emerging Writers of America awards dinner this Friday night . . . in New York.”
“New York!”
Sarah grinned. “I know. They’ve booked a return ticket from Charlotte airport and accommodation at the Royal.”
“The Royal!”
Sarah laughed, “It’s all so unreal. I still can’t quite believe it.”
“Oh, darling, you deserve this. You’ve worked so hard, you––” Her mother paused. “Hang on, are you leaving this Friday?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It’s Wednesday already, that doesn’t give you much notice.”
“They do that on purpose, so nothing can be leaked to the press. That’s why you have to keep it a secret, okay?”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
Sarah hesitated. Should she tell her mother the part that was bothering her about all this?
Before she could decide, her mother asked, “What’s wrong?”
“They’ve, uh, booked it for two people.”
“And?”
“And I have no date.”
“What about Paul?”
“We are . . . kind of on a break.”
“Oh no. What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Can you go as friends at least?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
Sarah sighed, “I still don’t want to talk about it.”
“At least tell me if he hurt you?”
“Not in a way that’ll leave permanent damage.”
An involuntary reflex made Sarah glance down at the five small diamonds set into a yellow-gold band on her right ring finger. No second chances.
“I’m sorry.”
Sarah shrugged, “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t, but it would be. She would get over the hurt Paul had caused the same way she’d gotten over Jacques. By writing about it.
“I could go with you?”
Sarah snorted, “No offense, but that would be humiliating.”
“Oh, thanks a lot.”
The tone didn’t match the words, so Sarah knew her mother wasn’t genuinely hurt.
“You know what I mean. I love you, but it would feel like going to prom with you.”
“What about your father then?”
Sarah groaned, “That’s even worse.”
“Amy?”
“She’ll be working.”
“Your brother?”
“Oh God, Mark?”
“Why not? He’ll go as long as there’s free food involved . . . and for the love of his sister, of course.”
“Nice save, Mom.” Her mother laughed as Sarah groaned, and continued, “Am I that desperate? My only options are my parents, best friend, or big brother?”
“It’s not desperate to be single, darling.”
“It is when you’re a romance writer. Everyone expects you to be an expert on love . . . and that means being in a relationship . . . or at least having a lot of hot sex.”
Her mother laughed. “Technically you’re an emerging romance writer. You don’t need to be in a relationship until you’ve sold a million books, and by then you’ll be rich enough to buy any date you want.”
“Hmm . . .” Sarah curled her lips into a cheeky grin. “Maybe I’ll buy Channing Tatum.”
They both chuckled.
Then, reality struck. She had to take someone. As much as she hated to admit it, her brother was the best option.
“Ugh, I should call Mark.”
“All right, talk soon. I love you, baby girl.”
“Love you too.”
Ending the call, Sarah scrolled through the contacts list on her phone until Mark’s name appeared.
Half a dozen rings later and a bright, male voice answered, “Hey, sis. What’s up?”
“I have a favor to ask . . .”
***
After the conversation with her brother, Sarah wandered toward the first of four black bookcases in her living room. She used her index finger to scan the books on the second shelf.
It was there somewhere. Ah-ha. She tugged the book from its resting place. Her gaze went to the title: Million Dollar Scandal, and the name of the author: Joan Morgan. She flipped the book open and walked as she read to the sofa. She slumped into it with her legs outstretched and devoured her favorite Joan Morgan book once more.