“I bet you say that to all the books.”
He winked. “Just the hardcovers.”
She laughed.
He pointed behind her. “Look– a Wolfe talking to a Bradford.”
When she turned, he checked out her ISBN. Not bad. Cute barcode, too.
She held up her glass before turning around. “I could see you look. It’s a sneaky way to get a girl’s number.”
“Oops. It says on your spine you’re published by Yours Truly Books. Don’t think I’ve heard of them.”
She looked away. “I’m self-published,” she said. “It was all my author could think of.”
“Well, we can’t all be MacMillan or Simon & Schuster,” he said with a smile.
They stepped aside as a very large coffee table book walked grimly by with a squirming bunch of cheap paperbacks under his arm. They watched as he threw them out a window.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Party crashers.”
He turned back to her. “Guess they hired a bouncer to keep out the riff-raff.”
“There’s no publisher name on your spine,” she said. She took out her phone. “You’re listed on Amazon as ‘Independently published.'”
He frowned. “My author was too cheap to buy his own ISBN. He used one of Amazon’s freebies. It’s embarrassing.”
“Well, he did a pretty good job on your cover– it’s a Canva, isn’t it?”
“Is it that obvious?” He sighed. “Some days I feel like a geometry textbook.”
She laughed. “My author bought an Unsplash photo. Somebody standing on a rock looking at a mountain.”
“You see that one a lot,” he said, staring at it.
“Uh, my eyes are up here.”
He pointed. “There’s a funny white patch. Like something got scraped off.”
She blushed and looked away. “That’s what they put on me at the bookstore before they put me on the Clearance table. They’re hard to get off.
“I’m a… a remainder,” she added. A tear rolled down her glossy 100-lb coated cheek.
“Join the club,” he said. He raised his shiny 80-lb coated arm. She could see a red circle. Like a carnation in the wrong place.
“I’m a Clearance guy myself. I’m supposed to be back on the Sale table at Barnes & Noble before they close tonight.”
Lessons In Chemistry drifted by with a Colleen Hoover. They sniffed and looked away as they passed.
The hulking coffee table book walked by and eyed them suspiciously.
“I’m starting to feel like a party crasher myself,” she said. “But even if we are self-published, somebody poured their heart and soul into us,” she continued. “That’s got to count for something.”
“Yeah– not to mention struggling with file formats and color profiles and you-know-who’s so-called customer service.”
She laughed.
“Maybe we should go some place where we can relax and take off our jackets,” he said. “We could read each other’s blurbs.”
“I just felt a shiver run up my 16 mm spine.”
