by Maya Rodale
“Ok, if you want to be lame and/or obvious,” Roxanna replied.
“What about . . . Wedding the Wallflower?”
“Cute,” Roxanna chirped. Since she never chirped, I braced myself for more. “It’s the perfect title if you want to pretend the women’s movement never happened and you’re eager to perpetuate the myth that marriage is the end-all and be-all of a woman’s existence.”
“I like the word Wallflower. It’s how I feel so much of the time—like I’m standing on the sidelines wanting to participate in the world but just . . . can’t.”
“You’re waiting for permission. Or someone to ask you to dance.”
“Yes. That.”
“But your heroine . . . she’s a bit wicked,” Roxanna said.
“The Wicked Wallflower?”
“YES,” Roxanna said, turning back to the computer to add the words to the cover.
Next she added my name, Jane Sparks, in a really large font. I hesitated. If I really didn’t want Duke or Sam to read it, publishing a book online under my real name was probably not the best idea.
“I think I need a pseudonym,” I said. “Just in case.”
“Because of what the boys think?” Roxanna asked.
“It’s a story about two people faking an engagement in order to get a ton of money. It would cause major problems for Duke if anyone were to read it. I want to publish this, but I don’t want to get in the way of his dreams.”
“Awww. How noble of you. What are we changing your name to?” Roxanna asked.
I paused for a moment. “I’ve always liked the name Maya.”
I glanced around the room, looking at the names on the spines of books for inspiration for a last name. My gaze settled on the thick, red leather volume on my desk: The Synonym Finder by J.I. Rodale.
“Maya Rodale,” I said. That was a pretty name. I could be that girl.
“I like it,” Roxanna declared. She deleted “Jane Sparks” and replaced it with “Maya Rodale.”
“Oh wow!” I gushed when I saw the finished cover: A woman ripping of a man’s shirt, revealing lots of his chest, all against a stunning hot pink background. “It’s real!”
It was really real sometime long after midnight on Sunday, when all the files were formatted and uploaded and we clicked “Publish!” at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes, and Kobo.
“And now a glass of alcohol to celebrate,” Roxanna declared as she stepped away from the computer and stretched out her arms. She wandered into the kitchen and reached for a bottle of chardonnay, which was my usual drink of choice.
“No, this calls for whiskey,” I said, reaching for the bottle of Bulleit Bourbon, which was her usual drink.
“Look at you. Demure librarian by day. Badass, sexy book-writing, whiskey-drinking girl by night.”
“Look at you, an amazing editor with mad Photoshop skills and a lack of fear about the Internet,” I said. “I would have never managed this without you Roxanna. Thank you.”
“Don’t get all sappy on me now,” Roxanna said. We toasted with our glasses of whiskey and then caught an episode of a reality TV show before heading off to bed.
I had done it: written and published a novel with a little help from my fake fiancé and my good friend.
Chapter Three
* * *
New York Public Library
FOR A MOMENT there, it seemed like my life was coming together perfectly. I lived in the greatest city in the world with an awesome friend and roommate, I had published a novel like I said I would, and there were even rumors about the possibility of a promotion at work when another librarian planned to quit to be a stay-at-home mom. For a moment there—that night at the bar—it seemed like I could have my pick between Duke and Sam.
I agonized over which guy I should give my heart to—and for nothing. Duke didn’t call (or text, or tweet, or Snapchat, or IM or Facebook message or any of the thousands of forms of communication guys like him had invented)—other than a quick text to say he was slammed with work. Apparently, Project-TK wasted no time in using the investment money to get bigger and better, fast.
Also, Sam posted something on Facebook about “a sexy and chill weekend getaway with my girl,” otherwise known as the loathsome Kate Abbott.
While on Facebook, I happened to notice that Kelly Valdastono was pregnant, Leslie Jackson was engaged, Lisa Webber got a promotion and everyone else’s life was moving on while I was spinning my wheels in the city.
As I was monitoring the reference desk at the library, I tried not to think about Duke, but I just ended up trying to convince myself not to take his radio silence personally. I knew he was working like crazy. It seemed the whole Internet was abuzz with news of a new, top secret product that they were prepping to launch any day now. Thanks to his updates on Twitter, I knew that he was hiring a ton of new staff now that they were flush with cash—all the better for them to grow quickly enough to IPO sooner rather than later.
I also tried not to think about how many copies my book had sold. More to the point: how many copies it hadn’t sold. Roxanna told me I had to do more to promote it, so I had planned to make that my project for the weekend. You know, since I apparently wasn’t going out with my pretend billionaire boyfriend.
When Roxanna called that afternoon, I was grateful for the distraction. In a whisper, I told her I’d call her back when I got outside. I took a seat on the front steps of the library under one of the lion statues, shrugged off my cardigan to better enjoy the sunshine and called her back. She launched right into her news after the first ring.
“So Jane, remember that bitch Karen from my office?”
“I’ve heard you complain about her.” She and Roxanna had an ongoing professional rivalry in which they constantly vied to have the articles with the highest traffic.
“Well, she was jealous because my story about you and Duke’s engagement had so much more traffic than her stupid post on twerking. So when she found out that you wrote a book . . .”
I inhaled sharply and then forgot to exhale. The only reason a site like Jezebel.com, which Roxanna wrote for, would care about a book like mine was if they exploded the whole Duke-Austen’s-possibly-fake-fiancée angle.
“How did she find out?” I asked.
“I told my friend, Molly, that she should read it. And Karen overheard me.”
“Tell me there’s not a scathing story about it online right now,” I said. Roxanna fell silent. I knew she hadn’t hung up because I could still hear her breathing. Finally, after a moment in which her point was made, she said, “So there’s a scathing story about it online right now.”
“How bad is it?” I asked, switching the phone from one ear to another.
“Could be worse. Probably.”
“Tell me no one’s reading it,” I groaned.
“Let’s look on the bright side. It’s really hard for shit to go viral on the Internet,” Roxanna said optimistically. “So in a way, this is kind of an accomplishment for you.”
Roxanna’s logic often baffled me. This was no exception.
“How horrified am I going to be when I read it?”
“Immediately after you finish it, check to see how many copies you sold. I bet that’ll make you feel better.”
A second later I clicked the link Roxanna sent me and started to read.
Did the Bad Boy Billionaire Fake His Engagement?
His “Good Girl” Fiancée’s Bodice-Ripping Novel Suggests They Did
Just when you thought bad boy billionaire Duke Austen had reformed and settled down to blissful, boring domesticity—depriving us all of his outrageous antics (remember the time he lost a billion dollars? Or that time he was photographed with the naked supermodel and topless Oscar-winning actress on a yacht in the Mediterranean?), this happens. THIS being one of those books found at the supermarket—bare-chested rogues, throbbing members, trembling maidens, heaving bosoms, and strapping men—written by under the pseudonym Maya Rodale otherwise known in real life
as Jane Sparks aka the future Mrs. Duke Austen, or so we’re led to believe. With thousands of these smutty books pubbed each year, it wouldn’t be that remarkable—except this one, The Wicked Wallflower, is about a couple faking their relationship in order to score a ton of money.
And people have been asking questions—given the whirlwind nature of their “relationship” which took the tech world by surprise, one can’t help but wonder if this is a case of art imitating life. And if it is a case of art imitating life, one has to freaking marvel at lines like this:
“Allow me to confirm that I am understanding you correctly,” Emma said slowly. “You would like us to pose as a betrothed couple to swindle your wealthy, elderly aunt out of her fortune.”
ARE YOU READING, AUGUSTUS GREY? Do you want your 150 million dollars back? I want you to have your money back because I bet you just got played.
Since we’re all busy ladies, here are some choice excerpts with an emphasis on the smutty bits. Because smutty bits:
He kissed her hard. And she . . . she kissed him back. Her tongue, tangling with his. Frantic breaths, hers and his. He couldn’t breathe. His heart was pounding. He couldn’t taste her or touch her enough. This kiss . . . they would not stop with this kiss. There was not enough time in the world for this kiss . . . it would take a lifetime.
GAWD.
Claiming her mouth for a kiss, he slowly eased in, inch by inch until he no longer knew where she ended and he began.
I’m blushing.
But then she tightened her legs around him and dragged her fingertips down his back, and kissed him hard. But she was quite a minx.
TMI.
I sat on the dramatic front steps of the New York Public Library only vaguely aware of the city happening around me. My whole world had suddenly been reduced to this snarky article that hit a little too close to the truth. OK, way too close.
And, God, it had been one thing to write those sex scenes and quite another to read random excerpts taken out of context. And besides, my book was more than just sex! It was about love, and a woman’s confidence, and a man recognizing a great woman when she’s pretending to be his fiancée!
I groaned and rested my head on my knees. Everyone was going to read this stupid article. And then everyone—read: Duke—was going to know how I felt and then . . . I groaned again and hit my head against my knees repeatedly until my phone chimed with a text message.
Roxanna Lane: Remember to check your sales numbers
I logged into one of my self-publishing accounts. And then I dropped my phone.
“Holy shit,” I muttered to myself. I picked up my phone and zoomed in.
Yup, that number was there. Before this article was published, I had sold maybe 10 copies, and two of them were to Roxanna and myself. And now . . .
I had sold waaaaay more than ten.
I felt a bit of pride. I felt a surge of relief and joy when I saw the royalty statement I was due. But any feelings of triumph were tempered by the awareness of what damage that bitch Karen might have inflicted on Duke’s career because of her article. I had only wanted to write. I didn’t want to hurt anyone in the process.
Maybe he didn’t see the article. Or the book! And really—Augustus Grey wasn’t the type to bother himself with self-published romance novels or news blogs for women.
But I couldn’t help but wonder: had Duke bought one of those copies?
I checked Twitter to see if he had, say, mentioned it. My attention was immediately drawn not to a tweet from Duke but a tweet about him from TechCrunch. Warily I clicked the link and started to read the article.
Duke Austen’s Product Launch Overshadowed by “Fiancée’s” Smutty Self-Pubbed Novel
The launch that has all of the Internet talking isn’t the much-anticipated reveal of the new product and plan to monetize by Duke Austen’s newly funded Project-TK. He and his bold (and loaded) investor, Augustus Grey, had high hopes for the product which they hoped would revolutionize their market, capitalize on their massive user base, and lay the ground work for a $20 billion IPO. Instead, the Internet is buzzing about his “fiancée’s” bodice-ripping romance novel that suggests their whole engagement was a giant ploy to score a fortune.
Everyone was surprised when the bad boy billionaire suddenly settled down with a demure librarian after what has been described as a “whirlwind” relationship. But given the premise of Ms. Spark’s book, The Wicked Wallflower—published under the pseudonym Maya Rodale—people are wondering if the Duke + Jane relationship is fake, too. Lines like this make it hard to believe otherwise: “Allow me to confirm that I am understanding you correctly,” Emma said slowly. “You would like us to pose as a betrothed couple to swindle your wealthy, elderly aunt out of her fortune.” His aunt, by the way, is named Agatha Grey.
Investor Augustus Grey is furious. Sources say he’s outraged that Duke mislead him about his integrity—apparently the “couple” and Grey had a long dinner in San Fran where they charmed him into closing the deal. “This is exactly what Grey was afraid of,” says a source. “Austen’s personal life is once again overshadowing his professional products.”
In order to appease Grey and the hardworking staff at Project-TK, here is our coverage of Project-TK’s new product and plan (though according to Chartbeat’s analytics, everyone but the super nerds will stop reading right . . . now.)
I stopped reading at that point and texted Duke.
Jane Sparks: Is the TechCrunch article true?
Then I sat there waiting and drumming my fingers on the steps, counting the yellow cabs that drove by and marveled at all the people whose lives were not currently collapsing around them.
Finally the screen lit up with a new text.
Duke Austen: Yes.
Curses. Crap. Hell and damnation.
I felt awful. But awful as a word didn’t convey the magnitude of the outrageous guilt I was feeling. I had screwed things up big time, for someone I cared deeply about.
I wanted to enjoy my success but that was impossible now. And then came the deluge of stupid girl questions. What does this mean for us? How did he feel about it? I was pretty sure he’d be pissed. Would he break up with me? Were we really even together?
I texted him back with just one question instead of the 4,765 questions on my mind.
Jane Sparks: Can we talk?
Knowing I had to get back to work soon, I didn’t wait around for his reply, which might or might not come. On my way back in, I was caught behind a dark-haired woman in a boxy pantsuit questioning the security guard.
“I’m looking for Jane Sparks. Is she working today?”
Julius, the guard, looked over her head at me. I shook my head no and hurried off to seek refuge in the rare books room. Who was that woman? And why was she looking for me at work? It couldn’t be good.
All afternoon, I suffered from phantom phone syndrome—I kept thinking I got a text, but it was always my imagination. Except for one—Roxanna suggested we head out to dance, drink, and celebrate. With everything up in the air, there was only one thing to do: pour a drink, let my hair down, and let loose.
Chapter Four
* * *
Cielo
“CHEERS! TO YOUR first book!” Roxanna exclaimed. I grinned and clinked my glass of Veuve Cliquot against hers.
“I can’t believe how many copies I’ve sold already!” I shouted because the club music was so loud. “Thanks to that bitch Karen’s article.”
“Words I never thought I’d hear,” Roxanna shouted back. “Have you heard from him?”
“No.”
“Screw him,” Roxanna yelled.
And then, even though Roxanna probably couldn’t hear me, I shouted out all the things that had been on my mind at work that afternoon:
“I wanted to publish my book. He didn’t make me sign any non-disclosure agreement. He got his investment money. And I might not even need him as my date for the reunion. It felt like Sam wanted me back. There’s no real point in ke
eping up the charade any longer. I can do whatever I want.”
They were all justifications. I was so happy with my success but terrified about the cost to Duke’s career. There ought to be a word for this feeling. Perhaps happy + awful = hawful. Perhaps that was the champagne talking.
“I didn’t hear most of that,” Roxanna yelled back. “But I hope what you want is to hit the dance floor.”
“It is my dearest wish,” I said. The words were lost in the thumping bass line.
We hit the dance floor. When that became too crowded, we stood up on the banquettes to dance like Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan, circa the year 2000.
The champagne and the booming music made the rest of the world melt away. We kept dancing, moving to the beat and in time with everyone else in the club. I was glad I wore a mini skirt and slinky top. I danced until the sweat slicked across my skin. I danced so much that I couldn’t feel my feet. I knew as soon as I stopped, the pain of dancing in three-inch stilettos would kick in. So I had another sip of my drink and spun around and almost fell off the banquette except Roxanna grabbed me and kept me from falling on my face.
We stumbled out of the club around one in the morning.
“Well if it isn’t the bad boy billionaire,” Roxanna remarked.
Duke was there, waiting outside wearing dark jeans and a T-Shirt that said Stylr—another one of his freebie startup T-shirts, I supposed. He looked insanely hot as he leaned against his Tesla and checked his phone.
“I’ll see you at home,” Roxanna said before she stumbled off and hailed a cab. I concentrated very hard on walking toward Duke in a straight line. When I tripped and pitched forward, he was there to catch me in his strong, muscled arms.
Minetta Tavern
New York City
DUKE AND I slipped into one of the intimate red leather booths in the back. The restaurant was small, dimly lit and decorated in the style of an old school steakhouse. Duke ordered a glass of Macallan 18 and I could tell I annoyed the waiter by ordering only water.
