by Meg Cabot
“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!”
“Well, 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?
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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.
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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.
Then at the last minute I remembered my excellent news, and I gushed, “I got a phone call this morning from an editor—she wants to publish my book.”
“That’s great!” Michael said, his face breaking out into this big smile. That wonderful smile that I remembered from back in my freshman year, when he used to slip into Algebra to help me with Mr. G’s assignments during class, and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. “We’ve got to celebrate!”
So then he ordered sparkling water, and he toasted my success, and I was totally embarrassed, so I toasted his success back (I mean, honestly, my romance novel isn’t going to save any lives, but as he pointed out, while his CardioArm is saving a patient’s life, the family members of that patient could very well be sitting in the waiting room keeping happy and calm by reading my book. Which is a very good point), and we sat there sipping Perrier on the water in the middle of a Friday afternoon in Central Park in New York City.
Until the bright rays of the afternoon sun caught on the diamond in the ring J.P. had given me, which I forgot to take off. Anyway, the resulting reflection sent an explosion of little rainbows all over Michael’s face, making him blink.
I was mortified, and said, “I’m sorry,” and slipped the ring off and put it in my bag.
“That’s some rock,” Michael said, with a teasing smile. “So are you guys, like, engaged now?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “It’s just a friendship ring.” Mia Thermopolis’s Big Fat Lie Number Eleven.
“I see,” Michael said. “Friendships have gotten a lot more…expensive than when I was at AEHS.”
Ouch.
But then Michael changed the subject. “And where’s J.P. going to college next year?”
“Well,” I said carefully. “Sean Penn’s optioned this play J.P. wrote, so he’s thinking about heading out to Hollywood next year, and doing college later.”
Michael looked very interested to hear that. “Really? So you guys would be doing the long-distance thing.”
“Well,” I said. “I don’t know. We’re talking about me going with him….”
“To Hollywood?” Michael sounded totally incredulous. Then he apologized. “Sorry. You just…I mean, you’ve just never struck me as the Hollywood type. Not that you aren’t glamorous enough now. Because you totally are.”
“Thanks,” I said, completely embarrassed. Fortunately the waiter had brought our salads by then, so I was able to distract myself by saying no, thank you, to ground pepper.
“But I know what you mean,” I went on, when the waiter went away. “I’m not really sure what I’d do all day in Hollywood. J.P. said I could write. But…I always thought if I put off college for a year, it would be to go out in one of those little boats that put themselves between the whaling ships and the humpbacks, or something. Not hang around on Melrose. You know?”
“Somehow I don’t see your parents giving the seal of approval to either of those plans,” Michael said.
“And then there’s that,” I said, with a sigh. “I have some things I need to figure out. And not a whole lot of time left to do it. The parental units want a decision on where I’m going by the election.”
“You’ll do the right thing,” Michael said confidently. “You always do.”
I just stared at him. “How can you even say that? I so do not.”
“Yes, you do,” he said. “In the end.”
“Michael, I screw everything up,” I said, laying down my fork. “You, more than anyone, should know that. I completely ruined our relationship.”
“No, you didn’t,” he said, looking shocked. “I did.”
“No, I did,” I said. I couldn’t believe we were finally saying these things…these things I’d been thinking for so long, and saying to other people—my friends, Dr. Knutz—but never to the one person to whom they really mattered…Michael. The person to whom I ought to have said them, ages ago. “I never should have made such a big deal over the Judith thing—”
