by Meg Cabot
“Is this Daphne?” asked a way too cheerful woman’s voice.
“Um,” I said. “Sort of.” I really hadn’t woken up enough to be able to deal with the situation.
“Your real name isn’t Daphne Delacroix, is it?” asked the voice, laughing a little.
“Not exactly,” I said, stealing a glance at the caller ID on the handset. It said Avon Books.
Avon Books was the name on the spines of half of the historical romances I’d read while doing research for my own. It’s a huge publisher of romance novels.
“Well, this is Claire French,” the cheerful voice said. “And I’ve just finished reading your book, Ransom My Heart, and I’m calling to offer you a publishing contract.”
I swear I did not think I could have heard her right. It sounded like she said she was calling to offer me a publishing contract.
But that could not possibly be what she had said. Because people don’t call and offer me book deals. Especially first thing in the morning. Ever.
“What?” I said intelligently.
“I’m calling to offer you a publishing contract,” she said. “We’d like to offer you a book deal. But we’ll need to know your real name. What is your real name, if you don’t mind telling me?”
“Um,” I said. “Mia Thermopolis.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, hi, Mia.” She then went on to say some things about money, and contracts, and due dates, and some other things I didn’t understand because I was in too much of a daze.
“Um,” I finally said. “Can I have your number? I think I’m going to have to call you back.”
“Sure!” she said. And gave me her extension. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”
Then I hung up.
I lay back in my bed and looked at Fat Louie, who was staring at me, happily purring from my pillows.
Then I screamed as loud as I could, freaking out Mom, Rocky, and, of course, Fat Louie, who darted off the bed (all the pigeons on my fire escape took off, too).
I cannot believe it:
I got an offer on my book.
And okay…it’s not for a ton of money. If I were an actual person who had to make a living doing this, I would not be able to survive—at least in New York City—for more than a couple of months on what they offered. If you really want to be a writer, clearly, you have to write and do some other job, too, in order to pay your rent, etc. At least when you’re first starting out.
But since I’m going to be donating the money to Greenpeace anyway…who cares?
Someone wants to buy my book!!!!!
Friday, May 5, 11 a.m., the loft
I feel like I’m floating….
Seriously, I’m so happy! This has been the best day of my life. At least so far.
I really mean that. Nothing is going to ruin it. NOTHING. And NO ONE.
I won’t let them.
The first thing I did, after I told Mom and Mr. G about my book deal, was call Tina. I was all, “Tina—Guess what? I got an offer on my book.”
And she was like, “WHAT???? OH MY GOD, MIA, THAT IS FANTASTIC!!!!”
So then we shrieked for, like, seriously, ten minutes. After that I hung up and called J.P. Probably I should have called him first, since he’s my boyfriend. But I’ve known Tina longer.
The thing is, even though J.P. was happy for me, and all, he wasn’t…well. He had some words of warning. Just because he loves me so much, though.
“You shouldn’t accept a first offer, Mia,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked. “You did, from Sean Penn.”
“But that’s different,” he said. “Sean’s an award-winning director. You don’t even know who this editor is.”
“Yes, I do,” I said. “I just looked her up on the Internet. She’s published tons of books. She’s totally legit, and so is her publishing house. It’s huge. They publish all the romances. Well, a lot of them.”
“Even so,” J.P. said. “You might get a better offer from someone else. I wouldn’t rush into anything.”
“Rush into anything?” I echoed. “J.P., I’ve had, like, sixty-five rejection letters. She’s the only person who has expressed the remotest interest in my book. It’s a totally fair offer.”
“If you’d just do what I said,” J.P. said, “and try to sell it under your real name, you’d get a ton more interest, and probably a much bigger advance.”
“That’s just it,” I said. “She wanted to publish it without knowing who I was! That means she likes the book on its own merit. That means way more to me than money.”
“Look,” J.P. said. “Just don’t accept the offer yet. Let me talk to Sean. He knows people in publishing. I bet he can get you a better offer.”
“No!” I cried. I couldn’t believe how J.P. was trying to ruin this beautiful moment for me. Although it wasn’t his fault. I knew he was just looking out for my best interests. But he was being a total buzz kill, as they said on True Life. “No way, J.P. I’m taking this offer.”
“Mia,” J.P. said. “You don’t know anything about publishing. How do you know what you’re getting yourself into? You don’t even have an agent.”
“I have the Royal Genovian lawyers,” I reminded him. “I don’t think I need to remind you that they are like a pack of rabid pit bulls. Remember what they did to that guy who tried to publish that unauthorized biography of me last year?” I didn’t want to add, And what I could have them do to you, for writing a loosely based bio-play on me? Because I didn’t want to be mean, and, of course, I’d never sic the Royal Genovian lawyers on J.P. “I’ll have them look over the contract before I sign it.”
“I think you’re making a mistake,” J.P. said.
“Well, I don’t think I am,” I said. I wanted to cry. I really did. I knew he was only being that way because he loves me, but come on.
I got over it, though. Even though J.P. and I got into our first (albeit very minor) fight over it, I still think I’m doing the right thing. Because I called my dad and told him about it, and after he asked a lot of questions (in a sort of distracted way, because he’s busy campaigning. I was sorry to bug him about something so unimportant when he has so much to do, but—well, this is important to me), he still said it was fine by him, and I could do what I wanted—so long as I didn’t sign anything until I had his pit bull lawyers see it first.
So I said, “THANKS, DAD!”
Then I called Claire French and told her I accepted.
The only problem was, by the time I called back, she fully knew who I was.
She said, “This is going to sound strange, but when you said your name was Mia Thermopolis, I thought it sounded familiar, so—please don’t be offended—I Googled you. You wouldn’t happen to be Princess Mia Thermopolis of Genovia by any chance, would you?”
My heart totally sank.
“Um,” I said.
The thing is, even though I’m a totally habitual liar, I knew there was no point in lying to her about this. She was going to find out eventually. Like when I sent in my author photo or met her for a fancy editor-author lunch or my pit bull lawyers used the Genovian crest notary or whatever.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am. But I didn’t send my book out under my real name because I didn’t want it to be published just because of my celebrity, you know? I wanted to see if people liked it based on its own merits, not because of who wrote it. I hope you can understand that.”
“Oh,” Claire said. “I completely understand! And you don’t need to worry, I had no idea it was you when I read it, or when I made you the offer. The thing is, though…well, the name Daphne Delacroix…it actually sounds very fake, and the last name—Delacroix—is hard for Americans to pronounce correctly. Whereas your real name is much more recognizable and memorable. I assume you’re not doing this for any sort of financial gain—”
“No,” I said, horrified. “I’m donating my author proceeds to Greenpeace!”
“We
ll, the truth is,” Claire said, “you’d have a lot more author proceeds to donate if you let us publish the book under your real name.”
I clutched the phone to my ear, feeling sort of stunned. “You mean…Mia Thermopolis?”
“I was thinking Mia Thermopolis, princess of Genovia.”
“Well…” My heart was beating kind of fast. I remembered what Grandmère had said, about being sure not to use my real name. She was going to hate this, I thought. She was going to hate it so much if I published a steamy romance novel under my real name!
On the other hand…everyone in school would see it. Everyone in school would see my book and go, “Oh my God. I know her! I went to school with her.”
And it wasn’t as if Claire had bought the book knowing it was by me…but readers would. Think of all the money that would go to Greenpeace!
“I think that would be fine,” I said.
“Great!” Claire said. “That’s settled then. I look forward to working with you, Mia.”
It was the most fantastic phone call of all time. It almost made me forget that J.P. and I had sort of had a little fight and that I was going to have a very scary lunch with Michael very soon.
I’m a published author. Well, soon to be.
And no one can take that away from me. NO ONE!
Friday, May 5, 12:15 p.m., the loft
M—Fashion 911, here to the rescue. You need to wear your Chip & Pepper jeans and your pink and black Alice + Olivia sequined top with that purple motorcycle jacket we picked out at Jeffrey and those super cute Prada platforms with the fringy things. Got it? Don’t overdo it on the makeup because I think he likes the natural type (whatever) and not chandelier earrings this time, go for studs, oooooh what about those cute little cherries I got you for your birthday? So appropriate for you HA HA HA!
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Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device
No! I think that’s all too much! By the way I’m getting my book published!
It’s not too much, just do what I say, don’t forget to curl your eyelashes, YAY ON PUT IT IN MY CANDYHOLE! What color are you wearing to prom?
—————————————
Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device
I don’t know yet, Sebastiano is sending over a couple things. The Prada platforms are too much. I think I’ll go with boots. It’s not called Put It in My Candyhole, I told you.
NO! IT IS MAY. NO BOOTS AT LUNCH. You may compromise with adorable velvet flats.
—————————————
Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device
Okay, you’re right about the flats. THANK YOU! I HAVE TO GO!!!! I’m late. I’m so nervous!!!!
Don’t worry. Trisha and I are going to be taking a boat out and may row by to check on you.
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Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device
NO! LANA!!! NO!!!! DO NOT COME BY!!! If you do, I will never speak to you again.
BYE!!! Have fun!
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Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device
Friday, May 5, 12:55 p.m., limo on the way to Central Park
I will stay away from Michael.
I will not hug him.
I will not even shake his hand.
I will not do anything that could, in any way, result in my smelling him, and losing control of myself, and doing something I might regret.
Not that it matters, because he doesn’t like me that way. Anymore. He thinks of me as just a friend.
But I mean, I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of him.
And anyway, I have a boyfriend. Who really, really loves me. Enough to want what’s best for me.
So, in conclusion:
Stay away from Michael—Check.
Do not hug him—Check.
Don’t even shake his hand—Check.
Do not do anything that could result in smelling him—Check.
Got it. I think I’m good. I can do this. I can totally do this. This is cinchy. We’re just friends. And it’s just lunch. Friends have lunch all the time.
Since when do friends give each other million-dollar pieces of medical equipment, though?
Oh, God. I can’t do this.
We’re here. I think I’m going to be sick.
An excerpt from Ransom My Heart by Daphne Delacroix
Finnula had been kissed before, it was true.
But the few men who’d tried it had lived to regret it, since she was as swift with her fists as she was with a bow.
Yet there was something about these particular lips, pressing so intently against hers, that caused nary a feeling of rancor within her.
He was an excellent kisser, her prisoner, his mouth moving over hers in a slightly inquisitive manner—not tentatively, by any means, but as if he was asking a question for which only she, Finnula, had the answer. It wasn’t until Finnula felt the intrusion of his tongue inside her mouth that she realized she’d answered that question, somehow, though she hardly knew how. Now there was nothing questioning at all in his manner; he’d launched the first volley and realized that Finnula’s defenses were down. He attacked, showing no mercy.
It was then that it struck Finnula, as forcibly as a blow, that this kiss was something out of the ordinary, and that perhaps she was not in as much control of the situation as she would have liked. Though she struggled against the sudden, dizzying assault on her senses, she could no sooner free herself from the hypnotic spell of his lips than he’d been able to break the bonds with which she’d tied him. She went completely limp in his arms, as if she were melting against him, except for her hands, which, as if of their own volition, slipped around his brawny neck, tangling in the surprisingly soft hair half-buried beneath the flung-back hood of his cloak. What was it, she wondered dimly, about the introduction of this man’s tongue into her mouth that seemed to have a direct correlation to a very sudden and very noticeable tightening sensation between her thighs?
Tearing her mouth away from his and placing a restraining hand against his wide chest, Finnula brought accusing eyes up to his face and was startled by what she saw there. Not the derisive smile or the mocking eyes she’d become accustomed to, but a mouth slack with desire and green eyes filled with…with what? Finnula could not put a name to what she saw within those orbs, but it frightened as much as it thrilled her.
She had to put a stop to this madness, before things went too far.
“Have you lost your reason?” she demanded, through lips that felt numb from the bruising pressure of his kiss. “Release me at once.”
Hugo lifted his head, his expression as dazed as a man who’d just roused from sleep. Blinking down at the girl in his arms, he gave every indication of having heard her, and yet his hand, still anchored upon her breast, tightened, as if he had no intention of releasing her. When he spoke, it was with a hoarse voice, his intonations slurred.
“I rather think it isn’t my reason I’ve lost, Maiden Crais, but my heart,” he rasped.
Friday, May 5, 4 p.m., limo on the way to therapy
I suck.
I am a horrible, terrible, awful person.
I don’t deserve to be in J.P.’s presence, let alone wear his ring.
I don’t know how it happened! How I let it happen.
Also, it was completely my fault. Michael had nothing to do with it.
Well, maybe he had a little bit to do with it.
But mostly it was me.
I’m the world’s worst, most disgusting girl.
And I know now that Grandmère and I DO come from the same bloodline. Because I’m just as bad as she is!
Maybe all of this really is from hanging out so much with Lana. Maybe she’s rubbed off on me!
Oh, God. I wonder if I have to give back my Domina Rei membership now? Surely a Domina Rei wouldn’t have done what I did?
It all started out so
innocently, too. I got to the Boathouse, and Michael was there, waiting for me. And he looked fantastic (no big surprise), in a sport coat (but no tie), with his dark hair kind of messy like he’d just gotten out of the shower.
And the very first thing that happened—the very first thing!—was that he came over to lean down to greet me with a kiss on the cheek.
And even though I tried to back away, crying, “Oh, no, I have a cold!”
He just laughed, and said, “I like your germs.”
And that’s when it happened. Well, the first time. I got a great big whiff of him, his fresh clean Michael smell, all those dissimilar molecules smacking me in the olfactory senses all at the same time. I swear, it was so much I nearly fell over, and Lars had to reach out and lay a hand on my elbow and go, “Are you all right, Princess?”
No. The answer was no, I was not all right. I nearly got knocked out. Knocked out by desire! Desire for forbidden dissimilar molecules!
But I managed to pull myself together, and laughed like nothing had happened. (But something had! Something had happened! Something very, very bad!)
Then we were being led to our sun-dappled table (Lars took up a seat at the bar so he could keep one eye on some sporting event, and one eye on me. Oh, why, Lars, why? Why did you sit so far off????), and Michael was chatting away, I had no idea about what, I was still all dazed by the pheromones or whatever that were tweet-tweeting around my head, and we had a table RIGHT BY THE LAKE, so I had to start keeping an eagle eye out for Lana and Trisha, in case they happened to row by.
But also I think I was dazzled by the sun twinkling on the water, it was all so beautiful and fresh and not like we were in New York at all, but in…well, Genovia, or something.
I swear, I felt as if I were on drugs.
Finally Michael was like, “Mia, are you all right?” and I shook my head like Fat Louie does when I’ve scratched his ears too much, and I went, laughing all nervously, “Yes, yes, I’m fine, I’m sorry, I’m just a little distracted.” But I couldn’t tell him WHY I was so distracted, of course.
