The following morning and afternoon, I find myself riding a high. Aiden is quite impressed with the book and loves the sexy scenes. He says that he has never read a book quite like it, and I tell him that if he likes it then he should check out Fifty Shades of Grey and some of the more popular erotic self-published authors. Because some would say that my book is tame in comparison to theirs. Still, my heart beams with pride knowing that he approves of my writing. And not just approves. He is actually proud of me. He is encouraging, loving, and everything any struggling writer full of anxieties and fueled by numerous rejections craves.

In addition to Aiden’s overwhelming praise, Auctioned Off also drums up over thirty, four and five star reviews in a day and I receive a number of emails from people who read the free book telling me how they can’t wait until the second one comes out. I decide that if I really put my head to the grindstone and work after we get back from the weekend, I can probably have the second installment ready within the month. By the time that I’m getting ready for the cocktail party, I even have two thousand pages read and ten sales!

“Wow, people are actually reading this book. I’m just…shocked,” I tell Aiden, watching him put on another pressed immaculate suit in front of the mirror.

“Of course, they are,” he says. “The blurb is awesome and so is the cover. Let alone the whole premise.”

“Still, you know, lots of people have those things and don't sell anything.”

“Listen, you don't have to tell me about how business works,” he says, laughing. It sounds like he’s being condescending, but by the tone of his voice I know that he isn’t. “When I started Owl, there were at least a handful of other programmers who had very similar ideas to mine. But Owl rose above the pack.”

“How?”

“Marketing. It’s all about marketing. You can have the best product out there, but if you don't have the marketing to go along with it, you’re pretty much dead in the water.”

I nod. That’s pretty much what all the self-publishing podcasts have also confirmed and preached. Without a good marketing strategy, it’s all futile.

“But you seem to be doing the right thing. I mean, growing your mailing list. That’s the key. You already have almost twenty-five hundred people who are your book’s target audience and the sky’s the limit. Plus, content. Content is one of the most important aspects of staying ahead. You have to keep publishing when everyone else gets tired or bored. You need a steady flow of books to make a name for yourself.”

“I know,” I say, applying eyeliner to my eyes and following it up with a heavy dose of mascara.

“How long do you think you’ll make this series?”

“I have no idea.” I shrug.

“I’d say go with at least five books,” he says. “I did some research on the genre last night after you fell asleep and you should do quite well if you have at least five in a series.”

“Wow, that’s a lot,” I say, taken aback by how daunting that seems.

“Well, if this is what you want to do for a living, then that’s what you need to do,” he says.

I nod. I don’t know how he knows so much about what I’ve been teaching myself over the last few months, but all of his advice is pretty much spot on with what everyone else has said on all those podcasts, YouTube videos, and blogs that I’ve devoured.

“Okay, then, well as soon as we’re back, I’m going to start writing again,” I say.

“There’s no rest for the wicked.”

Aiden turns around to face me and I’m in awe of how handsome he looks. His suit fits like a glove, accentuating every gorgeous aspect of his toned body. His shoes are polished and his hair falls slightly in his face, but that only makes him look even more handsome and polished.

“You look…amazing,” he says breathlessly. I glance at myself in the mirror. Yes, he’s right. I clean up well. I’m wearing my tight red dress with four inch pumps. My hair, recently washed and blow-dried, cascades around my face, softening my strong jaw. My lips are blood red to match my dress and my eye makeup is sultry, making me look just a little dangerous.

“Shall we?” Aiden gives me his arm and I follow him out of the cottage.

---

***

When we get to the porch of the Warrenhouses’ Queen Anne estate, there are so many people coming and going that we simply walk through the grand double doors and join the party. We decide to come by at six fifteen rather than right at six, so that we’re not the first people through the door. But by the time we arrive, the party is already in full swing. Everyone is dressed in their cocktail best with women in black, tight fitting dresses and high heels and men in suits that cost more than most people pay for their mortgage every month. I scan the room for a familiar face. After a few moments, I spot Tom and Carrie across the room. We make our way over, helping ourselves to glasses of wine and some hors d’oeuvres.

Tom again greets me with a warm hug and I make the introductions to Aiden. Carrie is pleasant and nonchalant as ever. She’s dressed in impossibly tall heels, which accentuate the narrowness of her waist. She’s a natural waif and as we speak, she towers over me. It wouldn’t bother me so much if she wasn’t also quite smart and witty, in addition to being gorgeous.

“So, how is everything?” I ask. I don't necessarily want to bring up BuzzPost, but it seems like it’s inevitable and at least I can do it on my terms.

“Great. We’re busy, as ever,” Carries says. “The site’s popularity is at an all-time high. So, people are loving it.”

She doesn’t mention the exact number of unique visitors that the site is getting, but I know that she’s telling the truth. BuzzPost has always been very popular with the eighteen to twenty-four crowd.

“And how’s the expansion into the world of news?” I ask.

That has always been the sticking point for them. What made them so popular initially was that they were a fluff site, a distraction, a fun place to go to get away from the world. But then they wanted to expand into real news and reporting. And as many other sites and newspapers have found out the hard way, real news with their cold hard facts isn’t the most popular thing on the internet. In fact, it’s quite hard to make that sort of thing interesting to keep people coming back in the middle of their workday.

“It’s actually going really well. We’re sending out reporters on the campaign trail to report on what’s going on the ground. You know, with the presidential race coming up.”

I nod.

“Tom has always been very interested in doing that sort of thing,” I say to Aiden. “Right?”

“Well, yes,” Tom says.

“So, are you going to be going to the battleground states?” I ask.

Tom looks away, casting his eyes toward the floor.

“You’re not?” I ask. “I thought this would be the perfect opportunity for you to do what you want to do.”

“Well, the department is relatively new,” Carrie pipes in. “And Tom would be better served by continuing to do what he’s doing in the office.”

I nod, in agreement. I mean, what else is there to say, really?

“And what about you?” Carrie turns to me. “What are you up to these days?”

“I’m actually doing a lot of writing,” I say. I don't really have any intention of telling her about my self-published book. The thing is that the publishing industry and people who work in it do not look upon self-publishing in the best light. It’s always been something to smirk at, laugh at.

“And not just writing,” Aiden says. “But also, publishing.”

“Really?” Carrie asks, raising her eyebrows. “What publishing house?”

Of course, she would make this assumption. I should’ve had a talk with Aiden about this. But he’s just too proud of my work to keep his excitement contained.

“Actually, she’s publishing it herself. It’s a romance,” Aiden volunteers.

I want to crawl under a rock and die. I had no intentions of telling Carrie and Tom about my book any more than what I had already told him. And I definitely didn’t have any intentions of telling them that I was publishing it myself.

“Oh, I see,” Carrie says. “And why is that? Did you get turned down a lot?”

Yes, of course, self-publishing is the last reserve for the failed writer. At least, that’s what everyone in the industry tends to think.

I take a deep breath as I consider how I should deal with this issue. The cat is out of the bag already, so there’s no option of stuffing it back in.

“Well, actually no,” I say. “I didn’t submit it anywhere. I’ve been researching the topic for some time and a lot of self-published, indie authors do quite well for themselves. Even better than those who are traditionally published. Especially, those who write romance. So, I thought I would give it a go myself. You know, make my own marketing plan, make Facebook ads, grow my mailing list, stuff like that.”

“Yes, of course,” Carrie says, nodding, clearly not impressed.

“I mean, I can always submit it to agents and publishers later,” I add. “If things don’t work out.”

“Oh, c’mon, of course they will work out,” Aiden says, putting his arm around my shoulder. “Your writing is brilliant and people are already loving it.”

As much as I love his perfusion of praise, something about it makes me quite embarrassed in front of Tom and Carrie. Maybe it’s because I know the extent of their snobbery and how little they think of self-publishing. I mean, not long ago, I was one of them. I was the one who ranted about all of these indie writers calling themselves authors and putting out a book a month. And now, I am one of them. But the thing is that that was before I knew what I was really talking about. That was before I knew anything at all about the industry and exactly how well many of these indie authors did for themselves. And even if they didn't do that well, how freeing it would be to work just for yourself and write things that you wanted to satisfy your readers.

Of course, I can’t explain any of these things to Carrie. The coldness that’s emanating from her is as strong as an Arctic wind. I don’t really know if it’s because of my quitting or because she knows a lot about what happened between Tom and I. Not that anything really happened, but he did (or does) have feelings for me and no fiancée wants to know that about the person she’s about to marry. My only hope is that he had kept his mouth shut and didn’t tell her anything that would hurt her feelings and not make things any better between the two of them. Because, in reality, I do actually wish them well.

Luckily for me, the conversation shifts to other topics, which are a lot less painful for me to discuss. First, we talk about how beautiful Maine is and the weather and then we turn our attention to the Warrenhouse mansion itself. Even though I’ve only made it through the foyer and the living room, I find myself in awe of how beautiful this house is. As soon as I mention that, an older woman who has a strong resemblance to Carrie joins our circle.

“Well, thank you very much, darling,” she says, laughing and tossing her hair back. I swear she could be the spitting image of Carrie, but only ten years older.

“Ellie, Aiden, this is my mother. Eileen Warrenhouse. Mom, this is Ellie Rhodes and Aiden Black.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Warrenhouse,” I say, extending my hand.

“Oh, please, call me Eileen,” she says, waving her hand at me. “Robert! Robert! You have to come here and meet Ellie and Aiden. Aiden, aren’t you the founder of Owl?”

“Yes, I am,” Aiden says shyly.

“Oh my God! My husband is just going to flip! He would love to meet you.”

Eileen calls her husband over again, but he’s in the middle of a conversation and raises his finger to indicate that he’ll be here in a minute.

“Oh, well, his loss. So, you want to know about the house?” Eileen asks, turning to me.

“Yes, very much so!”

“Well, Robert and I bought it about fifteen years ago. It was built in 1890 and it was owned by a very prominent doctor at the time, who bought it for his second wife. It was quite a scandal at the time, as you can imagine,” Eileen says, finishing her glass of champagne and immediately reaching for another.

“Robert loves contemporary houses with this sleek furniture. You know, the kind that look like no one ever lives in them. I, on the other hand, love antiques. Anything with a story just gets me going. So, when we found this house, we decided to compromise. He’d let me buy this old mansion as long as I let him decorate it in his preferred style.”

“A compromise is always good,” Aiden says.

“You’d think that. But you’re young and in love, what the hell do you know?” she says, smiling. “A compromise basically means that both parties are left unsatisfied. But you know, for the good of the marriage, this is what we agreed to do.”

“Well, it turned out marvelously,” I say. I have no idea where the word ‘marvelous’ came from, but talking to Eileen it seemed like an appropriate thing to say.

“Robert bought this place because, despite its age, all of its internal components worked - you know like the electrical system, plumbing, water, heating and air conditioning. It had ‘good bones’ as he likes to say. But once we bought it, we spent a year renovating it. I didn’t want to keep every part of its Queen Anne style, so we did away with the things that were just too old-fashioned and impractical and kept, or updated, the rest. Then we worked with an interior designer to choose just the right furniture so that it complemented the house and didn’t cause me any migraines.”

“Oh, honey, are you telling them the story of this place? Again?” Robert Warrenhouse approaches his wife and lovingly puts his arm around her shoulder.

“Of course.”

“I swear, by the way she tells it, buying and renovating this place seemed to have more of an impact on her life than having a child.”

Eileen stares at him and then breaks into a smile. “Well, of course it did. It took three full years to get this place ready, and that’s not counting the guesthouses. And it took only nine months to create Carrie.”

We all laugh. Mr. and Mrs. Warrenhouse aren’t at all as I had imagined them. I don't know why Tom has such a hard time relating to them, but to me they appear to be easy going and laid back. Very easy to talk to. Still, when my gaze goes in Tom’s direction, I can sense the tenseness that’s emanating from his body.

“So, you’re the founder of Owl, huh?” Robert asks, turning to Aiden. “Now, that’s exciting. I’d love to hear about it.”

“I’m happy to share,” Aiden says.

“Tell you what, let’s get ourselves a couple of brandies and retire to my study. Then we can have a real chat,” Robert says, putting his arm around Aiden’s shoulders. Aiden nods and winks at me before following Robert out of the room.