To celebrate the upcoming release of our new release, Professionally Unprofessional, we will be posting a few sample chapters to get your ready.

Here is the prologue centering around a very ambitious Lexie. Enjoy!

For Chapter 1 go here and Chapter 2 go here.

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A little red number one sits next to my inbox, mocking me with its indifference. I click it, half expecting a new bill or a reminder about a dental procedure I forgot to schedule. It’s not. The first word that jumps out at me is “Congratulations.” I reread it, thinking maybe the text is blurry, and it’s actually some fancy font that spells out “Constipation.” Then the whole sentence hits me like a toddler’s kick to the shin: “Congratulations! Your novel hit the bestseller list!” I stare at it, eyes bulging like a pufferfish, then spring up from the couch. My half-empty coffee mug goes flying, and I knock a stack of books off the table with a thud. “Holy sh—” The rest is drowned out by me dancing around my apartment in my mismatched socks. I must look like one of those inflatable tube guys that flop around in front of used car dealerships. My long brown hair is swinging wildly, and I’m sure the old man next door is about to bang on the wall. Let him. I’m a bestseller.

I land on the couch, out of breath and grinning like an idiot. “Oh my God!” I yell at the walls, the ceiling, and the upside-down stack of books on the floor. It’s not the first time I’ve done that, but it’s definitely the first time I’ve gotten good news from one of them. The email is still open on my laptop screen, flashing at me like it’s trying to signal aliens, and I take a moment to soak it in. “Congratulations, Lexie!” I yell again, letting it bounce off the walls and ring in my ears. Who knew those twelve-point bold letters could sound so good? I try to sit still, feeling the couch sink down like a whoopee cushion beneath me. The words blur as I read them over and over. A crazed laugh escapes me, and my grin just gets bigger.

I snatch my phone from the coffee table, my hands jittery with excitement. Maci has to hear this. She needs to know she’s best friends with a best-selling author. I stab at her contact and listen to it ring. “Come on, Maci,” I chant. “Don’t you dare have a life right now. Pick up, pick up, pick up.” My mismatched socks are tapping, and I can’t sit still. This must be what those bugs in old cartoons feel like when they get stuck in a lampshade. I pop up again, shaking out my hands to stop the pins-and-needles. Everything looks brighter and messier than ever. A dozen bookshelves line the walls like jumbled-up Tetris pieces, a few colorful pillows make the couch look like a clashing rainbow, and half a dozen coffee cups sit scattered around the apartment. The table is covered in sticky notes and manuscripts. Even the dust on the bookshelf looks better when I’m on a bestseller high.

When I’m one second away from dying of impatience, Maci finally answers with an out-of-breath, “Hey Lex! What’s up?”

“Only my novel hitting the freaking bestseller list!” I yell so loudly that she could probably hear me even if the call dropped.

“What?!” Her voice is like I just told her I adopted an elephant. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as a reality TV breakup,” I say, even though I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. “You’re now speaking to a number-one, certified, bestselling genius.”

“Oh my God, Lexie! That’s amazing!”

“Of course, it is. Did you doubt me?” I pretend to sound offended. “Why do you think I’ve been ignoring your texts for three years?”

Her laugh is high-pitched and bubbly, like usual. “This is so insane! We have to celebrate. Drinks! Dinner! All the things!”

“Can you make sure to bring an oxygen tank for me?” I ask. “I don’t know if my heart can take it.”

“We need to frame this email and hang it up like an art exhibit,” she says, almost breathless.

“I know,” I say, gesturing wildly even though she can’t see me. “And we can call it the ‘Lexie Is Amazing’ collection. Ten dollars per viewing.”

“Okay, we need to meet right now.”

“Yes! You read my mind. When can you get here?”

“Maybe two hours?”

“Fine. But if I’m dead by then, my ghost will haunt you,” I say. “And all I’ll say is, ‘You took too long.’”

“Deal.” I hear her start to say something else, but my over-caffeinated excitement kicks in.

“We can finally afford name-brand cereal!” I blurt.

“Look at us! No more mystery flakes!” Maci giggles, then pauses. “Oh, and also—”

“Also, we should probably expand the business,” I say before she can finish. “We’ll have bestseller bucks to play with.”

“Like a bigger office,” she says. “One where the bathroom isn’t also the storage closet.”

“Yes, exactly! I can’t believe we did it, Maci. How do we live with ourselves?”

“Expanding is going to be amazing! Our little publishing empire in the middle of the city.” I hear rustling in the background. “Maybe one of those fancy places with windows.”

“And doors,” I add. “And walls that weren’t found in a dumpster.”

“And rats that don’t pay rent.”

“Why are you wasting time?” I ask, already back to tapping my feet and pacing around. “You should be halfway here by now!”

“Okay, I’m going to throw on pants and get there as soon as I can!” Her voice is full of anticipation. “We’re going to celebrate so hard, and then I’m going to sleep for a year. See you soon!”

I hang up, staring at the phone like it just made me breakfast in bed. I should probably sit down, breathe a little, and let my pulse stop sounding like a bad dubstep song. But who am I kidding? I’m already making another round through my tiny apartment, singing the “Hallelujah” chorus and planning the rest of my celebration.

I reminisce about my epic odyssey from clueless dropout to slightly less clueless bestseller author. At nineteen, I ditched college faster than a bad blind date to chase my writing dreams. Fast forward four years, and after collecting about a hundred rejection letters—enough to wallpaper my bathroom—Maci and I decided, “To heck with those snooty literary gatekeepers, we’ll just DIY this thing.” Now, the manuscript they turned down like a bad prom date is topping the bestseller list, and they can all take a long walk off a short pier.

There’s a bottle of cheap champagne hiding in the kitchen cupboard that I bought five years ago as a joke. The label’s all in French, which means I have no clue what it says, but it’s a screw top. I rip it open and find the least dirty mug in the apartment. “Cheers, future Lexie!” I shout, then down half the glass before it hits my lips. The bubbles tickle my nose, and the sticky-sweet taste is almost enough to kill me. Worth it.

I collapse back on the couch, swinging my legs up and sprawling like a cat in a sunbeam. I reach for my laptop, click on the bestseller list, and there it is: My name. It still looks so crazy that I expect the screen to start laughing at me. It doesn’t. It’s real. I’m real. And I’m number freaking one. I take a huge gulp of champagne, scroll through the emails I haven’t checked yet, and snort champagne out my nose. I swear there are hundreds of messages from readers congratulating me and asking when my next book will be out. I blink at the screen a few times, wondering if it’s going to sprout a mouth and start yelling at me too.

“Maci! I’m not sure I’ll make it ‘til you get here,” I text her, then snap a quick selfie with my laptop, my hair all crazy and my smile taking up most of my face. I’m going to remember this moment forever. Or at least until I wake up from this dream.

The tiny apartment feels smaller than ever, even as it bursts with energy. I lean back, legs propped up on the table, take a deep breath, and close my eyes. Then I jump up again, grinning like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. It feels amazing.

I don’t know if the excitement is making me dizzy, but the walls of my apartment are definitely spinning. No, it’s me. I’m spinning around like a record in a vintage shop, champagne mug in hand, yelping random syllables of excitement. I don’t even care that I look like a crazy woman, dancing around in my living room with a glass of bubbly that costs less than a cup of coffee. This is what being a bestselling author feels like. “Where are you?” I shout at my phone. It’s sitting on the couch, not doing its job, and not bringing Maci to me fast enough. “Is it the future yet?” I pick it up and yell into it. “Are you on your way? Do you have anything other than pajamas on?”

I pace the apartment like it’s going to speed up time, I pause for half a second to breathe, flop back on the couch, and send my brain a signal to chill. It doesn’t work. I’m up again, my long hair flying all over the place, almost knocking more stacks of books over. The place is a mess, even worse now that I’ve gone on a celebration rampage, but I don’t care. I love it. It feels like me.

A minute feels like a year, and when my phone finally rings I answer it so fast I almost drop it. “Maci!” I yell. “Are you on your way yet? Are you dressed? Are you bringing the oxygen tank?”

“I’m literally walking out the door now!” she says, her voice high-pitched and cheerful. “Calm down! Don’t pass out before I get there!”

“Too late,” I say. “I’m on my second ghost already.”

“You better save one for me!” she says, then giggles. “This is crazy, Lexie! I still can’t believe it.”

“I’m not sure I’m awake,” I say, taking another sip of bubbly. “If I’m not, and I wake up, I’m going to be so pissed.”

“This is so insane. You deserve it! Are you still going to be able to see me from your penthouse?”

“I’ll install a camera to buzz you in,” I say. “Your own private security line. You can bring a guest.”

“And I’ll wear a fancy dress just to visit you.”

“Is that why it’s taking you so long?” I ask. “Are you buying one now? Getting your hair done?”

“Nope, just getting pants.”

I collapse onto the couch again, still too excited to stop bouncing my feet up and down. “Oh my God, Maci! It’s really happening!” I shout. “Can you believe we’re going to be rich? With a real company? That’s almost a real business?”

“No, I can’t believe it,” she says, her voice rushing with enthusiasm. “But I’ve always known it!”

“I haven’t!” I say. “I’m pretty sure we’re committing a crime right now.”

“We’re doing it, Lex. We’re really doing it!”

“Remember our old place?” I say. “Maybe we can finally have a space where the walls aren’t made out of cardboard.”

“And where the bathroom isn’t the size of a toilet!”

“And where there’s not a family of rats named the Hendersons living in the closet!”

“This is too exciting,” she says. “Is it weird I’m scared?”

“No,” I say. “I’m scared out of my mind. And a little tipsy.”

I get back up again, more energy zipping through me like I’m a ball in a pinball machine. “We’re going to do this!” I yell. “We’re going to be the biggest company ever! Bigger than all the other companies combined!”

“This is what we’ve been dreaming about!” Maci’s excitement matches mine, and I can hear that she’s started moving faster.

“You better hurry,” I say. “Or I’ll eat all the fancy dinner by myself. It’s already in the microwave.”

“Be there soon! If you pass out, save me a ghost!”

I hang up, and even though it’s only a few seconds, it feels like forever. Maybe I really should wait and catch my breath before I collapse. I plop down on the couch, watch the room spin around me, then jump up again. No way I’m sitting still.

I dance another lap through the apartment, sending sticky notes and half-empty mugs crashing to the floor. I laugh and don’t even care. The whole place feels like it’s going to explode. I take a big gulp of my drink and text Maci again, just to tell her I might not survive the next five minutes. “Bring cereal,” I add. “I don’t trust the microwave.”

I slow down for all of ten seconds and imagine what tomorrow will be like. If we actually do this, if we actually make it, what does that mean? What’s next? And will we know what to do when we get there? A second later, I shake off my doubts and laugh at myself. Who cares? We’ll figure it out. We always do.

When Maci finally gets here, she’s going to have to scrape me off the ceiling. I take another sip of champagne, dance around the room one more time, and imagine all the crazy things that will happen when I’m a bestseller for real. Then I imagine myself with the only cereal that doesn’t come in a bag.

PROFESSIONALLY UNPROFESSIONAL IS AVAILABLE FOR PREORDER NOW:

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