The feeling of someone’s cold hand on the back of my neck forces me to temporarily leave my body. For a moment, I am floating high above my mortal form, above City Lights Booksellers & Publishers, and over San Diego as I ascend toward…

Wait. I’m an atheist. Where the hell am I going?

I haven’t jumped as high as heaven, not that I believe in it. I only jump out of my skin with a gasp.

I turn, expecting to see the man from the train, or, possibly even more frightening—a fan who’s recognized me in my pitifully disheveled state—but it’s neither.

It’s Jude Law.

Also known as Geoffrey, my editor, who bears an uncanny resemblance to the sexy English actor. Seriously, they could be twins. It’s why I had a crush on him for so long.

It’s also what first compelled me to date him, but that was ages ago. Our relationship now is strictly professional.

“Geoffrey, you fucking asshole!” I exclaim.

(Okay, mostly professional.)

Geoffrey looks just as startled as I do. His blue eyes are bulging out of his head.

“Oh my god, Rhea. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You grabbed the back of my neck! With your freakishly ice-cold hands!”

“I didn’t grab your neck. I placed my hand on your back to get your attention.”

“No. It was my neck. I thought you were a crazed fan.”

“I definitely did not grab you by the neck,” Geoffrey insists. He seems pretty convinced.

Was my mind playing tricks on me? Making me think someone was actually out to strangle me because I hadn’t sold enough copies of my last book?

“Are you okay?” Geoffrey interrupts my thoughts.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m just…having a really weird day.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how lost in your thoughts you were. Thinking about your newest book?”

I laugh weakly.

“Just trying to pressure myself into literary greatness by visiting all of the great classics.”

He glances at the shelf behind me, and before he can stop himself he raises his eyebrows ever so slightly.

Message received. Romance novels are not great literature.

“I don’t mean my own work,” I say quickly. “I was just, um. Visiting my and my colleague’s books. It’s like going to the zoo and looking at all the sad monkeys who would be much happier if they weren’t in cages.”

Now Geoffrey frowns for real.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Fuck. I didn’t want to cry today, but I feel my eyes begin to well up with tears.

“Rhea,” he says soothingly. He looks like he’s about to hug me but hesitates, probably afraid to touch me again while I’m this jumpy.

“I’m never going to be the writer I want to be,” I whisper, wiping my eyes with my sweatshirt sleeve.

“You’re a fantastic writer, Rhea. Who are these literary greats you’re comparing yourself to? Herman Melville? You want to be writing about giant whales? Is that it? Or Wuthering Heights? Yawn.”

“Those are great novels,” I argue, annoyed that he’s trying to make me smile while I’m upset, even more so because it’s working. “All I write are silly romances.”

“They’re not silly. And people love them. I love them.”

I give him a look.

“I do!”

“You have to say that. You’re my editor.”

And we’ve slept together on multiple occasions.

“We’re going on a field trip. May I place my hands on your shoulders, or are you going to have another heart attack?”

“You can touch me.”

If that was an inappropriate thing to say, neither of us acknowledge it.

Geoffrey gently guides me away from the romance section and into the self-help section.

“Here. Much better.”

I glance at the books on the shelf. Titles like GET YOUR SH*T TOGETHER, QUEEN! and TRASH! How Throwing Out Everything I Owned Taught Me How to Love Myself jump out at me.

Everyone on earth has suggestions about how to be a better, happier person. I don’t trust these authors. If self-betterment was really possible, why are there thousands of different people insisting on how to do it best? How would I even go about choosing a book to try to brainwash myself into loving myself?

I pick up a book titled Bawk! The subtitle reads, The Story of My Mental Breakdown and the Chicken Coop That Saved My Life.

Cool. Vegan propaganda.

“I hate self-help,” I grumble.

“I know. You prefer self-loathing.”

I roll my eyes.

“Whatever’s going on with you, it’s going to be okay. I’ve always believed in you, Rhea.”

Even after I dumped him?

“Even after you dumped me.”

God, am I talking out loud?