At the moment, I was second-guessing a lot of things. “I’m a little worried that I handed him a golden opportunity by taking off the next few weeks.”
My publisher wanted me to plug the book’s release with signings in the southeast and a few cooking segments on talk shows. It might not be a full-fledged book tour, but the regional appearances were daunting to someone who had never done any television. Joan assured me a consultant she knew in Atlanta was coming to work with me on media preparation. He’d be here tomorrow. The hope was that, if he did his job right, my public appearances would help sell even more copies, justifying his expenses and paving the way for my as-yet-untitled sequel.
It was all great visibility for me…unless the book tanked and I’d repeatedly linked myself to it up and down the coast.
“What? That toad owes you vacation! You worked nonstop through the holidays.” Amanda balled up her fists on her shapely hips, her eyes narrowed and full of the light of battle. Despite any personality differences, she was extremely loyal to me. Might have made life simpler if I could just date her. “Not to mention the eighty-hour weeks to help get that restaurant of his up and running. Besides, he can’t fire you when he approved the time off. Did he give you crap about it?”
“No, he was eager to approve the time.” That’s what worried me. “Blondie’s gonna be filling in. You think they’re edging me out?”
“The place wouldn’t last a week without you.”
“I suspect he’s trying to prove otherwise.”
After a moment of silent fuming on my behalf, she shrugged. “You should move on, anyway. Sever all ties with Trevor, date more.”
“I’ve dated.” There had even been a couple of kisses good-night over the last six months, but that paltry statistic was more likely to incite Amanda than appease her.
“Barely! I could probably count your dates on one hand, and one of them was nothing more than meeting for coffee. I think working for your ex is hindering your love life.”
Funny. I thought being me was hindering my love life. My hours were weird, I’d been busy writing the second book—or at least telling myself I should be writing it—and most of my social circle was comprised of couples Trevor and I had spent time with. Besides, I wasn’t the kind of woman who had new guys beating down my door. Even though men say they’d love to find a woman who isn’t into constant talking and emoting, many of them are unsettled when they do find someone more reserved.
“Well, we can’t all be romance goddesses,” I answered lightly.
“Better not tell that to your reading public.”
Yeesh. She was right—a certain persona was expected. Even the picture for the dust jacket had been an ordeal. The publisher definitely hadn’t wanted a headshot of me in a white toque. No, I’d been wearing makeup that made my skin feel heavy, and my mousy hair had been teased into big poofy curls I personally hadn’t found any more flattering than my normal do. At least I’d successfully vetoed the photographer’s suggestion that I be nibbling suggestively on a piece of chocolate-dipped fruit.
What would the image consultant be like? Just someone who walked me through the basics of a television appearance, or another person who encouraged large hair and fondued strawberries? If so, I hated him already.
“Maybe I’m not the right person for this,” I mused aloud.
“For what?” Amanda asked as she double-checked her well, the group of commonly used liquors kept in front with plastic pour spouts attached. In the low-cut, long-sleeved red top she wore tucked into jeans, she would make a killing in tips tonight. I should have sent her to New York in my place. And on the publicity tour.
“This book.”
“Little late for that now,” she said. “Besides, you’re the perfect person for the book. You just don’t know it yet.”
Doubtful. I could talk to people about what went on in their kitchens, sure. No problem. I’m your gal. But I’d bluffed my way through the “bedroom” portion of the manuscript—the part that had convinced my publisher to shell out actual cash.
Discuss sex with strangers? I hadn’t been able to talk to my own mother about getting my first period. Rather than tell her, I’d taken quarters to school and stocked up on supplies from the vending machine in the girls’ restroom. It wasn’t that Mom was unapproachable; quite the contrary, I’d had nightmares about her cheerfully telling the cashier it was my inaugural tampon purchase. It sounds like an exaggeration, but I vividly remember her maternal pride on our one and only mother/daughter bra outing. Unfortunately, twelve department-store shoppers probably do, too.
And it had taken almost a month of friendship with Amanda before she’d finally got the “too much information” message when it came to sharing the details of her romantic escapades. I was not a hotbed of racy gossip.
“Want me to pour you a drink?” She glanced at the wide red-leather watch on her wrist. “We open in five minutes, so it’s not really breaking the rules.”
“Oh, no. I have to be careful imbibing around you. A few drinks and an encouraging nod later, I could wind up hosting some bad reality show called Chefs Gone Wild,” I teased. “I blame you for this book in the first place. Friends shouldn’t let friends outline under the influence.”
“You came up with everything,” she countered with an approving grin. “I don’t even know any recipes, so it’s not like I contributed anything but support.”
“Yes, but you’ve gradually corrupted me—all that bar talk. Sex on the Beach. Sloe Screw. Buttery Nipples.” Which, after my initial shock wore off, I discovered was a butterscotch-flavored shot. “And Screaming-Up-Against-the-Wallbangers.”
She laughed. “That belongs in the Bartender’s Guide to Mixed Metaphors. Come on, now. You are happy they’re releasing your book, aren’t you?”
“Giddy.”
Actually, for all my misgivings, I’d worked hard on the cookbook. If I hadn’t proved whatever point I’d set out to make, I’d still given a lot of thought to my culinary instructions and was thrilled to get it in front of people. It’s just that while I’d been penning chapter three, “Soup, Salad or Me?”, I hadn’t considered the reality of anyone actually picking up a copy and reading it. My remarks to the public on how to spice up their cooking and their love lives would be displayed in stores across the country.
I groaned. “Little old ladies are going to see it!”
“Hey, little old ladies deserve to get some, too.”
“The sex part was a marketing ploy,” I reminded my friend. “The book’s about great food.”
Amanda’s violet eyes sparkled. “I meant great food.”
“Sure you did.”
A knock sounded against the locked glass door at the front of the room, and Amanda came around the bar to answer it. But Todd emerged from the storeroom before she’d gone very far.
“I’d be happy to get that for you,” he said soulfully. With that tone, he could have as easily said, “I’d be happy to take a bullet for you,” or “I’d be happy to father your many children.”
