The Killer You Know (FALLON BAXTER FBI MYSTERY #2) by Addison Moore EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Addison Moore
- Language: English
- Genre: Thriller / Suspense
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2.2 MB
- Price: Free
Robin Hanson
There are two things in life I hate and that’s gossip and people—yet
somehow my entire livelihood depends on both.
Ironically, I was coerced into specializing in both so I can do what
I really love: write cheesy romance novels.
My literary agent couldn’t sell the cheesy romance novel I wrote, so she
suggested I get myself a platform. She thought maybe we could reverse
engineer my road to romance riches via starting off with a vast and hungry
audience that waits at rapt attention to hear what might spew from my lips
next.
She promised the publishers would come crawling, just begging me to
sign on the dotted line, and soon enough I could die in an avalanche of my
cheesy romance novels once the publishers gave the advertising push that
my books would need to survive.
My agent’s parting words were, try to be relatable. Women eat that right
up.
So I opened up an Insta Pictures account and started peppering it with
wedding photos, seeing that I was newly married at the time, less than five
years ago. No one really seemed to care about my white dress or me, or my
newly acquired legal eagle husband.
No one cared about all of the artfully staged pictures of my breakfast—
avocado toast again!—or when I showed off a glossy new manicure with
my coffin tip nails.
They didn’t care about anything I had to offer it seemed.
But one summer I took a picture of myself trying on a swimsuit—neck
down with the teeny weeny bottoms cutting into my pillowy hips, cellulite
dotting my thighs like a solar system, and a belly that could easily hold a
baby even though that’s never happened for me.
And just like that, my newfound followers did care about something.
They liked, shared, and commented. I instantly exploded as some hero in
spandex as if I just brought peace to the Middle East by way of belly fat.
They couldn’t get enough of it—or more to the point, me.
It turns out, my agent was right.
Women were obsessed with relatable me.
They kept begging for more. So I gave it to them in the form of
disheveled hair—brunette roots with brassy highlights—the dresses I
ordered online that didn’t fit, and an entire soliloquy on how I loathed the
fact I had to actually leave my house to send them back.
I shared wall color that looked like heaven in a paint chip and as if
Satan was moving in once I slathered the room with it. I shared bloodied
blisters on the back of my heels from ill-fitting stilettos—then I promptly
made every one of my ardent followers swear we would banish those death
sticks from our wardrobes.
I shared the mom jeans I fell in and out of love
with, the stained yoga pants I lived in for weeks on end, the pricey coffee I
drank by the gallon and then complained about the cost, the nachos and
guacamole that I ate with wild abandon that I claimed comprised ninety
percent of my body mass. True as gospel.
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