Pasta Imperfect by Maddy Hunter Read Free Book Online Page A

in
Publishers Weekly,
they’re the backbone of the whole industry. That’s where the money is, so that’s where I’m headed.”
    “And here’s another one of the gang,” Keely interrupted, shooing Fred along and latching on to the arm of a sun-baked blonde with muscles like Popeye and a complexion that reminded me of dried tobacco. “Brandy Ann Frounfelker. She’s from California. A professional body builder. Can you tell? But she actually wrote a romance and got it published online.”
    “I thought the e-publishing phenomenon would take off like gangbusters,” Brandy Ann said in a soft, wonderfully refined voice. “It hasn’t happened though. I’ve been soliciting more traditional publishing houses, but once I tell them I was published electronically, they don’t want to have anything to do with me. It’s as if e-publishing is a dirty word. And let me tell you…” She slowly clenched her hand into a fist that was the size of a car engine. Ropes of muscle bulged beneath her skin. “…it’s starting to piss me off.”
    Keely’s face disappeared behind a bubble that grew bigger…and bigger…and —
    Brandy Ann turned suddenly and caught the bubble in her fist. “That’s very rude.” She yanked the wad out of Keely’s mouth and crushed it in her hand.
    Oh, yeah. I liked this woman.
    KREOOOOO! Feedback screeched out over the loudspeaker system at a pitch that could cause eardrums to pop. KREOOOOO! “I —”
kreooooo
“— I hate when that happens,” asserted a voice that wasn’t Duncan’s. “If you would all return to your seats, I have an announcement I’d like to make.”
    Keely and Brandy Ann grunted with frustration and headed back to their seats. I boosted myself high enough to see a man in a rose-colored polo shirt with silver hair and a George Hamilton tan standing in the aisle at the front of the bus. Ah, yes. The bigwig Jackie had pointed out in the basilica.
    “For those of you who don’t know me, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Philip Blackmore, and I’m the executive vice president and associate publisher of Hightower Books, the company sponsoring this tour. Please accept my apologies for this unfortunate calamity that has befallen us. One never expects disaster to strike while on holiday.”
    “He’s never traveled with us before, has he, dear?” whispered Nana.
    “I understand the inconvenience of having to travel without any of your belongings,” he continued in a sympathetic tone. “I know this is the kind of event that can ruin a vacation, but I want you to know that Hightower Books is committed to doing everything possible to salvage this tour and make it the most memorable trip of your lifetime. To that end, I’ve been in contact with our company president, who has authorized me to make amends for this catastrophe in a way that is sure to delight all of you who have ever imagined your name in print.”
    Nana leaned close to my ear. “That means, he don’t wanna get sued.”
    “Drumroll, please,” Blackmore said, grinning at his own cleverness. “Ladies and gentlemen, Hightower Books is proud to announce an opportunity for all aspiring writers on our tour. A contest!”
    Squeals from the front. Squeals from the back. There was no denying it. The word “contest” created as much pandemonium among romance writers as the word “embargo” created among Iowa grain farmers.
    “To the person who submits the most marketable synopsis of a book-length romantic novel, including the first five pages of a proposed first chapter, we are offering a single book contract for publication of said book,
and
” — he paused for dramatic effect — “a cash advance of ten thousand dollars.”
    Screaming. Yelling. Cheering. The woman in the seat in front of me leaped into the aisle and began to boogie.
    KREOOOOOO! “I knew you’d be excited,” Blackmore said pleasantly.
    “Who’s going to judge the contest?” someone yelled out. “You?”
    “I’ll leave