A Novel Experience: A Love Between the Pages Novelette Page 3
“Hi, Gage,” she replied, no sign of her earlier pleasantry. “Do you have the money?”
“Of course, I do,” I said as I walked further into the living room. My stomach twisted as I saw Rocky sitting in the leather recliner I’d bought her, guzzling Budweiser and watching NASCAR highlights.
Mom motioned me into the kitchen, putting out her hand as soon as we were away from Rocky’s inquisitive eyes. He had to know I was bringing money, I didn’t come for any other reason, normally.
I dropped a thick envelope filled with hundred-dollar bills and a few twenties into her palm. I’d given her the equivalent of another month’s worth of bills, plus a little extra spending cash. Her affectionate ‘honey’ during our phone call had softened me some, so I was feeling extra generous.
“I put a little extra in there for you,” I began. “I thought you might enjoy buying yourself something nice. A new outfit, maybe, or some of the more expensive makeup you prefer.”
“Thank you, son. We’re not going to be able to have lunch after all. Rocky came home from the garage early for a little afternoon delight,” she said with a sickening wiggle of her eyebrows as she stuffed the envelope in her bra, patting it to make sure it was secure. “I’ll have to hide this from Rocky, or he’ll blow it on one hand of blackjack.”
“Seriously, Mom. You can do so much better than that guy. You don’t have to get into a relationship if you don’t want to, just don’t move guys into the house to leech off you.”
“You mean to leech off you. Don’t pretend you’re concerned about someone taking advantage of me,” she said sourly. “I’ll do what I want, and that’s having a hot, young, stud warming my bed every night. Who cares if it costs a little extra each month?”
She lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke in my direction as if daring me to argue with her. I knew there was no point, her prior sweetness had just been a ploy to get me to her house faster. She’d never had any intention of spending time with me.
“Fine, Mom,” I said bitterly. “Enjoy your orgasms. I’ll see you next month.”
“Don’t think I won’t love every single one of them,” she called out after me. “I’ll see you on the first of the month. Perhaps we can have lunch then.”
I walked out of her house, feeling angrier than I should have, letting the screen door bang shut behind me. I felt like the biggest idiot in the world for letting her get to me like she used to. I thought I’d long been over expecting anything from her, especially emotionally, but for reasons I didn’t completely understand, I felt like the same lost and lonely boy I’d been throughout most of my childhood.
I buried the experience in the back of my head over the following week, preferring to zone out watching more movies. I thought of losing myself in some pretty, young woman again but couldn’t be bothered to go to the effort of going out to meet someone. I had a few potential repeats in my phone contacts, but I couldn’t think of anyone I felt like seeing again.
Finally, I had to make the trek to London. I was looking forward to getting there, I loved Great Britain. I had a special attachment to the city being a Harry Potter fan. It may have been silly, but Harry was my man. He’d been my hero growing up in a cold and oftentimes hostile home. Having read the books so many times, I almost felt like London was actually my hometown.
What I didn’t look forward to was the flight. It was impossibly long, and I had to change planes twice this trip. That was the bad thing about Vegas. Direct flights anywhere good were hard to come by, there was always at least one layover.
Clarisse dropped by early the morning I was scheduled to leave, bearing coffee and donuts. I could always rely on her to see me off, double checking I had everything I could possibly need.
“I confirmed the hotel received your shipment of books yesterday. They’re with security. Just let them know when you check in, and they’ll have a bellman deliver them to you when you arrive. Do you have that extra case of swag I packed for you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m taking it as my carry-on bag, so there’s no chance it will get lost.”
“Good, you’re going to need it your first full day there. It’s filled with the goodie bags you wanted for the meet and greet,” she said as if speaking to a child on his first day of school.
“Got it,” I said as I bit into a glazed donut. She wrinkled her nose at me as I spoke around a mouthful of food. “You’re going to be taking your own time off while I’m gone, right?”
“Here,” she said, handing me a napkin. “You’ve got sugar around your mouth. And no, I’m going to be right here, slaving away, promoting your books like I always do.”
“Seriously, Clarisse. It’s your turn to go get laid. Loosen up and enjoy yourself.”
“Right,” she replied. “Because sexy, kinky fuckers grow on trees around here.”
“You do know you live in the one city in the U.S. that attracts those kinds of people intentionally, don’t you?”
“Shush. Until I find just the right guy to tease out my wanton sexual desires, I’ll keep my nose to the Blackstone grindstone,” she said as she spun me around and shoved me toward the suitcases waiting for me by the door. “Your Uber should be here any second. Go wait outside. I’ll take care of the house while you’re gone.”
“Yes, Mother,” I replied before scooping her up in a big bear hug which she immediately protested. She was hardly the touchy-feely type, so being her honorary big brother, I enjoyed annoying her as much as I possibly could.
“Put me down, you idiot. Go. Go make women’s hearts beat faster and have a good time. Make sure to call me daily and give me the play-by-play. Most of all, behave yourself. It’s great to play the cock-of-the-walk, but when it comes to your fans, keep your cock hidden.”
“Like you need to tell me that,” I said, dropping her back to her feet and giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “You be good, too.”
“I have no choice,” she replied, pushing me toward the door again. I grabbed my bags and walked outside, just as the Uber pulled up to my gate.
Standing in the freaking check-in line at the hotel was going to be the death of me. I’d spent seventeen long hours with two short stops in New York and Dublin on my way to this book convention. I’d worked late the night before, still trying to write the goddamned blurb for my newest release which continued to be an exercise in self-torture. It didn’t help that I’d had several beers while I did it, then woke up mildly hungover when Clarisse arrived with coffee.
The line shuffled forward as I teetered on my feet, my eyes bleary and gritty. I closed them to ease the sting, rubbing at them furiously with my knuckles. I really was going to die in this line, I just knew it. Headlines in romance book newsletters everywhere would read, “Romance’s Reigning Sex God Meets Sticky End in London Hotel Cue.”
I closed my eyes again, just for a second, still battling the exhaustion threatening to tow me under. It must have pulled harder than I realized because before I knew it, I was crashing into the person in front of me. My arms instinctively wrapped around the tiny yet remarkably curvy body as the suitcases in front of us skidded into each other before toppling over.
As I tried to right both myself and the unfortunate woman in front of me, I looked down, startled to find an angel in my arms. She had fiery auburn hair that was perfectly straightened and styled to a glossy finish and the biggest green eyes I’d ever seen. While her well-put-together appearance screamed sweet, wholesome girl, her plump, pouty lips begged me to disarrange all her hard work. My entire body contracted looking at her, gripped by an indefinable pull. I didn’t know what the fuck it was, but I was wide awake now.
“I’m so sorry, Miss,” I said, my embarrassment falling away to the attraction I felt to her. “I’m afraid I’m dead on my feet and just lost my balance. Here, let me grab your bag for you,”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said with a wave of her hand. If you didn’t know it, you’d think she’d been the one who crashed into me with her cheeks blushin
g a lovely rose-pink. I grabbed both our bags, anyway, setting them upright at our feet again.
I muttered something about the fucking line, at a loss for words, but intent on keeping her focus on me. It must have been something good because she laughed.
“I completely understand,” she said graciously. “I flew in from Los Angeles myself for the book convention this week. I don’t know how I’ll make it through the panel I’m on tomorrow morning.”
This gorgeous redhead was a writer too? I couldn’t believe my exhaustion had not only put the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my arms, but we’d very likely run into each other again over the course of the next few days. Just as I admitted I was at the hotel for the same reason, the goddamned reservation agent waved her forward. I desperately wanted to at least get her name, so I could find her again in the sea of readers and other authors, so I floated the suggestion of meeting for a drink. She just smiled and gave me a polite wish for a successful appearance or some other pleasantry. I grinned and said something I hoped was witty and charming, but my impaired brain function was threatening to take over again. I rocked on the heels of my feet as I watched her wheel her cases to the desk. Another agent called me to his station, and I went through the whole routine of checking in, my mind still lingering on long, auburn hair and soft, kissable lips.
After I made it to my room on my last legs, I stripped down and fell into bed, where I slept the sleep of the dead for a solid eight hours. When I woke, I felt much better, ready and raring to go. I had one mission—to find that gorgeous little redhead and make her mine.
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The Novel Approach
Eleven hours trapped in an airline seat, next to a person who had no familiarity with the concept of personal space hadn’t done wonders for my back, my headache, nor my mood—even if it was in first class. I was beyond exhausted, having gotten up at the godforsaken hour of two a.m. to make sure I triple-checked I had everything I needed for this convention with time to make my six o’clock flight out of Los Angeles International. I’d done a double-check the night before, but my OCD demanded I do a thrice-over—yes, I said thrice. I’m a writer, after all—before I even started getting myself ready to appear in public. That alone took two hours. It’s not so much I’m vain but more or less insecure. If I’m required to be around other people and my hair and makeup aren’t perfect, I’m cursed with self-doubt and anxiety the entire time. I’m not sure where it comes from. Could be my mom’s own vanity, could be that time in the seventh grade when Lena Weiner made fun of my frizzy hair and pathetic attempt at using blush for the first time. Could have been that rotten blind date I had in college when the guy kept telling me how pretty I’d be if I’d only—insert random criticism here. Could be all those things or none. All I knew was I was almost thirty years old, hadn’t had a real date in ages, and thought I looked like a refugee from an electric shock program if I didn’t have my makeup and styling equipment.
I shifted my weight from one aching foot to the other. It was eleven p.m., and I hadn’t eaten since the protein bar I’d snarfed down in the town car on the way to the airport and was bone tired. I’d flown almost twelve hours to Heathrow, and it’d taken me another two hours to get through customs and to the hotel. I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to appear at this event. My agent, Caroline Rigby, insisted it was a must-attend convention that would do marvelous things for my career. Considering I’d made the New York Times Best Sellers List twice this year and twice the year before, I didn’t really see why it was necessary. It wasn’t like my sales were dropping. I thought everything was marvelous. However, amid arguments about me staying relevant to my audience and how much readers enjoy rubbing elbows with authors, I totally caved. When I was in college, I thought writing would be a great career for someone like me—an introvert with a decent talent for making up stories and stringing sentences together. How very wrong I was. I had to maintain a strong social media presence, make nice with strangers, and—gasp—occasionally mingle among crowds of people. All things considered, it was still a good gig for a woman who preferred to spend her days staring at a computer screen and making someone else’s experiences come to life which led to the happy ending I’d yet to find for myself. I honestly like meeting my readers, don’t get the impression I don’t. There’s nothing I would rather do than sit and talk about books with someone else who loves them as much as I do. Okay, well maybe there are one or two things I might like a little more, but again, we’re back to that pesky problem of not having had a date in a century or so. That aside, readers are my people. It’s just now, they want to hear me talk when I’d much prefer to listen to them.
Just as I got to the front of the line, I was jarred forward, a heavy weight hitting my back as strong arms wrapped around my waist. What the fuck? The man behind me had barreled into me, nearly knocking me off my feet. Despite his iron grasp around my torso, I stumbled over my black rolling suitcase, sending it toppling to the floor instead. Cursing under my breath, I turned to my unintentional assailant to either nut punch him or at least give him a dirty look as he finally released me from his embrace. Before I could utter a snarky insult, I was floored by the sight of the masterpiece of man teetering behind me. He was at least six-foot-two to my five-six, had a solid, rangy look to him with broad shoulders and a lean waist. His suit did little to hide the fact he was fit and strong. To top off his impressive build, he was blessed with a head full of thick, glossy, light brown hair, a strong jaw with a dimpled cheeks and chin, and chocolate brown eyes.
“I’m so sorry, miss,” he began in a voice smoother than the finest cognac, making my tummy do all kinds of gymnastics. “I’m afraid I’m dead on my feet and just lost my balance. Here, let me grab your bag for you.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I waved him off, completely flustered. There was no way I was presentable, being as weary as I was after traveling so long. The last thing I wanted or needed was any unnecessary attention. He may have been the one who stumbled into me, but I was embarrassed. Nevertheless, he righted my suitcase and neatly sat it next to his.
“I’ve been traveling all day, and I think I started to doze off in this fucking line,” he said. I giggled at his bluntness. I swore like a sailor in my head but never in public. It made for a poor image for “The Sweetheart of Sweet Romance,” the god-awful tagline Caroline had coined for me. Not having had any better suggestions at the time, the label stuck, for better or worse. At any rate, despite my prim public persona, I envied other people’s freedom to be as vulgar as they wanted. I was a badass bitch deep inside—way, way deep down inside.
“I completely understand. I flew in from Los Angeles myself for the book convention this week. I don’t know how I’ll make it through the panel I’m on tomorrow morning.”
“You’re an author, too?” he asked, surprise evident on his face as he looked at me, head to toe.
“I am. At least, my name is at the bottom of the covers of twenty-five novels.”
“Brilliant! I’m a writer, myself.”
Just then, the reservation clerk motioned me forward. Grabbing my rolling suitcase and matching carry-on case, I smiled at the sexy stranger.
“Perhaps we’ll run into each other again. If not, I hope you have a successful appearance.”
“Seems like I already have,” he said with a wink. “Crashing into beautiful women like you isn’t my ordinary approach, but if that’s what it took to meet you, looking like a chump is worth it. Maybe you’ll let me buy you a drink sometime later this week to make up for nearly tackling you.”
I just smiled in response to his invitation, convincing myself he was simply being polite and friendly. With an awkward wave in his direction, I moved to the desk, my mind already on the spa tub that was supposed to be waiting for me in the suite.
Caroline, for all her pushing and prodding, always made stellar travel arrangements. Every amenity and luxury availab
le were provided, and these accommodations were no different. Though I’d been fantasizing about a nice bubbly soak in a steaming bath with water jets pummeling the soreness from my muscles, I broke character and tumbled into bed asleep before my head hit the pillow. I didn’t even bother to undress. My last thought was I’d unpack everything after my Q&A session with readers in the morning.
As luck would have it, my alarm didn’t go off, and I slept until I had only forty-five minutes to make my appearance. With no other choice, I threw my auburn hair into a sleek bun, applied a little mascara and light blush—I’d quickly learned the art of a gentle hand when it came to makeup after what I called “The Weiner Incident”—and liberally swiped on antiperspirant and some clear lip gloss. I dashed out the door, wearing a simple pastel pink shift as fast as my wedge sandals would allow. Wouldn’t you know, just as I rushed out my door, I collided with the Cary Elwes doppelgänger in the hallway? His strong arms wrapped around me for the second time in twenty-four hours, hauling me up to his impressively hard chest, rescuing me from bouncing on my ass on the plush carpeting.