Chapter 6: Tour Troubles
1667 Words
Emma’s suitcase sat open on her bedroom floor, a chaotic pile of clothes spilling out like the
aftermath of a rom-com montage gone wrong. She stood over it, hands on hips, her dark hair
pulled into a messy bun, a pencil tucked behind her ear from a last-minute editing session. Mr.
Darcy, her tabby cat, sprawled across a pair of jeans, his green eyes daring her to move him.
“You’re not helping,” she muttered, nudging him gently. He swatted at her hand, knocking the
pencil to the floor, and she sighed. Packing for Alex Hawthorne’s book tour—two weeks, three
cities, starting with Chicago—felt like preparing for a plot twist she wasn’t ready to write.
Her phone buzzed on the bed, a text from Lily: “Packed yet? Don’t forget sexy underwear.
You’re gonna need it on this tour.” Emma rolled her eyes, typing back, “It’s a WORK trip, perv.”
Lily’s reply was instant: “Work, shmork. You’re gonna be shacked up with Mr. Hot Author. Live a
little.”
Emma’s cheeks warmed, the memory of Alex’s kiss in her apartment last night flooding
back—his lips soft then urgent, his hands pulling her close, the way the world had shrunk to just
them until Mr. Darcy’s water-glass sabotage. She’d agreed to join the tour as his editor, a
professional cover for what was becoming dangerously personal. Ms. Hargrove’s warning—“No
scandals, or you’re off the project”—hung over her like a storm cloud, and the gossip blogs
weren’t helping. The latest headline, “Hawthorne and Editor’s Park Tryst,” had turned their picnic
into tabloid fodder, and Emma felt like a character in a story she couldn’t control.
She zipped her suitcase, wincing as it strained against a pile of sweaters and her dog-eared
copy of Pride and Prejudice. Her Brooklyn apartment was a mess—books stacked on the coffee
table, a half-eaten bagel on the counter, Fiona the ficus drooping in defeat. She scratched Mr.
Darcy’s ears, promising, “Lily’s feeding you. Don’t hate me.” He meowed, unimpressed, and she
dragged her suitcase to the door.
The flight to Chicago was a blur of turbulence and nerves, Alex beside her in economy, his knee
brushing hers in the cramped seats. He wore a hoodie and glasses, a half-hearted disguise that
made him look more like a cute grad student than a bestselling author. “Ready for this?” he
asked, his blue eyes twinkling as he offered her a pretzel from the airline snack bag.
“Ready to not spill anything on you,” she said, popping a pretzel in her mouth. “But no
promises.” He laughed, the sound warm and grounding. “I’m counting on at least one disaster. Keeps
things interesting.”
Chicago greeted them with a chilly wind that whipped through O’Hare, tugging at Emma’s scarf
as they grabbed their bags. The hotel, a sleek downtown high-rise, had plush carpets and a
lobby that smelled faintly of jasmine. Their rooms were adjoining, a detail that made Emma’s
pulse race. “Professional,” she muttered to herself, unpacking her laptop and manuscript notes
in her room, the Chicago skyline glittering through the window.
The first signing was at a cozy indie bookstore, Windy City Reads, its shelves crammed with
books, fairy lights strung across the ceiling. Fans lined up around the block, clutching copies of
Love in the Margins, their chatter buzzing with excitement. Emma stood at the back, her editor
badge pinned to her sweater, feeling both proud and exposed. Alex was a natural, signing
books with a smile, answering questions with witty charm. A teenage girl asked, “Is Mia based
on anyone real?” and Alex winked, glancing at Emma. “Maybe my editor’s got some of her
spark.”
The crowd cooed, and Emma’s cheeks burned. A blogger in the front row, her phone recording,
piped up, “Speaking of your editor, are you two dating? The blogs are going wild.”
Alex’s smile didn’t falter. “Emma’s the best editor I’ve ever had. That’s all you need to know.”
The crowd laughed, but the blogger’s eyes narrowed, and Emma felt a prickle of unease.
After the signing, they grabbed dinner at a nearby diner, its neon sign flickering, the air thick with
the scent of burgers and coffee. They slid into a vinyl booth, manuscripts spread between them,
and Emma pointed to a scene. “Jake’s apology here needs more heart. Make it raw, like he’s
scared of losing her.”
Alex nodded, scribbling notes. “Like this?” He read aloud, his voice low, “Jake says, ‘I’m a mess
without you, Mia. You’re the only story I want to write.’”
Emma’s breath caught, his words echoing their own unspoken feelings. “Perfect,” she said, her
voice soft. Their eyes locked, and his foot nudged hers under the table, a quiet spark in the dim
light.
That night, in her hotel room, she couldn’t sleep, the city’s hum seeping through the walls. Alex
knocked on the adjoining door, holding two beers from the minibar. “Can’t sleep either?” he
asked, settling on her bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.
“Nope,” she said, taking a beer. “Too much adrenaline. And, you know, paparazzi paranoia.”
He chuckled, clinking his bottle against hers. “We’re safe here. No cameras.” He paused, his
expression softening. “You were great today. The fans loved you.”
“They loved you,” she said, sipping her beer. “I’m just the sidekick.”
“You’re more than that,” he said, his voice low. He set his beer down, leaning closer, and her
heart raced. The kiss was slow, deliberate, his hands cupping her face, her fingers tangling in
his hair. The world faded—the tour, the blogs, Sophia’s shadow—until it was just them, a perfect
scene.
The next stop was Los Angeles, a whirlwind of sunshine and traffic. The signing was at a
massive chain bookstore, the crowd double Chicago’s size. Emma felt out of place among the
glitzy LA fans, their designer bags and perfect tans making her Brooklyn jeans seem frumpy.
Alex, in a crisp button-down, handled the crowd with ease, but the questions grew bolder. “Are
you and your editor a thing?” a woman in sunglasses asked, her tone teasing.
Alex grinned. “She’s my secret weapon. Keeps my commas in line.” The crowd laughed, but Emma caught a familiar figure at the back—Sophia Lang, in a white
dress that screamed Hollywood, her auburn hair gleaming. Emma’s stomach dropped. What
was she doing here?
At the panel, Sophia slipped into the front row, her smile sharp. When Alex opened the floor for
questions, she stood, her voice silky. “Alex, your book’s amazing, but let’s talk chemistry. We
had some magic together, didn’t we? Fans still ask about our collaboration.”
The room gasped, phones recording, the air thick with tension. Alex’s jaw tightened, but he kept
his cool. “That was a long time ago, Sophia. I’m focused on Love in the Margins now, thanks to
my incredible editor.”
Emma’s heart pounded, her hands clammy. Backstage, she cornered Sophia, her voice shaking
but firm. “What’s your deal? He’s moved on. You need to stop.”
Sophia laughed, her green eyes cold. “Moved on? Sweetheart, you’re a placeholder. Alex and I
are endgame.”
“You’re wrong,” Emma said, her anger flaring. “He’s with me now. Deal with it.”
Sophia smirked, but Alex appeared, his expression hard. “Sophia, leave. This isn’t your story
anymore.”
She stormed out, the crowd buzzing, and Emma felt a rush of triumph mixed with dread. The
blogs would eat this up. Sure enough, by evening, headlines screamed: “Love Triangle Drama
at Hawthorne Signing!”
Seattle was next, a rainy city that matched Emma’s mood. The bookstore, Rainy Days Reads,
was a haven of creaky floors and coffee-scented air, run by Mabel, a quirky woman in her sixties
with a penchant for knitting and unsolicited advice. “Love’s messy,” Mabel said, handing Emma
a latte. “But the good ones are worth it. Trust me, I lost mine and regret it every day.”
Emma nodded, her throat tight. The signing was packed, fans asking about the LA drama. Alex
deflected, but Emma felt the weight of their scrutiny. After, they walked through Pike Place
Market, rain soaking their jackets, sharing a hot pretzel under an awning. “I’m sorry about
Sophia,” Alex said, his hand brushing hers. “She’s desperate to stay relevant.”
“It’s okay,” Emma said, though it wasn’t. “Just... tell me we’re real.”
He stopped, rain dripping from his hair, and pulled her close. “We’re real, Emma. I promise.” His
kiss was fierce, the rain a curtain around them, and for the first time, she believed him
completely.
Back at the hotel, they worked on edits, but the air was charged. “This scene needs more,”
Emma said, pointing to a love confession. “Make it desperate, like Jake’s terrified of losing her.”
Alex read aloud, his voice raw: “Mia, you’re my whole world. Without you, I’m just words on a
page.” He looked at her, his eyes intense. “Like that?”
“Exactly,” she whispered, and he kissed her again, the manuscript forgotten, their bodies
tangled in a dance of need and promise.
The tour ended with a return to New York, the city’s skyline a welcome sight. But the drama
followed—new headlines, more photos, and a call from Hargrove: “One more stunt, and you’re
done.” Emma and Alex sat in her apartment, Mr. Darcy glaring, and vowed to fight for their story,
no matter the cost.
- Writer
