Page 92 of Devoured By You
I opened the message, greedily drinking in the information. Blay had had his permanent prosthetic fitted, and according to Aspen, he was doing much better with this one. He was up and walking, taking his rehabilitation as seriously as his job. Mara had left now that he didn’t need her to help him with day-to-day things, something his physical therapist had agreed was for the best. I sent a quick reply and returned my phone to my bag as Samantha dropped into the seat opposite mine. She got in first before I could say a word.
“This, my darling girl, is going to be a smash hit. It’s better than the first one. Much better. I could not put it down.” As my shoulders sagged, she pointed to her eyes. “See these bags? They’re your fault.”
I laughed. “God, Samantha, you’ve no idea how relieved I am. I was all ready to self-publish if you decided you hated it.”
Samantha’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. “Dear God, girl. Are you insane? On which planet would I not have loved this? I know you struggled with every word, especially as, in that genius writer’s mind of yours, you’d already completed Arton and Kenna’s story. They’d gotten their happily-ever-after in Pieces of Me. Then, in this book, you tear them apart in the most horrifying of circumstances, only to give the reader an ending that’s going to break hearts. It’s an incredible piece of work, Jill. Incredible.”
Every cell in my body cried with relief, and those darned pregnancy hormones went crazy, filling my eyes with tears I couldn’t stop from falling in rivers down my cheeks. Samantha looked equal parts alarmed and incredulous. Never a big hugger, she leaned across the table and patted my hand.
“Now, now. No need for waterworks.” She grabbed a handful of napkins and thrust them at me. “Dry those tears, girl. We have work to do.”
I dabbed my eyes and blew my nose, then squared my shoulders. “I’m okay. It’s just—”
“Relief. I know. I get it. I’ve boosted your ego. Now I’m bringing you back down to earth. I talked to Rosie last night, and we both agree that, with a wing and a prayer and a fuck of a lot of hard work for you, me, and the entire team, we can make the original print run.”
Rosie was the head honcho at my publishers, Samantha’s boss, and a woman who ran her business with an iron fist. If she’d put her muscle behind making the original print run, I would not let her down.
My insides performed a little jig, excitement warming my belly. “Tell me what I have to do.”
* * *
Three weeks later, I sat on my sofa with two printed copies of Echoes of You resting on the coffee table in front of me. Severely lacking in sleep, I’d run on adrenaline for pretty much nineteen days straight until I’d received a final copy of my manuscript in my inbox. I’d had my local printer whip up two gold-foiled paperbacks for me, which I’d had to secure Rosie’s approval for in case anything leaked. I trusted Pete, though. He’d printed off copies of all my manuscripts without a problem, and I didn’t expect any this time.
I hadn’t told Rosie I was having two copies printed, though. She would not approve of what I planned to do with the second one.
I picked up a copy, carefully leafing through the pages. Bringing the book to my nose, I sniffed deeply. There was nothing quite like the smell of a new book. Non-bookish people would never understand the pull to stick your nose right in there and get your fill.
Turning to the dedication, my insides collided with each other. I couldn’t begin to guess how Blay would take to receiving a copy of this book and reading what I’d put inside the front cover. In my dreams, I imagined the power of the written word galvanizing him into action. He’d call me and beg my forgiveness—something I was all too ready to give—and say he wanted me back.
If he did, I wouldn’t hesitate.
And if he didn’t…
I’d have to find a way to live the rest of my life without him, even though I’d always have a part of him in the child we’d created together.
I took the book into my study, sat behind my desk, reached for my favorite pen, and added my signature right underneath the dedication. It crossed my mind to include a handwritten note, but in the end, I decided against it. I put it inside a box, walked down to the village post office, and handed it over before I lost my nerve.
The ball was in Blay’s court now.
Chapter 33
Blaize
A red-hot poker jammed into your chest
is not a fun experience.
Betrayal was one of those things that, when it happened to you, it took a few days for your brain to reconcile the truth of the matter. During that time, the mind played tricks, whipping you between two contrasting points. One of hurt and anger, the other of disbelief, that, somehow, it wasn’t true. That you’d misunderstood the message.
I’d gotten the message. Loud and clear. And I hadn’t misunderstood a damn thing.
How could she do this to me?
Was it revenge because I’d ended our relationship? A woman scorned and all that? Or did she think she’d used clever prose to hide the fact that she’d taken the horrific events of that day and turned them into a sellable product she could profit from?
Whatever her reasons, the outcome was the same. She’d taken a red-hot poker and driven it into my chest.
While I’d spent the last two months mourning her and working on my recovery in some ridiculously misplaced belief that I’d have to earn her forgiveness, she’d spent her time writing a book. One that laid out in vivid technicolor the destructive bomb that had exploded in the middle of my life and turned it upside down.