Free The Mistletoe Inn by Richard Paul Evans

near the side of the room and sat down. As I looked around it seemed like most of the people already knew each other. I felt like a leper. To my relief, it was only a few minutes before Samantha walked into the room. I waved to her and her face lit when she saw me. She walked over to the table. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t get off the phone.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said. “I just got here too.”
    â€œHow’s the party?”
    â€œIt’s good.” I tilted my head toward David, who was already well into his next pitch. “Stay clear of that guy.”
    â€œI know,” she said. “His name is David, but he tells everyone he’s John Grisham. It’s the most pathetic pickup line I’ve ever heard.”
    â€œSo you’ve met him.”
    â€œI met him in the hall after I checked in. He’s one of the presenters. He’s published.”
    â€œYes, he told me.”
    â€œHe asked me up to his room.”
    â€œHe asked me too,” I said. “What did you say?”
    â€œI said I thought he was kind of old to be hitting on someone my age.”
    I laughed. “I bet you bruised his ego.”
    â€œCrushed it,” she said, smiling.
    Just then two other women walked over to our table carrying plates of food, a tall redhead and a shorter brunette with heavy makeup. “Excuse me,” the redhead said. “Are these seats taken?”
    â€œNo. Go ahead.”
    The women sat across from us. “I’m LuAnne,” the redhead said.
    â€œAnd I’m Heather,” said the other.
    â€œI’m Kim,” I replied. “And this is Samantha.”
    â€œHi,” Samantha said, looking unhappy that the two women had crashed our table.
    LuAnne smiled at me. “Is this your first time here?”
    â€œYes. Is it yours?”
    â€œNo. It’s my sixth.”
    â€œIt’s my fifth,” Heather said. “You could say we’re regulars. We noticed that you were talking to David.”
    â€œActually, he was talking to me,” I said.
    â€œHe was hitting on her,” Samantha said.
    â€œDid he invite you up to his room?” LuAnne asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo surprise there,” she said. “He always works the pretty new ones.”
    â€œThe regulars know better,” Heather said.
    â€œDavid’s a regular too?” I asked.
    â€œPretty much,” Heather said. “He’s one of the few published authors who will consistently come. I think it’s getting harder to get published authors. They only found four this year.”
    â€œThey got Mr. Cowell,” I said.
    â€œIf he shows,” LuAnne said.
    I looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”
    â€œHe has a reputation for booking events and not showing up.”
    â€œLike never showing up,” Heather said. “If he comes, it will be a first.”
    â€œHe’s the reason I came,” I said. “Mostly.”
    â€œWell, he could surprise us,” LuAnne said doubtfully. “So what kind of romance do you write?”
    â€œKind?”
    â€œYes. What’s your niche? Paranormal? Erotica? Nicholas Sparks wannabe?”
    I wasn’t sure how to answer. “Just, the usual,” I finally said, not sure what that meant.
    â€œHow long have you been writing?” Heather asked.
    â€œAbout six years,” I said.
    â€œSame as me,” she said.
    â€œHow many books have you written?” Samantha asked.
    â€œCounting the one I’m working on, fourteen,” LuAnne said.
    â€œFourteen?”
    â€œI’ve written twenty-two,” Heather said. “But, technically, two of them were novellas.”
    â€œAnd not one of them published,” LuAnne said.
    Heather glared at her. “I’m published. I’ve sold almost two thousand copies.”
    â€œ Self -published,” LuAnne said dismissively.