I’m dimly aware of a pot lid clattering to the floor behind me. It seems we’re scandalizing a member of the staff.
I don’t bloody care.
“Moving on,” Islan says too loudly, as if she knows something and she wants to get me off the trail. But I ignore her. I'm not moving on. I'm not moving on until I find the author of these books and make her answer.
Or him, there's still that option.
“I think you fancy yourself a character in those books because they’re hot,” Fran says, not willing to move on any more than I am. “But I think romance is a silly, foolish genre for silly, foolish women who believe that fantasy and reality are the same thing.”
“Not true!” Islan says. “For the love of God, why do you people keep saying such stupid things?”
“You people?” Fran and I ask in unison, as if we’re somehow joined in this opinion.
“Aye,” Islan says, frowning. “You people! You naysayers. They’re just fucking fictional books, Tate, and if there’s any resemblance to our Clan, it’s accidental. They have nothing to do with us. I once thought so, but I don’t anymore.”
“Oh? And why don’t you now?” I ask, unwilling to let this go. She’s protesting too insistently for me to let this bloody go.
She gets up from the table in a temper and slams her napkin down.
“Because the blokes in those books actually give a damn. Because the blokes in those books are heroes, not goddamn narcissists.”
And on that note, she storms out of the room.
Fran looks after her and chews another bite of toast meditatively.
“I’d definitely investigate that further if I were you.”
Chapter 4
Fran
It takes every ounce of self-control I have to keep my crap together. If he knew… God, does he?
Does Islan?
The only reason I suggest he pursue Islan as the writer of the books is because I know that if it was her, he wouldn’t hurt her. She’s his sister, and if there’s anyone who’s safe in the Cowen Clan, it’s Islan and Paisley.
I know exactly who the author of the books is, of course. Because the author of these books… is me.
At first, I knew that I'd be embarrassed if they knew that I was the writer. I made them all so… hot. I’d die if I thought for a moment they knew I was the one that put pen to paper and actually wrote out the fantasies I’d been concocting for years. I've always had a vivid imagination, at least that's the way I like to look at it. Some people like to think I'm kind of insane, but whatever.
The first time I ever thought about writing a book about the Clan was after Tavish’s death. No one in the Clan ever knew, but I had a major schoolgirl crush on him. So I wrote a story with him in it, pretended that he didn't die, and every single book I've written since has four Clan brothers and two Clan sisters.
I told myself after a while that changing the number of siblings in the house would make it less likely that they would never find out I was writing about them. Ha. As if they wouldn’t see through the flimsiest change.
But I honestly never thought they would find the books. I never thought anybody would actually buy them, actually read them. But the more they sold, the more I wrote. And the reality is… I need that money. If I don’t have that money... I won’t think of that.
My job at the bookstore doesn’t come close to making what my books do, but I need all the money I can get. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs, thanks to my mother.
I wish I didn’t have to go to the store with Tate, but I’ve got a job to do. The bookstore’s an integral part of my whole plan.
I take the paperbacks and bring them to the bookstore first. I tell everyone I have a connection with the author. She signs the books and makes sure they get to the bookstore before anyone else has copies, even the readers.
My boss doesn't care. All she cares about is that I do my job, that we sell books. She doesn't care that I have a massive setup of the Clan Chronicles in the front of the store, smack dab in front of the romance section. She doesn't care that the books are signed, and that both Islan and Paisley have come into the store questioning me, questioning everybody to see if they know anything about the author. My boss is oblivious to everything, and that’s definitely to my advantage.
I knew it was dangerous for me to continue to write the books, once they really started getting some attention. I discussed them with Paisley and Islan, and I've never let on that I was the writer, of course. It’s a secret I’ll take to my grave. I sort of hated taking the side that I did, telling everyone that romance books were stupid. Of course I don't believe that. If I thought they were, I never would've written them. But no one can know that I'm the writer.