“Yeah, that’s because those lists aren’t really what people think they are anymore.”
“Oh?” His brow lifts.
“They boxed indies out of the running years ago,” I explain, warming to the topic. “Most of the big lists are curated now. Editorial picks. Traditional pipelines. There are amazing indie authors moving insane numbers you’ll never see on a major list.”
“So it’s rigged?” he asks, amused.
“Let’s call it selectively curated,” I reply sweetly.
He laughs under his breath.
“Damn. I thought I was just behind the times.”
“Nope. You’re just being shown what they want you to see.” I shrug. “The real action’s online. Algorithms. Direct sales. Subscriptions. It’s the Wild West.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“It is,” I admit. “But it’s also kind of thrilling. Writers building empires from their laptops? That’s the good stuff.”
He watches me when I talk about it.
Actually listens.
“That’s pretty badass,” he says. “Running your own shop. Championing the underdogs.”
I shrug again, suddenly self-conscious. “Someone has to.”
There’s a small pause.
Not awkward.
Just aware.
He shifts his weight slightly, leaning a hip against the conference table.
“You know,” he says carefully, “you don’t strike me as someone who plays it safe.”
My heart does a small, stupid flip.
Because if only he knew.
If only he knew how not safe I feel right now.
“I mostly just sell the books,” I say lightly. “The drama stays on the page.”
He smiles at that.
And for a second—just a second—it’s easy.
Normal.
Jake is steady. Polished. Thoughtful.
The kind of guy who would text good morning. The kind who wouldn’t vanish before sunrise.
And the kind of guy who could never make me soar the way David did last night.
I probably shouldn’t even be here, chatting like this.