Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Graham
My pen scratches across the page, my signature flowing on autopilot. The steady shuffle of the line, the quiet murmur of voices, the occasional rustle of turning pages—it all blurs into background noise.
My focus isn’t on the line of adoring fans waiting for me to sign their books. It’s lost in the unfinished manuscript.
I’m almost done with the first draft, and I’m way ahead of the deadline—for a change. Just a few more chapters, and then I can turn my twenty-fifth book in to my editor.
I can’t wait to be done with this signing so I can disappear back into a world where I don’t have to make small talk or smile so much my face hurts.
I’ve lost count of how many books I’ve signed, but judging by the cramp in my wrist, it’s at an all-time high. The line is so long it wraps through the thriller section, into the self-help, and out the door.
One by one, readers shuffle forward and thrust their books at me. Sticky notes with their names printed on them make it so I don’t even have to talk, but I still end up chatting more than I’d like.
I peek around the line with a frustrated sigh.
Be careful what you wish for.
In the early days of my career, I would have killed for a successful signing. My only fans were my family members, who I’d begged to read my books. I dreamed of having a line of people wrap around the building at a signing. Now, fifteen years later, I’d give anything to be back at my desk, finishing my next book.
My publicist, a tough-as-nails woman named Vanessa Blake, approaches me with a tall glass of water.
No ice and a lime wedge, just the way I like it. Vanessa knows me better than I know myself.
She sets the glass on the table far away from the stacks of books. “You’re doing great.”
I massage my hand and nod at the line snaking through the library. “How many more?”
She looks down her nose at me, mildly scolding. “This is a great opportunity.”
I hold back a heavy sigh. “I know.”
Flipping open the next book, I barely glance at the name on the sticky note. I sign robotically, taking the occasional sip of water.
Jennifer, Darren, Liza, Fred . They all blend together. I should be engaging with fans, but I can’t muster the energy. I’m just not cut out for this part of the job. I’m much more comfortable behind the scenes. Doing the actual work of writing.
“Have you found a date for the award ceremony yet?” Vanessa asks.
I take the next book, slide my hand over the smooth cover, and open to the title page. “I’m working on it.”
“I can handle it for you,” she says for the umpteenth time. “I have some pre-selected candidates.”
I bite back a reply just in time and shake my head. “I’ve got it.”
She props her hands on her hips, dialing up the disapproving glare. “Don’t wait until the last minute.”
I swallow a sip of water and stifle the grumpy retort before I get myself in trouble. Vanessa doesn’t play around. I hired her to take me to the next level, and she will die trying to get me there.
Vanessa glides away to restock the books for sale, keeping an eye on me from a distance.
Book after book lands on my table. Sticky note after sticky note.
I grunt greetings, and smile when prompted. Time drags on until an unusual name gives me pause.
Cupid.
I blink, clearing my vision to make sure I’m seeing correctly. My fingers tighten on the pen, and my heart leaps.
I slowly lift my gaze and meet sparkling blue eyes. All the breath whooshes out of my lungs.
It’s her. The coffee shop woman, with the so-ugly-he’s-cute mutt.
The noise of the library fades to the background as our gazes lock. For a moment, the line no longer exists, and even my desire to finish my damn book disappears.
It’s only her and me.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “You again.”
Amusement flickers in her wide blue eyes. “I hope Cupid didn’t ruin your next best seller.”
I’m not in a hurry anymore. I take time and write out a message along with the name. To Cupid, thanks for being my muse.
When I hand her the book, our fingers brush and a ripple of awareness races down my spine.
She tugs the book, but I don’t let go. I’m not ready for her to disappear yet. I don’t even know her name.
Before I can ask, she blurts out, “You’re famous.”
“Well…” I clam up, suddenly embarrassed.
“I saw your face on the poster and couldn’t believe it,” she says.
“I’m not really f-famous.” To my utter horror, I stutter. I haven’t stuttered in years.
She turns and gestures at the line behind her. “What do you call this?”
Heat burns up the back of my neck, and I let go of the book. “ Some people know who I am.”
She tucks the book in her bag. “I still owe you a notebook.”
“Thanks.” I flex my hand, then shake it out. “My hand is killing me.”
“Do you need a massage?”
Before I can protest, she takes my hand in hers. A jolt surges through my entire body.
The scent of her perfume drifts toward me, and I instantly react. I love the smell of books as much as the next guy, but something about her spicy scent really does it for me.
I have the sudden urge to kiss her again. And not on the cheek this time. The memory of that kiss has my body heat skyrocketing.
“You’re really tight.” She turns my hand over in hers, lightly skimming her fingers over my palm.
The press of her thumb against the heel of my hand relaxes me instantly. “How’d you do that?”
The soft ripple of her laugh slides over my skin. “I’m a professional.”
My eyes slide shut as the heaven of her touch puts me in a semi-trance. “You’re a masseuse?”
She laughs again. “No. I’m a pet groomer. I own the pet store on Main Street.”
“The Fur Seasons?” I’ve always been impressed by the clever name of the pet store.
“That’s the one.”
The smile on her full lips makes me think of kissing. Again .
I haven’t thought about kissing this much in years. Not since I was trying to hook up with my crush behind the bleachers in high school.
I shouldn’t be this aware of her. I shouldn’t notice the way her sweater drapes over her shoulder when she leans over, exposing a swatch of very kissable skin.
“The line isn’t getting any shorter.” Vanessa wedges herself between us. “Time to move along.”
“I hope that helped.” She places my hand gently on the table.
“Very much.” I flex my fingers, marveling at the difference. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” She winks. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I want to tell her not to go, but a glance at the faces of the readers lined up changes my mind. I watch her go, my gaze following the swish of her skirt around her shapely calves.
This makes me think of kissing again, but somehow, I manage to get through the rest of the signing and a lecture from my publicist about not showing favorites.
It’s not until later, when I’m back at my laptop in my dimly lit office, blissfully tapping away at the keys that I realize I never got her name.