I’m serious. It’s a magical process. (Just ask Elizabeth Gilbert—she wrote the book on this very topic).
Typically I start with a title and blurb before I do anything else.
Next I order a cover from the lovely and talented Louisa Maggio.
I spend a day or two naming the characters (names have to feel right and sound good and I have a whole process).
After that, I start figuring out plot points.
But this wasn’t the case with TRILLION. A couple of years ago, I decided I wanted to write a book about a trillionaire hero. I had an image, ordered a cover, and let it sit in a file on my computer until this year. I had no idea what the plot was going to be. I just wanted a book about an arrogant hero who happened to be the richest man in the world.
Only once I started actually writing, the book started taking on a life of its own and the characters began telling ME their story the way they wanted it to be told. As a control freak-slash-planner, I don’t tend to hand over the creative reins to fictional people, but my intuition told me to with the flow and I “pantsed” the entire book (wrote without an outline).
I recently read a biography on Marilyn Monroe. Random, I know. But it gave me a major book hangover that bled into this story. Fascinated with her beautiful, tragic, short little life, I drew from her unique qualities her while dreaming up Sophie Bristol. Marilyn was undeniably stunning. Complex. Intelligent. Tortured. She could flip a switch and be whoever she needed to be in that moment, but her emotional wounds ran deep and haunted her until the very end. No one really knew the real Marilyn. Legend has it, the men in her life were always drawn to her striking beauty, but it was her vulnerability that hooked them.
They all wanted to save her—no one really knew how.
When I started writing this book, it was all about Trey. Sophie completely took it over, and I’m not mad about it. She had quite the story to tell. ;-)
All of that said, thank you SO, SO much for reading TRILLION. I truly hope you enjoyed it!
Love,
Winter
PS – Love angst and star-crossed love stories? Check out my last book, THE BEST MAN! (Page ahead for a sample!)
SAMPLE - The Best Man
CHAPTER ONE
Brie
Numbers don’t lie.
But men like the one beside me? With iridescent copper eyes, a jawline so sharp it could cut diamonds, and muscle-wrapped shoulders made for digging your fingers into as he pushes himself into the deepest parts of you?
They lie.
They lie all the time.
Especially in Hoboken hook-up bars like this one.
He told me his name, but already I’ve forgotten. Men like him don’t tend to give real names, so there’s no point in remembering. He also told me he’s from Manhattan, and that once a month he rents a car for a weekend so he can get out of the city, breathe some fresh air, and hear himself think.
Sounds made up.
A story you tell someone to impress them, to make them think you’re deep.
Different.
Special.
If I had to guess, he has a wife and a new baby in the ‘burbs. Ridgewood or Franklin Lakes. Maybe his sex life isn’t what it used to be. Maybe the family life wasn’t what he expected. In my mind’s eye I’ve imagined him packing a small suitcase, kissing his family goodbye, loading up in his luxury SUV and hauling ass to a little bar where nobody knows your name or marital status.
I steal a peek at his left hand.
It’s too dim to spot a wedding band indentation.
“How long are you in town?” He leans in when he speaks to me, his voice smooth as velvet and sending a spray of goosebumps along my neck. The faintest hint of aftershave wafts from his warm skin. Faded with a hint of vetiver and mystique, I enjoy it. But I don’t tell him that. If I flatter him, he’ll think he’s got a ‘nibble’ and he’ll try to reel me in.
I don’t want to be caught. I don’t want to be reeled in.
I want to enjoy my glass of pinot, maybe take a walk around the block, and then head back to my hotel room, paint on a charcoal mud mask, and fall asleep with Seinfeld reruns flickering on my TV screen.
“Not much longer,” I tell him, avoiding eye contact for a myriad of reasons, most of all being the fact that he’s the most beautiful stranger (physically speaking) to ever have purchased me a drink and every time I allow myself to bask in that, I lose my train of thought. “A couple more days.”
“Same.” He sips his drink, something amber in a crystal tumbler. The kind of liquor you savor drop by pricey drop, the kind you don’t rush to finish. “Where did you say you worked again?”
“Phoenix.” I clear my throat. Nothing worse than a man who asks questions but doesn’t take the time to listen.
“No, I remember that part,” he proves me wrong. “I meant where? What company?”
“The Fletcher Firm.” I lie for safety reasons.
I don’t know this man from Adam—no need to give him Google ammo.
“Kind of young to be an actuary, aren’t you?”
His next question catches me off-guard, and I nearly choke on my pinot. Most men—the ones laser focused on securing a piece of ass for the night—rarely remember what I do for a living once they’ve asked me. And the ones that do, have no idea what an actuary is or the education and tests that go into becoming one.
“I am young for an actuary, yes,” I say. I turn my attention toward him without thinking twice. Big mistake. His hazel eyes glint, focused on me. My stomach tightens in response. “I fast-tracked.” Taking a sip, I add, “I don’t recommend it unless you’re willing to sacrifice your social life—or any kind of life you may have—for the majority of your twenties.”
So much of life passed me by. Semesters blurred into one another. Weekend invites were turned down in favor of studying for the next exam. In the end, I was racing to a finish line for no other reason than it felt like a safe choice in a world filled with so much uncertainty.
Go to college. Get a career. Everything else will fall into place …
“You love it though, right?” he asks. “It was worth it?”
I nod. “I do love it.”
Whether it was worth fast-tracking is another thing. If I could go back and do it differently, if I could slow down and spend more time with my sister before her unexpected passing, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
He covers my hand with his palm for half of a second before waving to the bartender. “Your drink is low.”
“No, no. I’m good,” I say, shaking my head at the bartender to cancel the order. “I’m going to head out soon.”
The man checks his watch—a reflective silver piece with an oversized bezel and a simple, classic face—before wrinkling his nose. “It’s only nine-thirty …”
For a second, I imagine his wife gifting him with that timepiece on their first anniversary. Or the day of his first big promotion. Or the day she told him she was pregnant.
Deep down, I know this is a story I’m telling to myself feel better for not taking a risk. At the end of the day we’re always justifying everything, all of the time, in our own individual ways.
I turn away from him and stare at the purple remnants in the bottom of my chalice.
One sip and it’s gone.
One sip and I’m out of here.
One sip and I’ll never see the man with the gold-flecked irises again.
I must admit, I’m quite flattered by the fact that out of all the lovely and beautiful women in this bar tonight, this dashing Adonis approached me.
“I realize I’m in a singles bar on a Friday night,” I say, “but I can assure you, you’d have better luck casting your line in another direction.”
He half-laughs. “What?”
“You’re fishing. You want sex.” I blink. “Not judging you. Just saying, you’re wasting valuable time and energy on me.”
His brows meet. His gaze snaps to my left hand. “You’re taken?”
&n
bsp; I bite my lip, shake my head. “No.”
“Then, what? You aren’t into men?”
“I’m into men. I just don’t sleep with people I don’t know.” I sit taller. “I don’t do one night stands. Nothing personal.”
“Fair enough. Dare I ask why?” He squints, and for a second, I think he might be genuinely interested in my answer because he doesn’t take his attention off of me for one moment. I’m also impressed that he isn’t shrinking away from the sting of rejection or denying that he was, in fact, only after one thing.
The world needs more people like him—at least, assuming he’s every ounce the single, sex-prowling man he claims to be and not a married dad from the suburbs.
“A woman’s odds of orgasming during a hook-up with a stranger is a paltry twenty-two percent and the average duration of said encounter is seven minutes. I can do better on my own.
Not to mention, over forty percent of men have had dozens of partners—and a third of those men have had over one hundred.”
Once again … numbers don’t lie.
“Why’d you come here then?” he asks.
“Because drinking alone in my hotel room on my birthday would’ve been a new low for me.” This time, I don’t lie to this stranger. I have no reason to. Besides, stating anything other than this would be lying to myself.
I take full responsibility for not doing my research on this bar. I also take full responsibility for not walking out the door the instant I set foot in here and immediately overheard a couple of guys talking about how this was the “hottest hook up bar on Washington street.”
This place is walking distance from my hotel—and by walking distance, I mean it’s practically connected. Their walls are sandwiched together on a busy strip of downtown street, the New York City skyline in the distance and the faint stench of the Hudson River infused into every breath.
I stay in this neighborhood every time I travel here for work.
It’s familiar. I know what to expect.
I toss back the final few milliliters of my pinot and place the goblet on my cardboard coaster before sliding it away.
“Happy birthday,” he says.
I meet his gaze. My breath catches in my chest with the gusto of a silly school girl with a two-second crush. Heat blankets my body.
If I were an adventurous woman, his mouth would be on mine by now. My fingers would be deep in his sandy hair. We’d be going at it in the bathroom, his back against the door to keep unsuspecting patrons from barging in. Or maybe they would barge in, but we’d be going at it so hard we wouldn’t notice or care. Maybe when it’s over, we’d sprint to my hotel room for round two followed by breakfast in bed and round three in the morning. We’d go our own ways, sore and satisfied, and I’d file the entire encounter away in my memory.
But I’m not that girl.
And I’ll never be.
I rise from the bar stool and collect my things. “Thank you for the drink. And for your honesty. It’s refreshing.”
He chews the inside of his lower lip, studying me. “So you’re just going to go back to your hotel room now? Spend the rest of your birthday alone?”
I offer a surrendering shrug and lift my brows. “Yep.”
“Where’d you get those numbers? Those statistics?” he asks.
“On one night stands?”
He nods.
“I don’t know … some article I read a few years back. Why?”
“Because they’re bullshit.” His eyes glint. “I’m not in the forty-percent, I can tell you that. And I can promise you, I last a hell of a lot longer than seven minutes. And there’s nothing I love more than making a woman come—whether it’s on my cock, my fingers, or my tongue.”
My throat constricts around the words attempting to come out, and I almost choke on them. Heat blankets my skin before settling between my thighs, and I’d love nothing more than an icy burst of February air right about now.
His words are a sharp and unexpected contrast against his reserved, gentlemanly exterior.
“It’s too bad.” He bites his lip, looks me up and down, and leans in. “Was really looking forward to tasting that heart-shaped mouth of yours tonight. Amongst other things …”
For a few endless seconds, I consider taking him back to my room. I contemplate throwing caution to the wind like confetti. I deliberate whether or not I would hate myself for it in the morning.
Lastly, I calculate the risk factors.
I cinch my hand around my purse strap and pull in a deep breath. “Good luck with … tonight. And thank you again for the wine.”
I don’t wait for him to respond, and as soon as my heels hit cement sidewalk outside, I release the breath I’d been harboring.
I’m several yards closer to my hotel’s entrance when a man behind me yells, “Hey!”
Dozens of people litter the sidewalk. It could be anyone calling after anyone.
“Hey!” The voice is closer now, along with the soft trump of dress shoes scuffing concrete.
I steal a look from my periphery, and come to a complete stop when I realize it’s the guy from the bar, and he’s chasing after me. But before I have a chance to react or concoct some worst-case-scenario situation in my mind—he hands me my phone.
“You forgot this,” he says. Our fingers brush in the exchange. Our moonlit gazes hold for what feels like forever.
Clearing my throat, I force out a quick, “Thank you.”
He nods, and we both remain planted where we are, as if I’m waiting for him to speak or he’s waiting for me to have a change or heart.
“I’m sorry …” I point to my hotel—a rookie move given the fact that he’s still just a nameless stranger looking to get a piece. “I’m going to head in … alone.”
“I know. You made it abundantly clear that you don’t sleep with strangers.” He laughs through his perfect, Greek God nose. “Maybe next time we meet, we won’t be strangers.”
I smile, amused.
And then I head inside, opting not to share with him the statistical odds of the two of us ever running into one another again.
CHAPTER TWO
Cainan
One Month Later …
Beep … beep … beep … beep …
I wake to a steady sound, slamming into an unfamiliar shell of a body, which as it turns out is mine. A dreamlike haze envelopes me, and when my surroundings come into focus, I’m met with white walls, white blankets, white machines connected to white wires leading to a strip of white tape on my wrist holding an IV in place.
I’m in a hospital.
I try to remember how I got here, but it’s like trying to recall someone else’s dream—an impossible task. And it only makes the throbbing inside my head intensify.
“My wife …” My words are more air than sound, and it’s painful to speak with a bone-dry mouth and burning throat.
“Mr. James?” A woman with hair the color of driven snow leans over me. So much fucking white. “Don’t move. Please.”
She’s a calm kind of rushed, hurried but not frenetic as she makes her way around the room, pressing buttons, paging for assistance and adjusting machine settings.
The room fades in and out, murky gray to pitch black, and then crystal clear before disappearing completely. The next time I open my eyes, I’m fenced by three more women and one white-coat-wearing man, all of them gazing down on me with squinted, skeptical expressions, as if they’re witnessing a verifiable miracle in the making.
I’m certain this is nothing more than a bad dream—until my head pulsates with an iron-clad throb once again, accented by a searing poker-hot pain too real to be a delusion.
“Mr. James, I’m Dr. Shapiro. Four weeks ago, you were involved in a car accident.” The doctor at the foot of the bed studies me. “You’re at Hoboken University Medical Center, and you’re in excellent hands.”
They all study me.
I try to sit up, only for a nurse to place her hand on my shoulder. “Take it eas
y, Mr. James.”
Another nurse hands me water. I take a sip. The clear, cold liquid that glides down my throat both soothes and stings. I swallow the razor-blade sensation and try to sit up again, but my arms shake in protest, muscles threatening to give out.
“Where’s my wife?” Each word is excruciating, physically and otherwise.
She should be here.
Why isn’t she here?
“Your wife?” The nurse with the water cup repeats my question as she exchanges glances with the dark-haired nurse on the opposite side of my bed. “Mr. James … you don’t have a wife.”
I try to respond, which only causes me to cough. I’m handed the water once more, and when I get the coughing under control, I ask for my wife once more.
“Has anyone called her?” I hand the cup back. If I’ve been out of it for weeks, I imagine she’s beside herself. And our kids. I can’t begin to imagine what they’ve been going through. “Does she know I’m awake? Have my children seen me like this?”
“Sir …” The nurse with the dark hair frowns.
“My wife,” I say, harder this time.
“Mr. James.” Dr. Shapiro comes closer, and a nurse steps out of the way. “You suffered extensive injuries in your accident …”
The man rambles on, but I only catch fragments of what he’s saying. Shattered pelvis. Spleen removal. Internal bleeding. Brain swelling. Medically-induced coma.
“It’s not uncommon to be confused or disoriented upon awaking,” he says.
But she was just here …
She was just with me …
Only we weren’t in this room, we were at the beach—the little strip of sand beyond our summer home. She was in my arms as we lay warm under a hot sun, watching our children run from the rolling waves that rolled over the coastline, leaving tiny footprints up and down the shore.
A boy and a girl.
Trillion Page 23
