Chapter One

‘Romance novels are so hot right now.'

I looked up at Malcolm, both my cheeks hamster-full of lamb biriyani and nodded.

‘Gen Z can't get enough,' he said, digging through his lunch with vigour. ‘They're out there this very second, inhaling them, tearing through books like locusts! They can't get enough. They're insatiable.'

It wasn't a particularly appealing visual, thousands of young women swarming around their local Waterstones, devouring everything on the ‘as seen on TikTok' table. I poked sadly at my lunch having suddenly lost my appetite.

‘And your bloody book.' Mal pointed at me with a chunk of tandoori chicken, the tines of his fork shining through the neon red meat. ‘Soph, I've never seen anything like it.'

‘Well—'

‘It's unprecedented!' My publisher interrupted before I could even get started. ‘We can't keep the book in stock, the audio and the ebook are outselling everything else in the industry and for the love of god, don't tell anyone this, but we've had to "borrow" some of the paper assigned to a very famous author's print run, just to keep the supermarkets stocked. And believe you me, he wouldn't be happy if he heard about it.'

‘I bet,' I replied.

‘I can't tell you who it is.'

‘Then don't.'

‘I wish I could.'

‘I don't want to know.'

He looked around the quiet Indian restaurant I'd chosen for lunch and mouthed the name of an unbelievably successful, notoriously humourless, male literary author before slapping both of his hands against his cheeks, Home Alone-style.

No pressure there then.

‘Oh,' I replied weakly. ‘That's nuts.'

‘Too bloody right it's nuts,' Mal said, reaching for his second icy cold Kingfisher. ‘Which is why I need to know when I'm getting the sequel.'

‘Right.' I reached for my glass of water, took a gulp then forced a smile. ‘The thing is—'

‘And I don't want any excuses. "It needs one more read-through, I'm not happy with the ending, I've been busy at work", I've heard them all before, Soph.'

‘In fairness, you haven't given me a chance to say anything, have you?' I pointed out, dropping the smile. ‘I don't think I've finished a sentence since we sat down.'

He looked at his empty plate.

‘Then how come I've almost finished my lunch and you've barely touched yours?'

‘Because you talk with your mouth full and it's disgusting. Besides, they're not excuses. I know it's not what you want to hear but it does need one more read-through, I'm not happy with the ending and I have been busy at work.'

The look on Malcolm's face was not a happy one.

‘Butterflies has only been out six weeks and it is already one of the top ten fastest-selling debuts MullinsParker has ever seen,' he replied. ‘You're a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller, a Reese's Book Club pick, a Book of the Month, you've already got translation deals for twenty-nine languages—'

‘Thirty-two,' I corrected quietly.

‘Thirty-bloody-two languages?' he repeated. ‘Christ almighty, Sophie. I don't know the exact numbers but surely the movie deal alone must be worth twenty times your annual salary? Are you really going to sit there and tell me you can't get the sequel in on time because you've got to teach a bunch of little kids their ABCs? Don't take this the wrong way but what the bloody hell is wrong with you?'

It was a fair question, even if it wasn't presented in a particularly pleasant manner. Malcolm Jennings wasn't just my publisher at MullinsParker; he was also one of my parents' oldest and best friends, and my godfather. Mal was the one who bought me the full set of Beatrix Potter books the day I was born and, every time he came to visit, I demanded he read my bedtime story because he always did all the voices. When I was a teenager, it was Mal who slipped me all the cool, edgy books my parents said I couldn't read until I was older, and when I graduated from Durham with a first in English, it was Mal who offered to help me find an internship in publishing. It wasn't until I sent him the first draft of Butterflies that he'd even come close to forgiving me for turning him down to go into teaching instead.

‘Mal.' I pushed my plateful of food away, inspiring a bowtie-wearing waiter to immediately spring to life and clear it off the table. ‘You know I appreciate everything you've done for me.'

He harrumphed into his beer but, underneath his annoyance, I could still see the avuncular affection I'd known and loved my whole life.

‘Aren't you the one who always says no author should jack in work on their first book, no matter how successful they are?'

‘Yes, but that's because I had no idea you were going to outsell the Bible,' he squawked, loud enough to attract glances from all around the restaurant. ‘When The Beatles said they were bigger than Jesus, everyone went bananas but you, Sophie Taylor, could say it and right now, according to sales figures, it would be true!'

‘That doesn't mean I want to rush the sequel and let the readers down,' I countered, hunching over the table and lowering my voice. Malcolm loved drama and attention, I did not. ‘Or that I even want to give up my job, I've been offered head of year next term. Maybe I like being a teacher.'

He coughed, choking on his beer. ‘There are people who actually like teaching?'

‘Wild, I know, but yes, there are and I'm not ready to explain to the headteacher how I spend my evenings and weekends writing very spicy romance, let alone the parents.' I tapped the limited edition, pink-sprayed edge, foiled-board, hardback Spice Rack subscription box exclusive edition of Butterflies that sat in the middle of the table and shuddered. ‘Would you be happy with the author of this educating your six-year-old?'

‘I'd be happy with Charles Manson educating my six-year-old if thought he'd come out of it in one piece,' he replied. ‘Manson, that is.'

‘Xavier is a handful,' I admitted, keeping the thought that marrying a woman thirty years younger than you and having a baby at the age of fifty-nine was asking for trouble very much to myself. I liked Rosa a lot. I liked staying on Mal's good side even more. ‘But I don't think the majority of parents would share your opinion.'

He wiped a hand over his face and let out a resigned sigh before he could even say what we both knew he was going to say next.

‘I suppose that answers the next question I wanted to ask you.'

‘Mal, I know what you're going to say,' I replied. ‘The answer is still no.'

‘I've got everyone from Good Morning America to Oprah bleedin' Winfrey wanting to talk to "Este Cox" about her book!' He slapped the table so hard, he made the papadums jump. ‘Why are you so determined to stay anonymous?'

‘I would rather set myself on fire than let people know I wrote it,' I answered immediately, pushing away my book with the tip of one finger, afraid even to be seen with it in public. ‘You told me it would be OK.'

‘Again, something I agreed to before I knew we were working with one of the biggest-selling books I've seen in my career,' he said with a groan. ‘You know I only want the best for you but honestly, it breaks my heart to think you aren't out there enjoying all your success. Why are we hiding away in a Brick Lane curry house so we won't bump into anyone from the industry when we should be showing off and showering you with champagne at The Ivy? And I do mean the proper one in Covent Garden, not one of those shitty chain offshoots.'

‘As lovely as that sounds,' I said, even though it did not sound that nice, ‘I'm very happy with the way things are. I don't want anyone to know I'm Este Cox.'

He sat back, arms folded, and lowered his chin, inspecting me over the rim of his glasses.

‘This is about your parents again, isn't it?'

‘No,' I replied too quickly. It wasn't only about my parents.

‘I understand why you wanted to keep things quiet in the beginning but if you ask me, I think they would be chuffed to bits for you if you told them now.'

I gave Mal a grateful look but we both knew he was wrong. My dad, Hugh Taylor, was a world-renowned book editor and publisher at the MullinsParker imprint, Anaphora, famous for his exquisite taste in literary fiction. In his long and storied career, he'd acquired and edited countless prize winners; Bookers, Nibbies, Neustadts, Costas, Pulitzers, two of his authors had even been awarded the Nobel Prize for literature, all of which was to say, my father was not well known for his love of the romance genre. In fact, it was entirely possible that the only two people on the planet who held it in lesser regard were my mother, well-respected and greatly feared literary critic, Pandora Taylor, and publishing's current favourite moody boy author, CJ Simmons.

Also known as my ex.

Three perfectly good reasons to keep the authorship of Butterflies a secret from now until forever as far as I was concerned.

‘I'm not ready yet,' I said, leaving out the part where I never would be. ‘You know I never wanted to be famous, I just wanted to write a book.'

‘And what a bloody book.' Malcolm picked up the special edition and flicked through the pages in awe. ‘I still don't think you understand how good it is. You're not an overnight global sensation for nothing.'

Good was one word for it. Spicy was another. Filthy. Smut-filled. An affront to all that is holy. Just some of the descriptions I'd spotted when I took a peek at the Goodreads reviews. First and last time I ever did that.

‘Clearly you haven't read the reviews,' I muttered into my water glass.

He admonished me with a cluck. ‘There are ten times as many good reviews as bad ones. Sod everyone else, you should be incredibly proud of it. Of yourself.'

Easy for him to say, trickier for me to believe. Most parents were disappointed in their kids for smoking or drinking underage. Mine would've been thrilled to see me puffing on a Marlboro Red as long as I was reading Crime and Punishment at the same time. Neither of them batted an eyelid when they found my fake ID when I was sixteen but the horrified look on Mum's face when she came across my secret stash of Jackie Collins novels was something I'd never forget.

‘Ultimately, it's all up to you.' He pushed the book back towards me and I felt the furrows between my eyebrows deepen. ‘But even if I can't plaster Este Cox all over the media, I still need the sequel. I've held the dogs at bay as long as I can.'

‘And you'll get it,' I promised, trying not to let my eyes slide to the tote bag slung over the back of my chair. The last thing I needed was for Mal to know the manuscript was within grabbing distance. When I woke up, I had every intention of handing it over but, somewhere between Kings Langley and Watford Junction, a niggling feeling in my gut made me take out the stack of pages and give it another once-over. It wasn't ready. I couldn't quite say what exactly but I was certain there was something missing.

‘Give me one more week,' I said, slinging an arm over my chair with forced casualness. ‘You'll have it by next Friday.'

It wasn't as though he could argue with me really. What was he going to do, steal my laptop, cut off my hand to get the fingerprint and wade through the dozens of weirdly named drafts until he found something he could publish? I gulped and tightened my grip on the bag. Judging by the scowl on his face that was a possibility.

‘You're sure that's enough time with the big party this weekend?' he asked, picking up his beer and wiping the sweaty bottle across his generous forehead.

‘More than,' I confirmed. ‘As long as you're sure you aren't going to feel strangely compelled to tell Mum and Dad about my secret identity.'

Malcolm leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

‘Sophie Taylor, I have kept more publishing secrets than you've had hot dinners and I will take them all to the grave. Did I ever tell you about the time Kazuo Ishiguro and I ended up on a ferry to the Isle of Man after the British Book Awards?'

‘No,' I whispered, eyes wide open.

‘And I never will,' he replied sternly. ‘Your secret is safe with me. If I can keep quiet about the author who has to have a baby bottle full of warm milk brought to his room every night on tour for more than twenty years, I think I can get through your dad's birthday party without spilling the beans.'

‘One day I am going to get you so drunk and you're going to tell me everything,' I threatened as he finished his beer then laughed.

‘Please, you forget who you're talking to. I remember when publishing was still a three-martini lunch game. I could put away enough whisky to down an elephant and I still wouldn't utter a word,' he said with a wink. ‘But if you go on Good Morning America, I'll tell you everything.'

You couldn't blame a man for trying.

‘Thank you so much but I couldn't eat another thing,' I said, ignoring my groaning stomach and immediately reaching for my spoon when the waiter put two bowls of kulfi down on the table. ‘And I don't think we ordered them?'

‘They were sent by the gentleman over in the corner.'

He discreetly inclined his head towards the far left side of the room and, as I leaned all the way out of my chair, I saw the shadowy shape of a man raising a beer bottle in my direction.

‘But I don't know the gentleman over in the corner,' I said, puzzled.

‘I do,' Malcolm said in a voice that was not promising. ‘Bloody hell.'

The silhouette stood and the first thing I saw was an electric smile light up the darkness.

‘Joe bloody Walsh, our new senior creative director.' Mal plucked his napkin from his lap and threw it over my book. ‘He does your covers. Bloody genius when it comes to books but, in the words of my dearly departed grandmother, he's both a cad and a bounder, so keep your wits about you. Half the girls in the office are under his spell and I'd say a fair number of the men as well.'

It was very easy to see how Joe Walsh qualified as a cad, a bounder and the official MullinsParker office heartbreaker. When he stepped into the sunlight, I almost gasped out loud. The man looked like something off the cover of a romance novel and not one of the modern ones with the cute illustrations that were, according to some very angry people in my DMs, seriously misleading about the content inside. Oh no. This man belonged on a proper, old-school romance novel, something overtly sexy with ‘rogue' in the title. Or duke. Or pirate. He'd make an excellent pirate. Dark, dishevelled hair, square jaw, broad shoulders, the sleeves of his white button-down shirt rolled up to the elbow, revealing strong, muscular forearms, and all of it set off by piercing blue eyes that seemed to see through my dress and directly into my soul. If he was one of the characters in my book, I'd have described him as rugged but sensual, unbelievably handsome with an edge of mischief in his eyes and every movement bursting with barely restrained sexuality.

Joe Walsh was the man of every romance reader's dreams.

‘Don't you worry about me,' I told Mal as the cover model approached, my sex most assuredly not on fire and nary a single millimetre of my skin aflame. I was impervious to good-looking book boys with bad attitudes, one was enough to last a lifetime. ‘I'm cad-proof and bounder-resistant.'

‘That's what they all say, Sophie,' he muttered back. ‘That's what they all say.'