I shake my head.
I've had enough of Logan. If I have to stand next to him for another minute, I might quit. So I decide to step away from our booth and take a walk.
Just as I'm walking past a row of rainbow-colored vibrators, each blinking brighter than a nightclub, a woman taps me on the shoulder.
"Anders Carter?"
"In the flesh," I smile.
"Oh my God! I'm such a fan! You have no idea. I mean, every time I see you on the cover of a Naughty Angel's book I have to instantly buy it," she gushes.
"Thanks gorgeous," I smile, pulling up my shirt from the waistband of my pants and flexing my abs for her.
"Oh my—you are even more gorgeous in real life!" she squeals.
I sign the book she's holding, and then continue on my way. If I don't leave now, this woman will keep me glued to this spot all day. And that's not in my contract.
As I continue to make my way past the booths, other women approach me and I give them all the same act—rippling my abs, flashing them a bright smile, signing their books, and even posing for selfies, but I make it a point to move on quickly.
I love my fans. I really do. But the industry has left me feeling jaded.
"Anders?"
I hear my name again, and turn around, expecting to lift my shirt for another fan, but instead, I see an entirely different kind of woman.
"Hi, I'm Lana Hartley," she says, offering me her hand.
I give it a firm shake. It's soft, manicured, and delicate. "Nice to meet you."
There’s something about this woman that's different. And the way she tucks her hair behind one ear is fucking cute.
"Good turnout, huh?"
"What?" I ask. I realize I'm so taken aback by this woman that I completely missed what she just said.
"Oh, I just said that there seems to be a good turnout at this year's convention," she says.
"Yeah, not bad. Lots of fans. Lots of publishers," I say. "It's a good year."
She nods, but she isn't smiling. There seems to be sadness in her eyes, and I can't quite put my finger on why. I look down, noticing that she's holding a stack of papers.
"And what do you have there?"
"Just some writing," she shrugs.
"A full manuscript?"
"Close to full, but it doesn't matter. Apparently, the market's moved on."
"What's the problem?"
"I've been shopping it around to traditional publishers—Abby, from Naughty Angel Publishing suggested I do that—but no one seems to want to take it," she says.
"Can I read it?" I ask, and she seems to perk up at the offer.
"Really?"
Fuck. She's really cute. "Sure, I'd be happy to review it. I've been on dozens of covers; I think I'm a pretty good judge of these things," I say, winking.