Now a Major Motion Picture

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NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE

by

STACEY WIEDOWER

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Copyright © 2015 by Stacey Wiedower

Cover design by Estrella Designs

Gemma Halliday Publishing

http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

For my boys, who make all of this possible.

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The It Girl

Amelia, October

Amelia Wright stared hopefully at the blank screen in front of her.

What’s wrong with me?

The words were in there somewhere, she knew—locked away in her head like droplets in a thundercloud, ready to pour out when conditions were prime. She imagined a sky filled with raining consonants and vowels, and the corners of her mouth twitched.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Her forehead dropped onto her keyboard, and when she lifted it back up a trail of sevens traced across her screen. Amelia let out a sharp laugh. Well, that was something, at least. Seven times what she’d had before.

This writer’s block thing, it was new. When she’d written her first two books her thoughts had flown so fast her fingers could barely keep up. The stories had burned a hole through her until they’d forced their way out, and from the beginning they’d taken on a life of their own. It had almost seemed out of her power.

But now, now she couldn’t get words on the page to save her life. It felt that way, too—like life or death. She had a sudden, comic strip-style vision of her tiny home office as an execution chamber, her laptop as executioner.
Well, Mel, you’ve really dug a hole for yourself this time.
Her smile was sardonic.
No pun intended.

This, from the new
It Girl
in publishing. Her eyes flashed toward the ceiling as she sucked in a deep breath. Somebody had actually written that about her, in a
New York Times
article her publicist had emailed her that morning. Her novels were “taking the country by storm.” She was “the next Suzanne Collins or Veronica Roth.” Her books were the next franchise, hers was the next household name, and her fans would “camp out en masse” for the next installment of her “provocative series.”

Oh, if those fans could see me now.

She choked out another laugh and then shivered, mortified by the thought. Her deadline was no laughing matter. She had only three months left to turn a draft in for the series to stay on schedule, and so far she’d written…a trail of sevens.

Amelia shook her head. She’d known going in that this book would be harder than the others—known it and prepared for it. Her eyes swept over the pages stacked beside her, which were filled with notes and plans and outlines. The rational part of her brain responded to them. It said,
“Let’s go, Mel. You’re ready. You can do this.”

But it wasn’t her head that was holding her back.

She closed her eyes and winced as the familiar face flashed behind her eyelids. She let the image float there, resisting the urge to shove it back into the dark recesses of her memory the way she’d trained herself to do for all these years. After all, hadn’t she asked for this? Hadn’t she known what she was getting herself into?

No. No, I didn’t think this through at all. And now I’m stuck.

In more ways than one.

She turned her attention back to the vast, white screen, one finger slowly tapping the backspace key to erase the single line her forehead had managed to type, as if that were the key to erasing her problems. But she knew better. As her thoughts traveled to the secret she’d kept so well—the secret that stood between her and the third novel in a four-part series she was under contract to complete—she knew it was time to face the facts. This part of the story was harder to write because the story was true.

And it didn’t have a happy ending.

* * *

Tick, tock, tick.
Twenty minutes clicked by on the clock that hung just inside the door of Amelia’s home office. Usually the noise didn’t bother her—usually it was drowned out by the furious flight of her fingers over the keyboard—but today its measured beats were enough to break her focus.

She listened to the sound of time slipping away, gazing at the arrangement of mismatched frames on the wall across from her without actually seeing it. She jumped when her phone started to buzz, interrupting her reverie.

“Thank God.”

Her arm grazed the stack of papers as she reached for the phone, sending the top two pages fluttering to the floor. She grabbed for them and missed as she glanced at the screen, and then she smiled. “Reese Spencer.”

Of course.

Of course Reese had picked this moment to swoop in and send a rescue ladder down the eye of her shame spiral. It was like she had a sixth sense for it—Amelia had always had this tendency to drag herself down, and Reese was always there, saving her from herself, hauling her back up. It had been that way since they were six years old, and Amelia’s mom, Brooke, had failed to show up at the end of library story hour. Reese had begged
her
mom to wait, and she’d sat with Amelia on the curb in the hot July sun for forty-five minutes before Brooke had arrived on the scene, breathless and apologetic.

She’d never found out what had caused her mother’s distraction that day, but she’d always imagined, looking back, that it involved some guy she’d met at Walmart or the dry cleaner’s or the bank. With Brooke, it always involved some guy…

Anyway, things had turned out fine, just as they always did. Back then the world seemed to take care of Amelia when her mom failed to. And that day, and for many days since, Reese had been the world.

She replaced the papers on the pile and answered the call. “Hey, Reese.”

“Hey, Mel. How’s it coming?”

She glanced at the blank screen. “Oh. Um, fine.” She gulped. “Great.”

“Really? Have you had your burst of inspiration then? Are you right in the middle of it? Probably not, right? I mean, you answered.” Reese paused just long enough to breathe, but not long enough for Amelia to respond. “Are you ready for a break yet? I could totally go for a latte.”

Amelia smiled in spite of herself.
Oh, Reese. What would I do without you?

Now there was a question with an obvious answer. She’d sit in this chair for hours on end, staring down a blank screen as if it were the barrel of a gun.

“A latte, huh?” She wrinkled her nose. She really needed to work—but then again, what she’d been doing all morning hardly qualified as working. “Yes, please. Get me out of here.”

“I knew it,” Reese said. “Meet you at Otherlands in fifteen? Then maybe we could go shopping. Ooh, you know what? Let’s go check out that new vintage place on Madison. Or, oh, shoes! I need a new pair of black work heels.”

Amelia blew out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Stop right there. Definitely shoes…you know me. Give me an hour though. I’m a mess.”

“Yeah, right.” She could practically see Reese’s eyes roll through the phone line. “Like you’re ever a mess.
Your
mess puts the rest of us to shame.”

Amelia smiled wryly, thinking about that blank screen and all the reasons she couldn’t fill it up. She was a mess all right, in more ways than one.

There were some things even Reese didn’t know.

* * *

“You’re going out tonight,” Reese declared over their steaming, mismatched mugs.

Amelia watched as a guy with long dreads streaming out of a Rasta hat unloaded three packets of Sugar In The Raw into his grande to-go cup. He studied the coffee bar setup on the ancient, crackle-painted baker’s rack for a few seconds and then grabbed a spoon from the dirty pile, stirred, and stuck it into the clean. Her lips twitched as she tried not to smile. She’d done it before, too.

She breathed in the conflicting, familiar scents of espresso and ammonia that permeated Otherlands, her favorite coffee shop in Midtown Memphis. Around her, scattered rows of hand-painted tables were crowded with shabby, vintage chairs, no two alike, and local art hung gallery-style on three turquoise walls. The fourth wall, all glass, had a view out onto the busy streetscape, and the shop’s handful of customers were bunched around it with their mugs and laptops.

Her eyes flitted back to Rasta man as he snapped the lid onto his cup, adjusted his backpack, and headed for the door. This was one of her all-time favorite places to write, but also, on days like this, to people watch.

Reese waved a hand in front of her face, snapping her out of her daze. “Hellooo? Mel? Did you hear a word I just said?”

Her eyes widened. “Hmm? Oh, tonight?” She wrinkled her nose again. “Um, sure, I guess. I don’t have any plans.”

“Well, there’s a shocker.”

“Hey.” She stuck out her lower lip. “There’s a reason I haven’t been out much, you know. I’m not totally antisocial.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re on deadline. But even ‘
New York Times
bestselling authors’“—Reese made air quotes with her fingers, and Amelia smirked at her—”need a date every once in a while. Even if it’s just with their bestest friend.” She fluttered her perfectly lined and mascaraed lids over her bright-blue eyes.

Amelia groaned. “Stop with the puppy dog act. Fine. Yes, I’m in. I’ll go out tonight, and I even promise to have fun. How’s that?”

Reese smiled. “That’s just what I want to hear.” She looked Amelia in the eye. “Now, about that deadline. How’s it coming?”

Amelia glanced away, shrugged. “It’s coming.”

“C’mon, Mel. I know you. It’s never as bad as you think it is.”

Amelia pursed her lips, but said nothing.

“You’ve got months left. Surely you’re not worried you won’t be done in time.” Reese’s eyes sought hers again. “You’re not, are you? I mean, seriously, it’s not due till January, right? How far into it are you?”

Her mind raced. She took a deep breath and mulled over how honest an answer she was willing to give.

“Not…far,” she said, blowing out the breath in a short gust. “But I’m not worried…exactly. Just nervous I guess. This is the first time I’ve even come close to pushing a deadline. The pressure’s really on now.”

Reese smiled. “But that’s when you’re at your best.”

She smiled weakly back. That was actually true.

“Thanks, Reese. You always know exactly the right thing to say.”

“Anytime, babe. That’s what I’m here for.”

Amelia watched Reese’s expression turn thoughtful. Her mouth opened as if she was about to say something else, then closed again as if she’d thought better of it. Finally, she smiled.

“So tonight,” she said, her eyes bright, “Alfred’s, nine o’clock.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Weeell, I might have told a couple of people to meet us there.”

“You did
what?
Like who?”

“Just Katie and Carrie. You haven’t seen them in ages, right? And Camille from work. And David’s coming, too.” She added that last line in a rush. “But he swears he’s gonna hang back and let us do our thing. I think he’s invited a couple guys from the office.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh, sure. Don’t think I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

Ever since Reese had gotten engaged to David Chapman, a fellow lawyer she’d met last fall at a Peabody Hotel rooftop party, she’d been on an Emma Woodhouse-style mission to see that her friend was as happily matched. So far it hadn’t happened, and Amelia didn’t expect it to anytime soon. She dated—plenty in her book, and God knew she’d been subjected to more than her fair share of setups—but it had been ages, years, since she’d gone out with anybody longer than a few weeks, and she knew that was the reason behind Reese’s concern.

“You never know, Mel. Maybe you’ll meet him tonight.”

Distracted, Amelia almost said, “Meet who?” But then she got the joke.

“I doubt Mr. Right will be at Alfred’s tonight, and I don’t want a Mr. Right Now.” She frowned. “I don’t have time for that. I’ve got a book to finish, remember?”

I’ve got a book to start
, she amended herself silently.

“Yeah, yeah. Still, a girl can always hope.”

Amelia huffed out a laugh and dipped her eyes, staring into her coffee mug. The swirls of steamed milk formed a complicated spiral design that mirrored her twisting thoughts. Her love life, or lack of it, was the least of her concerns. Right now her only important dates were with her laptop, and until this book was finished, the only relationship that mattered wasn’t in her future, but her past.

Her purse began to vibrate on the table beside her, mercifully breaking that line of thought. She opened the bag, grabbed the buzzing phone, and glanced at the screen.