Page 64 of The Perfect Rom-Com

And it’s ridiculous, but I feel myself tearing up a little, clutching the little bag. “Thank you,” I say, with a little warble in my throat.

And then I reach in and hug him.

In my pajamas.

In front of, yes, probably some random Amelia-obsessed photo takers.

So tightly there’s a possibility I heard one of his ribs crack.

“It was nothing,” he says with a surprised laugh. “I mean, literally. Nothing. You just went on about that other pen yesterday and—”

I squeeze tighter, because he says all the right things. Always does.

“Bryony, you’re cutting off my oxygen,” he chokes out.

But even in that moment, I feel him sinking into the hug. Not peeling me off but tentatively lifting up his arms. Wrapping them around my rib cage. His hand resting ever so tenderly on my shoulder. Resting his cheek against my very unwashed, very tangled hair.

I don’t know if I’ll ever speak to Parker again. Or see him. And he was wrong, so very wrong, about so many things.

But he was right, to a degree, about one thing: I always have had Jack.

Chapter 11

Penny needs a new job. That’s all there is to it.

Nobody deserves to be doing this.

I have spent the past three of the last six hours wearing an earpiece to send subtle voice messages to Amelia all while serving as a human tray, holding random items as Amelia hands them off to me because, as she says, “I can do a better job if you’re close.” Always without looking. Always with some big, flashy smile through massive glossy pink lips. Always in near hysterics of giggles with some mob of fans as she laughs like they are children at a sleepover sharing great big jokey secrets over extremely insignificant things. Laughing together over a comment she made about the rain. Laughing together over a joke about spilling bottled water (after which somebody dropped a pack of napkins in my hands—I’m currently cleaning it up, on hands and knees, while she carries on).

I have saved her butt twice so far. Once when she started to go down a terrible road of saying that Roman’s interference with his daughter was unintentional (massive “no” eyes from me there, followed swiftly by a corrective snap through my earpiece) and once when she started to say there was no meaning in the baseball cards. (Of course there is meaning in the baseball cards! The baseball cards are everything!)

Oh, and then once when she said she would be interested in writing a spin-off from Daniel’s story in A Room for Rose.

Absolutely.

Not.

I will not be revisiting that story again.

I can see why she loves going on these tours. It’s just one massive group of fans swooning over her every smile and begging for autographs.

She’s the . . . the Narges Mohammadi of Nobel Peace Prize laureates. The head of the debate team at the state competition. The Taylor Swift of the book world.

And it’s all jokes and champagne and frosted cookies in the shapes of books until three-quarters of the way through the event in Seaside, Florida, when things fall on Amelia’s head.

“No, I’m—I’m sorry.” The girl is speaking at the front of a long line during the Q&A.

The girl clasps her hands in front of her awkwardly.

“I just, you know,” she continues, fumbling for words. “It’s just, I’m an aspirational writer myself, and I’ve been told how writers grow as they write, so, I mean”—she casts her eyes desperately around for fellow comrades, causing everyone to stare down at the books in their laps—“I just thought it was really interesting in the class I took, where we compared your first and latest novel, and how you’ve grown as a writer—”

Oh, the pain.

I drop another paper napkin on the floor. One of the flimsy napkins I was handed when the bottle was tipped over. Which are absolutely useless for soaking up even a teaspoon of water.

“—from your character depth—” she continues.

I wince as I drop another napkin on the puddle. It disintegrates immediately.