I smile at my agent, now friend. She has been a huge support to me these past seven months since everything went crazy. Thesuccess of my book was as much of a surprise to her as it was to me.
She admitted she thought the book would do well but saw me as a long-term prospect. Someone who could have a loyal readership that would follow them and hang on their every word. Not the debut author sensation, which I am apparently. Even though I’ve self-published in the past, I’m still considerednewin the traditional publishing world.
“I’m fine. I’m always full of nerves before these things. Doubt I will ever get used to them,” I say. She quiets me with a pat on the shoulder.
“Just remember to tell them as little as possible. Keep your private life to yourself. And don’t tell them the name of the new book, just that it’ll be released in August.” I nod. This little pep talk is growing old after having listened so many times that I know it by heart. It’s so hard to answer a question while not actually answering the question. Goosebumps spring up on the back of my neck as my anxiety rises a few more notches.
“Yes, Celia,” I say blandly. Her eyebrows shoot up, and a frown crosses her face.
“Don’t speak to me like a school headmistress, Katie. I only tell you these things to help you,” she snaps.
“I know,” I mumble. “Sorry.”
A production assistant knocks on the door and appears around it in one smooth move. He has a clipboard plastered to his chest and is wearing a harassed look. Without saying a word, he signals for us to come with him.
We follow him down the corridor toward the studio. I have to jog to keep up, which is difficult in four-inch heels. Lance always teased me for choosing style over substance. The thought punches hard, a blow to my chest.
He gestures for us to take a seat outside a door with a sign telling us that this is Studio 4. The voices on the otherside are instructing people to go here and stand there. I hear a countdown begin as a man opens the door, closing it softly behind him.
“Katie Clark?” he asks.
“Yes.” My eyes meet his, my heart skipping a beat. He’s gorgeous.
He holds out his hand, and I take it. Electricity pulses between us, and my stomach flips—pure reflex, desire.
Fuck, it’s been a long time since someone has had that kind of effect on me. Not since Lance. Never since Lance.
“My name is Bradley Thomson. I’m delighted to meet you. You’ve been quite a sensation on this side of the pond.”
He has the most brilliant blue eyes, with cropped silver hair and rugged good looks, probably in his late fifties. The taut muscles beneath his shirt tell me he looks after himself, and the smattering of graying-dark hair where his shirt lies open at his neck is sexy as hell. This is a real man.
“Lovely to meet you, Mr. Thomson,” I stutter.
“Please call me Brad,” he says. “When I heard you were doing a promotional tour in the states, I simply had to have you on the show. Women are going crazy for your book over here. I haven’t seen anything like it in a decade.” The confusion on my face must show—who is this hunk? “My production company owns The Morning Show.”
Now it makes sense. The effortless confidence radiating off him. The kind of man who expects people to jump when he speaks.
He owns the bloody TV show.
I suddenly remember Celia standing beside me.
“Brad, please let me introduce my agent, Celia Miller.”
Pulling herself up to her full height, she looks incredible. She has dressed to impress today, wearing a fitted cobalt-blue dress to the knee with fishnet stockings and sky-high heels. Her hair ispinned high and fixed with a diamante clip. Dark eyes and lips complete her temptress look. How men don’t fall at her feet, I will never know.
He looks her up and down from head to toe, and Celia pants a little. It’s not only me that this man’s presence influences. He gives her a soft smile.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Miller. Quite a talent you found here.” The way he saystalent,I’m not a hundred percent sure he’s talking about my work.
His attention returns to me. “Will you follow me, please? You’re on air in ten minutes.”
The set is very relaxed, with two huge red sofas placed in a V-shape and a heavy wooden coffee table in the middle. The walls are made to look like anyone’s living room, with a fire on the back wall and bright, flowery wallpaper. Kes and Lynn sit on one sofa, dressed in jeans and casual shirts, coordinated but not matching. Both are older and certainly not glamorous. They have a wholesome quality to them.
“Okay, Katie.” Brad takes my elbow. “You’re up next.” He leads me to the side of the set, and the production team calls for an advert break. “Just this way,” he says, and I follow him to the other red sofa.
“Kes. Lynn. This is Katie Clark, the erotica author. This girl writes dirty books.”
What an introduction. My cheeks flush.