July 16, Tuesday

AFTER DROPPING off eggs at the grocery, I walked outside to put my purchased items into the bike's basket. It was especially hot today, and I was wishing I had one of my hats to protect me from the searing sun.

Maybe I'd ask Frida to send me a few.

"You're Josephine Vanguard."

I froze at the unknown male voice, then slowly turned my head. A man I guessed to be in his mid-forties stood there, his face mildly handsome, his chinos and button-up shirt more dressy than average for this area. "Do I know you?"

"No." He extended a smile. "I'm Wayne Blakemore. I own the local bookstore."

My stomach pinched. "Oh. Hello."

"You have a lot of fans around here," he said quickly. "Romance flies off the shelf."

I gave him a bland smile. "That's nice. I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"If you'd ever consider doing a signing at my store, I'd be thrilled."

"I'm busy working on a manuscript."

"I know. My customers can hardly wait for the next Skirts book. When will it be out?"

"I don't have a release date yet." Because I didn't have a manuscript yet.

"Your mother did an event at my store a few years ago."

I blinked. "She did?"

"When she was doing a book tour for The Color of Yesterday ."

"Oh. That's nice."

"We're a little off the beaten path here," he conceded, "but there was a rumor going around at the time that we were a reporting store for the New York Times Bestseller List."

"Is that so?" The list of NYT reporting stores was supposed to be top-secret, but I'd heard rumors it was circulated to select authors, agents and editors in the industry. It didn't surprise me to learn my mother had tried to game the system.

"Okay, I might've started that rumor," he said with a laugh, "but we attracted some big names, and it allowed me to expand."

"I really have to go," I said, walking my bike to the curb.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a card. "I'm sorry about everything you've been going through. If you ever want a sympathetic ear, call me. Maybe we could do lunch?"

"Thanks," I said in a non-committal tone, then pocketed the card. I climbed on my bike and rode away, legs pumping. A hot rush of anxiety flooded my chest. I couldn't hide out much longer.

I needed to finish writing the book.

Ack, I need to start writing the book.