William remembered being puzzled at the man’s enthusiasm.

“Netflix, my friend. Streaming content is the new King. Queen in her case. They’re talking Blake Lively to play the lead.”

William recalled the resolute stiffness in Orelia’s smile when he’d tried to give her his opinion on fine-tuning her writing style.

“I know you know so much more about the industry than me, but…”

She’d said those words the instant before their conversation and relationship went south. That was because she knew nothing then, and he’d been trying to help and… well, it didn’t matter anymore.

When Morris told him the publishers were rush-releasing her book for a Valentine’s Day promotion, followed by her next six months later, William had been confused. His first novel took two years from acceptance to publication date.

When he’d queried that timing in comparison to his own, Morris replied, “Her editors want to strike while the iron’s hot. Makes sense with the publicity from the sale. And the Netflix deal.”

“Sky’s the limit,” Morris repeated enough times that William wondered if the man had one of those talking-toy pull rings in his back.

“But how can she write that quickly?”

“Really, I don’t know, but I’m not complaining. She said she learned a great deal from you William. Says she has a lucky muse.”

“Learned from me?”

Well, at least she acknowledged him in the beginning.

“She says you kept telling her to push through even when the muse doesn’t alight. But she told me that never happens anymore. She just sits there at her desk and out flow the words, like she’s watching a video.”

“Well, that’s ah, fantastic,” said William, as he wondered if words spewed on a page could possibly be any good.

At the time, he even felt a twinge of something akin to envy. For he’d spend days pushing words onto the page as though they were pressed through a sieve. He calmed the uncomfortable twisting in his stomach by assuring himself whatever Orelia wrote in thirty days would most likely require an enormous amount of editing.

In the end, he decided to call her. Thank the hot new author of the summer for her gift.

All he got was her message.

He left hesitant congratulations—not heartfelt but cordial.

He’d decided the best move was to build a bridge. He might need her to write a blurb for Flying Toward the Sun, since early reviews had not been as enthusiastic as he hoped.

He’d seen how these juggernaut authors became overnight sensations. And maybe she would be one of them. He hoped so at the time because Morris also informed him her Facebook page already totaled more than fifty-thousand likes. He said it as if likes were the equivalent of winning an Olympic event.

To help William all she needed to do was mention his book on her social media and who knows what that might do. Bypass the Great Shitley’s New York Times’ creep critic’s opinion possibly and show him his error.