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This is what living the dream looks and feels like. Or the glamorous part of it, at least.

The inner-monologue-tape-loop runs through its usual cycle in my brain again. ‘I sell enough to live on, but I’m not a household name.’ A glass of wine and a tired body (read: sore feet that shouldn’t have worn heels) in, I can admit that it’s the fame part that bugs me most. I don’t just want to be a writer. I want to be able to tell people I’m a writer, and have them say, “Oh,
you
wrote that?”

Because here’s another thing about being a writer: every time you tell someone you’re a writer, someone asks what they’d know of yours. It gets pretty sad saying, “nothing,” for years on end.

Hopefully, some of these awesome marketing strategies I picked up today will pay off with more sales. Lots more sales. A single hit, I’m not greedy. As long as it’s a
New York Times
bestselling hit for a year, that is. Maybe, eventually, one day, I can stop nicking bottles of free wine from my neighbor.

Hahaha, who am I kidding? The best wine is free wine. Extra money now goes towards the “Employ Jane Full-Time Fund.”

But all joking aside, I could maybe trade in my eco-destroying ’92 Buick. Don’t get me wrong, Betty Boop and I have been through a lot, but after a while, things like working air conditioning stops becoming a luxury in the heat of summer. In the
humid
heat of summer. There is no relief in the shade in Midwestern humidity.

Behind the luscious bartender, I spy a group of women coming into the bar and my heart races. It’s Bethany Bonafont and her entourage, otherwise known as the Queens of Hearts, ladies consistently on the
New York Times
bestseller list. Their books inspired me to start writing. After sobbing and masturbating and laughing and cheering and maybe a little more masturbating, I decided to write my own books. Three years later, here I am. All thanks to them.

My heart might actually win the race by exploding out of my chest.

This
has
to be my year to finally break into the circle and make friends. I want to glean their secrets and break out of the dreaded Midlist Purgatory I’ve been stuck in. Maybe with enough hard-earned money, they’ll get wasted and spill the deets.

“Hey!” I wave to them from across the bar. “We doing shots or what?”

“Oh.” Bethany looks back at the others. “We’re just…looking for someone.”

“I guess they aren’t here.” Karen Star pretends to look around, that bad-actress bitch.

Bethany grabs Karen’s arm. “Oh well. Bye!”

I jump up. “Wait…”

They scurry off. Just like last year. And the year before. Damn it! All of them behave like cockroaches around me. I throw back the rest of my wine and order another glass. Queens of Hearts, my ass. More like Queens of Bitches. They barely even looked at me.

I take off my badge and throw it in my purse. So Randi Rose isn’t good enough for them? Well, they aren’t good enough for Miranda Rosenstein. Eat that, Queens of Asses. Out of spite, I order two chocolate cake shots and take them one after the other. Although I’m not sure who got taught a lesson there. I basically just enjoyed two shots.

“They don’t tip very well.” Hot Bartender leans across the bar conspiratorially. “And you know shitty tippers are shitty people.”

“I like you. Give me another pair of shots, please, Hot Bartender.”

He winks and whips up the shots with an experienced hand. I look around for someone new to take a shot with, so I’m not
that
sad girl who was just snubbed by a bunch of elite bitches who think they are so much better than everyone else even though they all started where I am and fuck them because one day I’ll be there with them and
I
won’t snub anyone and…

Anyway. The bar is practically empty because everyone is likely at the Entwined party. I kick myself for not going straight off. I’m here to network, and Entwined is on my short list. I could have avoided this whole scene. By now, everyone is probably swarming the editors, and they’ve heard all they can possibly stand for pitches. I fucked up. And now I am just going to take both shots because I’ve already decided I’m Ubering home.

As I’m picking up my first tiny glass, I happen to glance left and do a double take. One of the cover models is sitting by himself at the bar and not currently soaking up attention at the party. Well, hel-
lo
changing luck.

Our eyes meet, electricity jolting between us like in all the best books, and that’s a real thing it turns out and…oh my.

Is he coming over here?

I steady myself and pretend to check my phone while my tummy does a slow roll, but out of my periphery, I see him moving his drink down. Oh, hell yes, he’s coming over this way.
Cha-ching
.

“Mind if I sit? It’s a little lonely down there.”

“Sure.” I play it off like I’m not losing my
shit
internally and move my purse. “Everyone else must be at Entwined’s party right now.”

“I needed a break from the crowds.”

“Me, too!” I smile. “Though, I bet you get a lot more attention when you walk through a room with those guns and no permit.” Oh my god, I’m an idiot.

He laughs, and it’s an easy-going sound that sets me at ease. It’s beautiful, just beautiful. And he doesn’t think that was the worst line ever. Score. “Yes and no. Most people just want you pose for a selfie. But it comes with the territory. Honestly, it’s a lot of fun.”

“I bet!” I try not to gush. “I love conference weeks.”

“Is that why you’re nursing two shots?”

I flush a little but slide one over to him. “I was just waiting for the perfect person to share. Care to join me?” The perfect person? Jiminy Christmas. I am so off my game it’s no wonder I spend my evenings weeping over a keyboard and Pinteresting my favorite cat breeds.

He sniffs it and smiles. “Chocolate cake. Very nice. Had a lot of these in college. The girls loved them.” Okay, maybe I’m not so sad.

“Still do.” I clink glasses with him and take the shot. I beat him, which makes me feel good. Bow down to my alcoholic prowess! Actually, that may be a terrible thing for him to notice first. Maybe I should have let him win.

He scoots his chair in closer and gives me a high five. “Way to take that like a champ! I’m impressed.”

“It must not take much to impress you.”

“Quite the contrary.” His beautiful brown eyes sparkle. “I’m very hard to impress. You’re just that good.”

“I’m Miranda, by the way.” I am rather pleased with my voice for not quavering when Model McHottiePants tells me I’m good.

“Joe McCoy.” He takes my hand and shakes it. It’s warm and big and completely engulfs mine. My heart flutters as his touch sends waves of omigod right through me. “So you’re a writer?”

“I am!” I nod and sip my wine, trying to look seductive but effortless. It’s almost as difficult as using a ton of makeup to look natural. I just settle for not looking gawky at this point. “Is this your first conference?”

“It is. Learning a lot. I’m fascinated by the entire process, you know? Writing is one thing, but all this marketing and brand building looks intense.” Sweet boy!

“We were just talking about that!” I nod. This poor model is probably way over his head with all the talk thrown around here, but at least he’s making an effort to connect with writers. And he’s gorgeous, so there’s that. Realizing how out of his depth he is puts us on more even footing, I realize, and it gives me a shot of confidence that actually didn’t come mixed with vodka. And then genius strikes!

“Actually! Would you do me a favor?”

“Maybe?” His eyes sparkle and he smiles and he’s beautiful. Did I mention he’s beautiful?

“My friends and I are trying to get into Periscope for marketing. I’m hoping to interview some hot guys for my fans. Would you mind?” I almost called him a model and then realized that may be objectifying. He
has
a brain, even if it is tiny and yoga-centric.

“I’m flattered!” He grins and smooths his shirt. “Do I look okay?”

“Are you kidding? You look freaking perfect,” I say and totally mean it. Maybe the wine is getting to my head, along with those shots, because I’m not usually so forward. But he’s beautiful and attentive and who am I to pass up this sweet opportunity to get us on video. Even if we
are
wearing clothes.

He poses for me, and we conduct a super awkward interview, where I ask him about his favorite photo shoots: “Any time there’s some nudity.”
Wink
.

And his favorite covers: “All of them. Especially when they relate back to the story in some way.”

And then he flexes his abs for me. It’s the cutest way to reference the current cover trend without overtly mocking it! I love him, I think.

Finally, I stop filming and upload the feed, properly hashtagged, to my Facebook and thank him. “That was excellent. Thank you! You’ve just made my Facebook author page a lot more interesting.”

“I love being interesting.” He winks at me again, and I feel absolutely giggly. I have to bite down on my lip to keep it all bottled up. “Are you from around here?”

“I am! I love Kansas City. I know a lot of people associate it with fly-over-country, but it’s so much more than people expect. We have everything here. It’s been voted coolest city, most up-and-coming city…between the art, the food, and the people, we give the coasts a run for their money. I’m sorry, this is a rant I’ve gone on a lot to out-of-towners…” I trail off, realizing I’m shoving my city down his throat when I could be shoving his—never mind.

“You’ll have to show me around sometime.” He gives me another winning smile. Oh, snap. I’d like to show him around my bed, for starters.

“What else do you do in your spare time, besides pose with naked girls?”

He laughs. “They are normally dressed! I’m not a porn star. Though that would be pretty cool.”

“I’d watch your videos.” Oh my god, what is wrong with me? “Not that I’m a porn aficionado, but sometimes I need inspiration for scenes, not that I have anything against porn, you know, but I don’t watch it all the time because I’m not
that
sad girl…not that people who watch it all the time are sad…I’m going to shut up.”

I think I just discovered the actual definition of word vomit. Holy Jenna Jameson.

He laughs at me again and I flush red. I’m such a hot mess. Damn this delicious wine and those delicious shots! Damn it!

“You’re cute when you’re flustered. Don’t feel so bad. Relax! We’re having a good time.” I am? Yes, yes I am. And yes we are. Okay, then.

“It’s the wine,” I sigh. “And it’s been a long day. I’m afraid my brain is fried.”

“You know what the perfect cure for that is?”

Sex. Sex with him. All the sex with him. When was the last time I got laid? Entirely too long ago. He’s staring at me like I’m an ice cream cone he wants to lick up, and I would melt into him in a millisecond. “What’s the perfect cure?”

He leans forward, so we’re only separated by two inches and a few layers of cotton, and the heat between us is palpable and it would only take another inch for our lips to touch, and he whispers, “More shots.” He thuds his palm on the bar top and calls out, “Bartender! Two Throw Me Down and Fuck Mes please.”

I startle back and flush red hot at the name of the shot. I’ve never heard of this one before, and have some doubts as to its authenticity, but Hot Bartender shoots us a wink and busts out a bottle of Canadian Club and a bottle of some sort of peachy goodness and starts whipping up this mysterious shot that, if I’m not crazy, appears to be some sort of invitation.

Please, god, don’t let me be crazy.

“I’ve never heard of that one,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. If it’s a proposition, I wouldn’t mind agreeing to it. And by “wouldn’t mind,” I mean “would kill my grandma.”

Sorry, Gram. You had a good run.

“They’re delicious. I love the shit out of them.” He glances at me again with that sexy little smirk. The bartender sets the shots down in front of us, and we pick them up. “Here’s to romance.”

Best cheers ever. I clink glasses with him and shoot it. An uncontrollable shudder mows down my spine, and Joe laughs at me. “Wow. I don’t—whiskey is not normally my jam.”

“Good though, right?” He rests his arm on the back of my chair. I find myself leaning against him and he doesn’t move. Does he like it? I like it. Oh my lord, do I like it. Can he possibly feel how the chills from the shot pale in comparison to the chills his skin gives me? “One of my favorites.”

“Do you buy them for all the girls?” Please say no.

“Only the pretty ones.” Close enough, you flatterer.

We spend another hour in the bar, laughing over ridiculous jokes and stupid stories. It’s the most fun I’ve had with anyone in weeks. Our chairs move closer together, our hands brush and our legs entwine. I feel like I’m back in high school, giggling over a crush and feeling like bubbles replaced all the blood in my veins. We are magnets, inexorably drawn together, incapable of separating for long. It’s thrilling, it’s amazing, and I’m completely intoxicated by the nearness of him.

“You’re amazing,” he says, gently pushing a strand of hair out of my face. “I could laugh with you all night.”

“This is the most fun I’ve had in ages,” I admit. I glance outside and see the moon rising over the horizon. We’ve been here a long time, and I’ve probably missed the Entwined party entirely. I find myself not caring. “My stomach hurts from laughing. Can we call this Core Day?”

“Listen.” His voice turns serious and my stomach flips. “I’ve got a room here at the hotel. Would you…do you…maybe…” his voice suddenly gets more authoritative “…want to take the party upstairs?”

My brain is screaming,
Yes! Yes! Yes!
I take a moment to pretend to think about it, a sly smile on my face as I sip my wine. I didn’t miss how he wasn’t sure how to ask. That means he doesn’t do this all the time. That means I can
so
say yes without feeling like any girl in the bar could have gotten this invite.

Sure, I was hoping to bang a cover model, but I wanted him to want
me
, you know? “You’re inviting me to your room?” I double-check.

“Absolutely.” He smiles and I melt, cause I
am
all ice cream and arousal. “Maybe pop open the mini bar and see where the night takes us. What do you say?”