I’m thanking Jesus I don’t have to travel for this book signing event. Another big romance author is hosting it, and luckily, it takes place in good ol’ Seattle. A thin layer of sweat coats my skin as I look myself over one last time in the mirror. “You’ve done a million of these, girlfriend. You’re going to be fine,” Daya assures from behind me. I’m wearing a flattering red blouse that shows off my body nicely without looking too racy or inappropriate and ripped black mom jeans. I painted my lips red and slipped on comfortable checkered Vans. My cinnamon hair is curled into loose beach waves, completing the casual but chic look. I don’t usually like to dress up for these things. I’m sitting in a chair all day, so I make sure to look nice enough to take pictures with and leave the rest to comfort. I sniff my armpit, double checking that my deodorant didn’t lie to me and doesn’t fight against tough odors. “T know, but it doesn’t make them any easier,” I grumble. “What do you call yourself?” Daya asks, quirking a brow at me. I sigh. “A master manipulator.” “Why?” I roll my eyes. “Because I manipulate people’s emotions with my words when they read my books,” I grouse. “Exactly. So that’s all you do, except your mouth says the words instead of your fingers. Fake it till you make it, baby.” I nod my head, looking at my underarms in the mirror from all angles. My deodorant may claim to fight tough odors, but the shirt didn’t come with a tag that said it was pit stain resistant. Sighing again, I drop my arms. “It's not that I don't love meeting my readers, I just don't do well in crowds and social situations. I’m too awkward.” “You’re also a great liar. That’s what you do for a living. Just smile and pretend you’re not having one big panic attack.” Another roll of my eyes as I grab my purse from the bed. “You’re such a great pep-talker,” I say dryly. She snorts in response. Daya sucks at pep-talking, and she knows it. She’s the logical person in our friendship, while I’m the emotional one. She’s all about offering solutions, while Id rather roll around in my dread and anxiety and wax on about it. Guess I’m more like my mother than I thought. Pll still never admit it out loud.