Chapter One

Aspen Lourde looked at the line of readers waiting their turn to get their books signed and wished they'd all go home.

This whole event was a disaster.

She kept her smile pasted firmly in place as the young woman shoved a worn-edged hardback across the table and grabbed from the stack of swag, pocketing a few custom-made keychains. "Hi, I'm Juanita. Oh, my God, I can't believe I'm finally meeting you! This is like…epic."

Some of Aspen's dread faded. This was a true fan who wouldn't disappoint. She pumped up her voice to a higher level, making sure it was filled with warmth. "Thank you so much. It's an honor to meet you, too. Should I sign to you, Juanita?"

"Yes, please."

Aspen confirmed the spelling—she'd once written Kim when it should have been Kym, so she never assumed—and scrawled, So happy to meet you ! across the page. She added her signature with an XOXO in purple Sharpie. Closing the book with a snap, she grabbed her newest release stacked in towering piles to her right and offered it to Juanita. "This, too?" she asked casually, annoyed at her nervous heartbeat.

Juanita shook her head. "Oh, no thanks. I'll grab it later. I just loved Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover . It spoke to me, you know? Like, to my very soul. I cried for days—a true book hangover." Juanita sighed with pleasure. "Are you going to write a sequel? I'd love to see how Mallory is doing with Josh. Did they have kids? Did she ever run into her ex? Is there anything in the works?"

Aspen looked into the woman's eager face and wanted to cry. Not because she was flattered. Not because her book was beloved and well- known and touched readers so deeply.

It was for one reason only.

Juanita was talking about the wrong book.

Aspen kept her smile and nodded with understanding. She did her best sales pitch and smoothly skipped over Juanita's question. "Well, I hope you give Meet Me at Your Spot a try! It's a story about two kids who grew up together at a lake and reunite ten years later in Paris to find themselves on opposing sides of an important project. It's very romantic—a mix of first love, enemies-to-lovers, and second-chance romance."

"It sounds wonderful! I'll definitely check it out." She clutched the signed book to her chest. "Are you thinking about writing a sequel then? For your next book?"

"Not right now," she responded. "There are still so many new stories to tell."

Juanita looked disappointed. "Oh. Well, I understand. But think about it. Because I'd buy it in a heartbeat, Can I grab a pic?"

"Of course."

She stood up as the bookstore assistant smoothly stepped forward and snapped a picture using Juanita's phone, which showcased the book she'd written five years ago. Juanita squealed. "Thanks again. I can't wait to post. My friends are gonna freak!"

"You're so welcome. Have a great day!" Aspen said with a tiny wave, sitting back down at the elongated card table covered with a white cloth. The next person stepped up, a woman with tight, gray curls, a bird-like figure, and a cane. "Hi, how are you today?"

"I'm wonderful. I'm Edith. I can't believe I'm meeting you. I rarely go out, you know, too many germs, but when my daughter-in-law said you were coming into town, I knew I had to make the trip. You're my favorite author. Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover reminded me of my own youth. There was this man…"

Aspen smiled, taking the book and listening to the woman's account of her own love history. She confirmed the name spelling between dialogue, scrawling her name in purple marker and offering Edith a keychain. "What a wonderful story. Thank you for sharing it. I think you'll love my new book. It takes place in Paris, and it's—"

"Oh, no, I can't afford it right now. I'm on social security. Can I get a picture?"

Aspen tamped down a sigh. "Of course."

The hour dragged by. She managed to sell one book of her new release to the last person in line, who probably felt sorry for her almost getting killed when the pile tilted and crashed on top of her. Or maybe it was the desperation in her voice as she recited the hook and synopsis like she was a used car salesman hungry for a sale to feed the family.

Did it even matter anymore?

She'd sold one. One book from the one hundred copies they'd ordered and expected her to sell. Usually, they sold tickets, which included a copy of the new book, but her last signing hadn't gone too well, so the bookstore decided to let this event be open ended . Aspen agreed to the terms, allowing the patrons to bring a book from home for her to sign, and each one had dragged in Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover .

But Lord, what was she supposed to do? Nothing was worse than her last signing. She'd taken a hard stance on people bringing any personal books in, insisting she was only signing her newest release.

Barely anyone showed. A few friends and casual shoppers peeked at her book and then politely declined. She'd literally sat in that bookstore, surrounded by piles of her latest release, chatting with the embarrassed assistant who tried to soothe her by using the weather as an excuse. Rain had been in the forecast. Aspen agreed as they ignored the clear, blue sky and warm, acrid air.

Aspen turned and met the sympathetic gaze of the bookstore associate, Kellie. Her practiced smile told Aspen she'd been through this many times with authors and was an expert. "Wasn't it wonderful how many people showed up for you?" she chirped, expertly pulling books from the pile to make a neat stack in front. "If you can sign these copies, we'll put them out on the front table for our readers."

"Of course. Thank you." Aspen began signing, trying not to look over as Kellie loaded the other eighty-nine books on a cart to wheel them away. Despair threatened, but she focused on signing and tried not to think of all her precious babies going to the graveyard after she'd worked so hard. After she'd hoped so deeply. After she'd dreamed so big.

They'd be returned. Every last one. Already, the store realized she wasn't as big of a draw as first believed, so her books would be quietly shipped back instead of being peddled to the patrons. Shelf space was precious and limited. She'd just missed the #booktok surge and hadn't been able to go big with the younger crowd yet. Only her first book sold well, and still managed to keep a certain amount of promotion.

There was just no space for her last two books.

Aspen packed up her stuff, thanked the staff, and trudged to her car. The thought circled her mind like Clorox in the toilet, and all the hopes she'd pinned on her release got flushed.

It was official.

She was a one-hit wonder.

The phone rang as if on cue. Aspen winced and stared at her agent's number. Answer now or later? Rip the Band-Aid off quickly or by tiny quarter inches? Slumped in her car, soul battered, she decided to get it over with.

"Hey, Nic. How are you?"

The familiar, husky voice poured over the phone. "Shitty. How'd the signing go? How many showed? How many bought?"

An image of her savvy, sharklike agent flickered in her mind. When they first met, Nicolette had scared the living hell out of her. She was well known in the industry for being protective of her clients and extremely picky about who she took on. Aspen had landed in the slush pile—the graveyard for manuscripts by unknown authors struggling to get seen. It was a true Cinderella story from start to finish, ending with Nicolette representing her and signing a multi-million-dollar, three-book contract at auction.

They'd gone through a lot together, and Aspen had learned Nicolette was like a fierce mama bear with her clients, trying to shield them from the worst of the industry. When Aspen's second book tanked, Nicolette told her to shake it off and move forward. But this was her third book, and her last chance to gain a new contract. Nicolette was definitely concerned.

Aspen cleared her throat. Humiliation wriggled inside her, but she couldn't lie. Not to Nicolette. "There was a huge crowd."

"Wonderful."

"Fans were excited. Happy to meet me. The bookstore staff said they'd never seen such enthusiasm or a long line on a Sunday afternoon."

"Fantastic."

"I sold one book."

"Fuck."

Aspen twisted the opal ring around her index finger to calm her nerves. "But a ton of people said they'd buy it later. They just weren't prepared to do it today."

A snort came over the line. "How many did the store have you sign?"

She twisted the ring faster. "Ten, maybe?"

"Rotten bastards. They promised fifty in the emails with the publisher."

She thought of the piles being sent back and fought nausea. Her publisher would freak. A soft warning had already been issued about Target limiting buy-in because the last one didn't sell, and if they couldn't get the indie bookstores on board, they were done. The first few weeks of release were supposed to be the gold mine. After a month, the title was considered backlist, and she'd never be able to regain traction.

"What about the book clubs? Did Cosmo pick it up?"

"Nope, they went with a Reese pick."

"Okay, but I still have that radio spot, and sales spiked pretty high with that DJ."

"They canceled. Pushed you out for Rob Thomas, who has a new song out. They said book spots aren't doing well anymore, so they're limiting them."

Dammit. She loved Rob Thomas, and now she resented him. Would she ever be able to enjoy his music again?

Why was this so hard? Weren't writers supposed to create, take naps, and fight with their muse? Why was she burned-out, stressed-out, and heartsick? Why was social media a cauldron of hell, and how on earth could she go viral to help her sales?

The silence that hummed over the line was a precursor. Nicolette cleared her throat and began speaking calmly like she was trying to tame a wild horse. "Darling, we have a problem. Sales aren't picking up, and we're done with the book tour. I spoke with Bella. We need to get her a proposal with three chapters to approach a new contract. But there's a certain…element she wants from you."

"More sex?"

"No. More emotion. Specifically, angst. It sells best, and Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover was brimming with that type of drama. To be frank, your past two books were good. Well written. Solid. But they lacked the intense, raw emotion of the first book. That's what connects readers, darling. You know that. If you can wrangle that type of writing into your next proposal and truly wow them, they'll consider pubbing another book."

Chills skated down her spine. "And if not?"

"Well, they'll pass. We can pitch to some other places, but with your last book numbers, we have a challenge. Many won't want to take a chance, and if so, the pay would be lower than you're used to."

"I see. So, even though I'm a Goodreads Choice Award winner, a number-one pick on Amazon, a #1 New York Times bestseller, and broke records for the Book of the Month Club in sales, I'm now officially washed up. "

"You're not washed up! You're in a bit of a funk. You need a good pivot, darling. I think the past four years have been a whirlwind. You went from a year of touring to writing two more books back-to-back. You're in burnout. Maybe you need to take some time and figure out how to get back to the magic that was Fifty Ways . A change of scenery may do wonders. Inspire you. Give us something different but familiar."

Aspen wanted to bang her head against the steering wheel and weep. She despised book-talk language. Everyone wanted a fresh hook. A twist on an old type. Something different but familiar. What were they talking about? Did they even know?

Nicolette continued. "The good news is Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover is still selling well, and Hulu reached out. I'll bring you in on the conversation as soon as I nail down some specifics. Isn't that exciting? It can lead to a whole new surge for the book."

"Yep, that's great. Listen, I'd better get going. Can we talk later?"

"Absolutely. It will all be fine, darling. Keep your chin up and think about what I said. Get inspired!"

Her agent clicked off.

Aspen stared at the phone for a while, then glumly dropped it back into her purse. She drove home, parked her car in the garage, and walked inside.

After the book went viral, she'd replaced her cramped, one-bedroom studio with a renovated townhouse in the West Village. With gorgeous windows, hardwood flooring, and open, airy space, she was always grateful each time she walked through the door.

Grateful she no longer had to scrimp and save to pay her bills and eat pasta most nights.

Grateful her book had been plucked from the slush pile to make her a household name.

Grateful she had her health, sanity, creativity, and her sister.

But today, it was hard living in pure gratitude. Because the truth not only hurt. It seared and burned and plundered her heart and soul.

She had written one great book, and the world was done with her. No matter how hard she studied craft, read, and worked long hours to compose the best story she could, her fans couldn't resonate with her new stuff.

She knew why. It was her deepest, darkest secret. One she hadn't told even her agent.

Aspen had only been able to write her breakout book because it was entirely autobiographical .

Nibbling on her bottom lip, she dropped her coat and bag onto the supple cream-leather couch and made her way into the kitchen. The wraparound white marble counters, high red stools, and red appliances added the perfect pop of color. Her bare feet padded over the ebony plank floors. With mechanical motions, she brewed herself a cappuccino, added cinnamon, and sat in her favorite red plush chair facing the window.

She sipped the hot brew and pondered her dilemma.

Readers only cared about her first book because it had burst from her essence, caused by her broken heart. The character Josh was based on Ryan. Ryan, the great love of her life. Ryan, her college English professor, who taught her poetry, living with passion, and diving into her heart when she dared to try and create. Ryan, who asked her to marry him on bended knee in the snow, in front of a horse and carriage, in the middle of Central Park.

Ryan, who left her at the altar to run off to California with her supposed friend and fellow classmate.

Ryan, who inspired Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover and made her famous.

Yet he'd ended up stealing something more precious than her heart.

He'd taken her creativity.

Aspen groaned and squeezed her eyes shut at the thought. The book had literally dripped grief, rage, and passion from its pages. Many critics tried to rip apart the craft, calling her prose wordy and shallow, citing her inept abilities to mimic Nicholas Sparks, but none of it mattered. The masses kept buying it, pushing it into multiple print runs and inspiring endless knockoffs and licenses, from games to art to talks with Hulu.

No one knew she'd written that book in a drafty room late into the night, working mornings and weekends around her full-time job as an office manager at a local college. No one knew the words poured from her like a demon releasing its rage, spinning her story into an epic revenge tale where she thrived and blossomed under the challenge.

There was nothing to make up because it was real. Her last two books had been spurred from her imagination. She'd thought the books were better written, with full character arcs and exotic settings readers would flock to. Her publisher had seemed to love the second. The third gave them some hesitation, but she'd worked hard on edits and felt it was a book to be proud of.

She'd been wrong. The stories sucked. They were intelligent but flat. Everything seemed to work on the surface, but readers couldn't be fooled. She hadn't identified with any of the characters like she had with her first book. No raw passion bled into her prose.

She was a fraud, and everyone knew it.

The house was silent. No pets, no lovers, no clutter. Somehow, she'd managed to slowly cultivate an emotionless life. She worked on her book, made appearances, saw a few friends, and Zoomed with her sister. The few dates she'd been on had been uninspiring and not worth it. No wonder her writing had flattened like a bottle of soda left open.

She had nothing to write about anymore.

Aspen finished her coffee and washed her cup, then looked around her perfect house, with her perfect existence, far away from the brokenhearted, broke girl she was four years ago.

And she cried.