All of them seemed intent on getting completely hammered while toasting Knox’s big day.
The man of the hour seemed to be genuinely having a good time. Or at least he was after he got over the shock. After I’d entered the private dining room, I couldn’t get near him because of all the people greeting him. But his eyes found mine, and I could almost hear his thoughts. They were something along the lines of: Really? For me? Thank you.
We’d arranged for the restaurant to have a ready supply of finger foods and appetizers, and most of the guests ignored the tables and circulated. I talked with quite a few male strippers until the twins intervened and led me off to meet some of the waiters and waitresses. Perhaps they wanted to be the only strippers in my life? That thought made me giggle—or maybe it was the alcohol.
After an hour, a chocolate cake was brought out, looking rather big and misshapen among all the delicate little desserts Romano’s had supplied. There was a story there, and I was eager to tell it to Knox.
Before I could, a pretty, dark-haired young woman stepped in front of me. She wasn’t one of the waitresses I’d been introduced to before. “Hi, I’m Emma,” I said, admiring the way her dark lashes lined eyes the color of strong coffee. Eyes that looked a little familiar.
“I’m Ronnie,” she said briskly, and it hit me. This was Tonio’s sister. She was the one I’d sent my story to. “Can we talk?”
Suddenly apprehensive, I nodded and followed her out of the room.
17
Emma
“Do you want something to drink?” I asked Ronnie. Since she’d done me the favor of looking at my story, it was the least I could do.
We’d ended up at a table in the outdoor section, which was quieter than inside. When people came to Romano’s, they usually dressed up and probably didn’t want to sit out here with insects buzzing around the lights.
“I’m fine.” She looked to be all business, like her brother, but without his flirtatious manner. “I forwarded your story to a buddy of mine.”
“What?” I yelped. Then I blushed. The few other diners around us stared for a few moments before returning to their own affairs.
Ronnie was matter-of-fact. “I don’t write romance—he does.”
Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm down. I’d been nervous enough about sending my writing to Tonio’s sister, and now a perfect stranger had it. But there was nothing I could do about it now, and I didn’t want to offend someone Tonio loved. “Um, I didn’t think there were a lot of male romance writers.”
Ronnie tilted her head in the same way her brother sometimes did. “There are more than you think. Most use female pen names.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t stop fixating on the fact that someone else had seen my story. “I didn’t know a real romance writer would see my writing. Tonio said it would just be you.”
Ronnie shook her head slightly, a small smile on her lips. “My brother knows as much about being an indie author as he does about flying a fighter jet.”
“Indie author?” I echoed.
“Someone who self-publishes. That’s what you’re trying to do, right?”
“Right. I mean eventually. It’s just that…”
“My brother asked me to help, and that’s what I did,” Ronnie said a bit sharply as she stared me down. But then she sighed and tilted her head to the right. “It’s always hard showing your work to someone else, especially in the beginning. But this really was the best thing I could do for your story. I don’t know what romance readers expect and Brad does. But I did read the first few chapters before I sent it to him to make sure it wasn’t awful.”
She spoke with a directness that was a little startling, but oddly enough, that last part reassured me. “So you didn’t hate it? The part you read, I mean.”
Her expression softened. “No, I didn’t hate it. It seemed like it hit the right notes. I mean, it’s not my genre, but the story was engaging enough.”
There it was. The first compliment ever made about my writing. Before, I’d been told it was a waste of time or a foolish thing to do. Now someone had said my work was engaging. Or at least engaging enough. “Thank you.”
“Tonio told me that no one had ever encouraged you to write. No one ever encouraged me, either.”
My shoulders relaxed, I smiled at her. “What do you write?”
“A little of this and that,” she said vaguely. “No fiction, though.”
I nodded, not wanting to pry.
“Let’s talk about your next steps,” she said, suddenly business-like again.
“Next steps?”
She peered at me the way a teacher might a slow student. “I assume you want to self-publish your story.”
“Well, yeah, I mean, someday I’d like to.”