Page 65 of Not a Strong Enough Word

She drives the twenty minutes to JMP in silence, but I can feel her excitement practically vibrating off her. This is always what she does when she has something she wants to say but can’t for some reason. But somewhere over Ohio, my rage gave way to numbness, and I’m having a hard time pretending to give a shit about whatever Trina and Ryan have been evading. I’m still bleeding.

We pull into the parking garage next to the building housing JMP’s offices. Trina leads the way to a conference room, and when she opens the door, there are six other people sitting around a large table. Ryan is to my left, and I almost run to him before I remember we’re in his place of employment and that would be inappropriate. Next to him is Lori, the publicist I’ve been working with. Then the two editors who worked on both my previous books. And the CEO and publisher, Mark.

Holy shit. There are a lot of really important people in one room. They’re all smiling at me, so I must not have done something too terribly wrong.

“Please, sit.” Mark waves at the two empty chairs in front of us. I slink into the one next to Ryan, my heart beating in my ears. Trina sits on the other side of me, and for some reason, I feel like I’m being flanked by soldiers, ready to go to battle.

“Hey, beautiful,” Ryan whispers.

I glance sidelong at him. “What is this about?”

He just smiles at me and winks.

Mark draws my attention away from Ryan by clearing his throat. “Welcome back, Scarlett. We trust you had a productive trip.”

Productive. Not nice or fun. Because that’s what it’s about, right? Writing and selling and selling and writing. All work and no play…

“Yes,” I say tersely. Trina kicks me gently under the table in what I’m assuming is an unspoken reminder to be more personable, but I’m not giving anything away until I know what the hell is going on.

Mark raps his knuckles on the table. “Good. I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve asked you here today, so I’ll go ahead and say it. We want to sign you on for three more books in two years.” He slides a small stack of papers in our direction.

Trina takes them and skims, nodding approvingly as she does. “This all looks in order.” She hands them to me, beaming.

I pretend to look, but my ears are ringing, and the walls feel like they’re closing in on me. Three more books. More than one per year. I can’t handle the two I have out and the one I’m working on. In what world could I do this three more times? We knew they’d make an offer. Trina was confident about that, but only for one, and then we figured I could leverage my success for more time between releases. Three is unfathomable.

The words “one-point-five-million dollars” cut through the buzzing in my ears.

I shake my head, trying to clear it to no avail. “I’m sorry, what?”

“They’re offering you seven figures for three books!” Trina exclaims quietly, though there’s a terse edge to her voice as if she’s willing me to get it together.

“The money is reflective of the work you’ve been asked to put in,” Ryan says a lot more calmly.

My gaze slides to him. “The work I’ve been asked to put in, or will be asked to put in?”

The room goes quiet. One of my editors cracks open a bottle of water and gulps it loudly.

Lori is the first to speak. “We’d like to do another comprehensive press tour for each book, as outlined in the contract.”

Once she breaks the silence, people start talking rapid-fire. It’s hard to believe anyone is listening to each other with how fast they spit out questions and answers. Trina interjects a few times. No one asks what I want. They all just assume I’m on board.

And why wouldn’t I be? A million and a half to write books is a dream.

My pain killers must be wearing off because a cramp builds low in my abdomen. I can feel the color drain from my face.

“Hey, beautiful.” Ryan’s voice is so close to me. So soft. I want to curl up inside it and stay there until it’s all over.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“Are you okay? I thought you’d be happy about this.”

I turn my face toward his, like a flower seeking the sun. Only, his expression is stormy. Pinched. Concerned.

“This was your idea?” I ask. No one else is listening to us anyway.

He nods, but his brows stay tightly knitted together. “You’ve been working so hard. I thought maybe if you were actually compensated for that, it could help—”

“No.” It’s so quiet, even I can barely here myself.