Between the Shelves (The Nashville Romantics #2)

Chapter 1 – piper

one

piper

The poster is almost garish—a riot of brightly colored letters shouting PLEASE ATTEND THIS BOOK SIGNING.

If I had more to do with the marketing for Piper’s Books, I would’ve taken the color scheme in a completely different direction.

But I passed most of that responsibility to my right-hand lady, and she had vision.

Giving a thriller-mystery writer bright colors and happy font wasn’t what I considered proper marketing, but judging by our overstuffed store, it worked.

It’s a good thing I have Natalie around to take risks.

The line snaking from the table, through the store, and outside is four times longer than any we’ve had before. I choose to blame that on the author’s popularity, not the neon orange words heralding his book signing.

“Looks like a success.” Natalie folds her arms across her chest as she surveys the long line. “Guess my flyers aren’t too bold after all.”

I swallow a nervous laugh. “This man is one of the most popular authors of our day, and he’s doing only four book signings in the entire country. I think being lucky enough to host one of them is the reason that line is snaking halfway down the street.”

Natalie rolls her eyes, but she’s fighting a smile. “You don’t want to admit that sometimes taking a chance pays off.” She gives my outfit a sweeping glance, dragging her gaze from my violet-colored shirt tucked into black wide-legged trousers down to my dark gray shoes.

“Muted is professional,” I say defensively.

“It’s boring.” She glances over her shoulder. “Do you think D.M. is here yet? That line looks liable to storm the back door and hunt him down if we don’t begin on time.”

My watch shows five minutes to seven. “Technically, he still has time. I promised we’d start on the dot.” I pause, considering his pen name. “What should we call him? D? D.M.? Or go for the entire D.M. James?”

“Delicious D.M.”

“If I want him to file a harassment suit, maybe.”

“Delectable D.M.”

“How do you know he’s either of those things?

” I’d been a fan of D.M.’s books since they hit the New York Times Bestseller list a few years ago and fell onto my radar.

I immediately devoured his backlist and can probably be considered among the top two percent of his biggest fans.

His way of crafting not just a story but the writing itself is old soul-esque, with a modern twist. He must be mid-forties at the youngest. I’d put money on the fact that his hair is at least half gray and that he’s been honing his writing chops for a few decades. To write the way he does isn’t easy.

I should know.

“I found a picture from his signing in Dallas last week.” Natalie whips out her phone and starts scrolling. “If you were imagining a basement-dwelling dragon-feeder, you’re way off. He looks good.”

I wasn’t, but okay.

“It’s here somewhere,” she mutters.

“Maybe he’s here somewhere. Like in the actual building. We should check in with—”

“He just arrived.” Ravi sidles up to us, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow.

He has an old-fashioned Frankenstein on his faded black shirt, with dark jeans and Hey Dudes.

I don’t know anyone more obsessed with the horror genre, and I don’t have another employee with such great recall for inventory or back-cover blurbs.

A customer can come in vaguely saying what they’re in the mood for, and Ravi immediately knows what to give them.

“Speak of the devil.” Natalie’s stance becomes aggressive, her feet planted and arms crossed. Professional body language readers would be able to look at our trifecta and know I’m standing in the middle of a recently bitterly broken-up couple.

“Me or the author?” he asks.

“Devil,” Natalie emphasizes. She flicks her blonde hair so it falls in waves over her shoulder.

“Is D.M. in the back?” I ask, then shake my head.

Nope, using initials sounds weird. It’s amazing that D.M.

James has been able to keep his real name a secret, but he’s done a great job of it.

Or maybe the internet doesn’t care as much as I do about knowing how to address the guy and just hasn’t put in the effort to figure it out.

Probably the latter.

They simply enjoy his books. I see D.M. James printed on a cover and contemplate how weird it would be to slide into his DMs and beg him to share the secrets of his writing prowess.

Creepy? I hope not. I just want to talk shop with the guy. Pick his overly intelligent brain. Glean some of his wisdom. Become his mentee.

Ravi scowls at Natalie, his black brows pulling together. “He needed a quiet place to collect himself. I gave him the storeroom, but he should be out any moment.”

“Tell Piper he’s hot,” Natalie says, tugging her gold necklace out from beneath her striped turtleneck.

Ravi narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“She doesn’t believe me.”

Ravi juts out his chin. Is he actually thinking about how to answer that? The fact that he needs to consider it means D.M. probably isn’t that attractive. “He’s really nice,” Ravi says. “Have you thought about asking him to step in for the writer’s class?”

I bark out a laugh. The one I sold out last month, where the resident writer emailed me this morning to tell me she couldn’t make it. It begins Tuesday. “D.M. is too big for something like this. There’s no way he’d go for it.” Even if it would be a dream come true.

“You could always ask,” Ravi says.

I look at the clock. “Two minutes until go time.”

“True. Might as well begin the store introduction.”

Anxiety and anticipation creep into my limbs. “Is the mic on?”

“Should be.” Natalie claps her hands together. “Let’s go make some money.”

She has no idea how badly we need to do that. I can’t keep bankrolling the store the way I have been. It’s not a sustainable business plan.

I make my way through the surprisingly eclectic line of people.

Thrillers entice a broad range of readers, from older men to young single guys to moms. Lots and lots of moms. Women of all ages are talking about their children or subtly bouncing on the balls of their feet despite leaving their babies at home.

There are groups of teens and couples. Does any other genre bring in such a wide age range as this?

Maybe mysteries—but those are like a thriller’s sweet stepsister. Most of the women here are somewhere between true crime podcasts and Netflix’s latest killer documentary.

Ask me how I know.

It’s seven now, but D.M. is still somewhere in the back gathering himself. Maybe he has a pre-event routine he needs to tend to. I’m trying not to panic, but this guy notoriously doesn’t like the limelight, and I haven’t even seen him yet.

Guess I need to stall.

“Welcome to Piper’s Books, ladies and gents,” I say loudly into the microphone, then wait for the general din in the room to recede. “We are excited for our event this evening and to welcome the much-anticipated D.M. James to Nashville.”

There’s a wide variety of hollering, whooping, clapping, and even some catcalls. Did those ladies snatch a view of him coming in, too?

Natalie leans against the wall in the back, grinning at me. Fine. I’ll admit that part of this crowd is due to her. If she hadn’t gotten the word out, many of these people wouldn’t have known that the best thriller writer of this day and age would be here tonight.

Hopefully. I mean, I trust Ravi, but I still haven’t gotten a peek at the guest of honor.

Every person who could fit into this building is blinking at me right now, waiting for me to step aside and let the man of the hour say a few words.

Only, where is he?

Over my shoulder, the path to the back storeroom is clear, and the door is still closed.

I search for Ravi and find him standing on the romance endcap, bordered by pops of bright colors and couples in questionable poses.

I lift my eyebrows, and he seems to read my stress because he immediately scurries between two rows of books toward the back.

While I have a rapt audience who are each paying my store a minimum of $24.

99 for D.M.’s new hardcover—the only way they’re allowed in the meet-and-greet line—I think fast and snatch one of the books off the stack on the nearest display table, flipping to the author bio on the inside cover.

There’s no picture, which is weird, but his choice.

“University of Tennessee alumnus D.M. James got his start crafting stories at the tender age of seven when he first wrote about dragons discovering a portal into a human world.” I stop, lifting my gaze. “Raise your hand if you want to get your hands on that one.”

Every arm in the room shoots into the air, mine among them.

“Think we can convince D.M. James to delve into the world of fantasy thrillers? Tonight is our chance.” I turn back to the bio.

“A native of Tennessee, #1 New York Times best-selling author D.M. James is the two-time winner of the Edgar Award, the ITW Thriller Award, and a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize.”

What a mouthful. I scoured the U of T alumni page the first time I ever read this bio, but the only people with the surname James were women, and Nat just confirmed this dude is a guy. I sneak a peek over my shoulder, but the back is still empty. Sweat beads on my temples.

“I think we all want to hear from the man of the hour now, but if you’ll bear with me for some light housekeeping, I’d like to remind you that you need to purchase a book from Piper’s Books in order to be in the line.

Proof of purchase is required. D.M. will only sign two books per person, so with that ticket, you can have a second purchased book or anything from his backlist you brought from home.

Keep the line moving and choose wisely!”

The click of the storeroom door echoes, spreading relief through my entire body. I turn my face slightly and see two men in my peripheral vision. I could kiss Ravi for dragging him out here.

“Without further ado, let’s hear it for the man you’ve all come to see, who happens to be my favorite author and one of the most talented writers of our day.

Put your hands together for the incredible D.M.

James.” I start clapping as I step back from the mic, but the sound is swallowed by rising applause.

My heart thuds in anticipation. I’ve been looking forward to this from the moment D.M.

’s publicist contacted me about hosting him.

My wheels immediately started turning, recognizing the golden chance that fell in my lap and how I could use it to my advantage.

Not only in a personal capacity—favorite author, remember? —but in a professional one as well.

Writer to writer, I’m hoping to pick his brain at the end of the night. His publicist seemed to think he’d be amenable to it.

So it’s with my pulse thrumming, my breath hitching, and an eager smile on my face that I turn to welcome D.M. James to my store for his signing.

“Hi, Mr. Jam—” The words lodge in my throat.

A man I know well—used to know well—stares back at me.

His dark hair is pushed away from his forehead, but it’s longer now than he wore it in college.

His cheekbones are more pronounced, and his jawline is sharper, too.

Like he’s lost some of the roundness that made him look sweet in college and now he’s just… hot.

“Hi, Piper,” he says without a lick of surprise.