All right, Connor, I think to myself, it’s showtime.
Chapter 4
Poppy
My nerves are on fire, my brain screaming ‘oh, my God, oh, my God’ over and over again, and my stomach is threatening to give my buttered toast and coffee breakfast a repeat viewing.
Lunch? Yeah, I didn’t eat that at all.
But I stand outside the double doors of the ballroom like a statue, consciously not letting my feet tap or my body bounce around like a rubber ball in a concrete room. I do let my hand drift up to needlessly adjust my lucky earrings, the gold acorns my mother gave me when I turned sixteen that have become a constant companion when I need a little boost. They worked for my first meeting with Hilda, and hopefully, they’ll work today.
Otherwise, J.A. Fox might look at me the same way some of the other women in the wide hallway are . . . with undisguised interest, confusion, and an occasional sneer of disdain. I get it. I do. I feel like a poser with these women, some of whom I recognize by sight, some by the names on their pinned tags, and even some from television interviews. And I’m just . . . Poppy Woodstock, author of one measly book that they’ve probably never heard of, much less read.
I smooth my red dress down my thighs. It’s a dinner, and while it’s not a formal event, I’d wanted to look nice so I took a few hours to go shopping and to relax. I have to say, I like what I feel. It hugs my curves in a classy way, reaches the tops of my knees, and has a simple wide ballet neck that shows off my collarbones.
Elegant simplicity, the boutique saleswoman had called it, except did I mention it’s cherry red? Some people think I shouldn’t wear red because it clashes with my dark red hair, but I disagree. It’s not like I’m going to be unnoticed with my bright mane of wild hair. It could be slicked back in a tight librarian bun, and I’d still stand out.
So I might as well embrace it. And I do feel extra adult with my black leather satchel at my side holding my laptop for the workshop portion of the event.
Or I feel like I have a chance at fitting in until I see two women gossiping behind their hands, both of their eyes locked on me. I recognize them and know their names, or their pen names, at least.
And just like that, I’m struck with a fresh case of nerves wrapped up in a barbed wire bow of Imposter Syndrome.
Breathe, Poppy. Or maybe go make friends with them. Show them how friendly you can be. They’re not going to suck your blood. This isn’t a vampire coven.
Jeez, I’m going to have to share that one with Aleria. She’d probably be able to make a good story out of it.
I’m still considering going over when the doors open, and with a relieved sigh, I realize I don’t have to approach the mean girls. I don’t care how old they are, women like that always were and always will be ‘mean girls’.
Walking into the ballroom, I’m struck. Not by the overt opulence—it is a hotel ballroom, after all, and has the usual bland beige walls and unoffensive abstract art hanging at intervals around the room. What has me on my heels is the reality that I’m here—J.A. Fox’s famous workshop dinner. This is the place where serious connections can be made . . . if you can back up your stuff.
The front of the room is set up for dining with several long, white tablecloth covered tables set up in a U-shape so we can all face J.A. Fox onstage while she speaks. The floral centerpieces are small and tight, giving a sense of richness while not obstructing views, and the place settings gleam with gold edging on the plates, crystal glasses, and gold flatware.
Toward the back of the room, there are smaller round tables set up with four workstations per table. That must be for the workshop portion, I think, patting my bag once more. I did manage to get one more chapter done after skipping the sex scene like Aleria suggested, but I need today and J.A. Fox to help get my juices flowing again. My writing ones, obviously . . . I’m not discussing sex scenes with J.A. Fox, that’s for sure. It’d be like talking to the Queen of England about blowjobs. She’s probably done it before, but I do not need that visual in my head.
Shit . . . too late.
Before that imagery gets so embedded that eye bleach won’t remove it, I see her . . . the one and only J.A. Fox. She’s wearing a black dress, and her gray hair is smooth and sleek. She looks almost grandmotherly, like she could bake a killer pineapple upside down cake, but inside her head is a brilliance unmatched in the current romance genre. Hell, in any genre. She’s created a market all by herself, decades in the making, and is still creating unique, interesting stories.