Chapter Three
Jasmine
River Jamison isn't an ass. He's the devil. And my best friend, Lilah Davis, might be a demon because she won't stop laughing at my misfortune.
"It's not that funny," I grumble, scowling at my best friend as she wipes tears from her blue eyes behind the bookstore counter.
"It's hilarious," she amends, still cackling.
"It's illegal!"
"Um, so is stalking the poor man, Jazz."
"I'm not stalking him," I sniff, flicking a wad of paper at her. "I'm simply recruiting a local author to speak at Dirty Book Club. That is what you hired me to do, you know."
"I absolutely did not hire you to stalk River Jamison," she says, spluttering with laughter. "And I definitely didn't hire you to seek out the most unhinged smut you can find and call it Book Club."
"Whatever. You love the unhinged smut." Older women are hesitant to talk about sex because they were raised in an era where it just wasn't done, but when you add a monster, machine, alien, or random inanimate object to the mix, it's like you remove the shame that was hammered into them.
They open up surprisingly well, allowing them to discuss things they'd never otherwise discuss.
Lilah just shakes her head before scooping up a stack of books and vanishing to the back. I hop up from my chair and follow her, determined to finish this argument.
"Admit it," I say, navigating around a stack of boxes to prop a hip against the workbench.
"Book Club has more readers signing up every week because I'm introducing them to books and a sense of community they never even knew existed, and I'm empowering them to decide for themselves what they enjoy. "
"Fine," she grumbles, placing the stack on the bench to begin wrapping them up. "But we're going to be burned at the stake one of these days because of your choices."
"This isn't Salem in the 1600s, Lilah. It's 2026 in California. Trust me when I say there are far worse things out there than anything I bring to Dirty Book Club."
"Are you going to do it?"
"Do what? Because if this is you suggesting I should bring worse things to Book Club…" I waggle my brows at her.
She shoots me a patented "you know what I'm talking about" look. And she's right, I do. But I'd rather pretend I don't than deal with reality… especially when reality is River Jamison asking me to dinner. What the actual fuck?
"I don't even like him," I mutter.
"You are such a liar."
"Am not."
"Then why are you blushing?"
Like an idiot, I press my hands to my cheeks, which only gives her more fuel. She smirks as if I just proved her point, then places a book in the center of a roll of Kraft paper.
"Whatever," I grumble, reaching across the workbench to grab the tape for her. "Maybe he's a tiny bit interesting. But he's also rude, arrogant, and infuriating. Pigs will fly before I deal with any of that."
"It's just one date."
"You're awfully gung-ho about getting me tied up and murdered in his basement."
Lilah throws her head back, laughing again. She messes up her cut, leaving the paper jagged, but she doesn't seem to mind. "At least then you'd stop bitching about not having his address."
"Actually, I have it," I say, carefully avoiding her gaze.
"What? How?"
"I followed him home from the diner."
"You didn't!" She stops mid-fold to stare at me like she's scandalized.
"Of course I did." Does she even know me at all?
"And you don't see how this is stalking?"
"It's not stalking. We're at war."
"You're going to go to jail."
"No, I'm not."
"You are. He already threatened to have you arrested."
"He also asked me out, so…" I shrug, not really worried about it. I mean, if he wanted to have me arrested, he wouldn't have asked me to dinner, right? Right.
And let's be honest, it's not like the police or courts even take stalking seriously in this country.
Until someone is actually hurt, it's a slap on the wrist, and the stalker is released right back out there to continue their reign of terror.
Unlike actual stalkers, I'm harmless. I don't want to wear his skin as a suit. I just want him to talk to his readers.
Lilah stares at me for a long moment and then shakes her head. "I cannot wait to say I told you so."
"You won't get to say it," I mutter, and then decide to change the subject. "He said something today…"
"Did it start with 'I'm calling the police'?"
"No." I shoot her a dirty look, which just makes her smile. "You have no faith. He said that he didn't meet readers because he isn't interested in being meat at the market."
"Makes sense," Lilah murmurs, quickly folding the Kraft paper around the book and then finishing it off with a single piece of tape.
"What? How does that possibly make sense unless you have an inflated ego and think you're way cooler than you are? Just because he's hot does not make him God's gift to readerkind."
"Uh…have you been to a bookish event in the last couple of years?
" Lilah cocks a brow at me, setting the wrapped book aside.
"There are reports out of too many events about readers behaving badly.
Models and authors are being touched without consent, sometimes inappropriately.
People are stealing from authors and other readers.
And just generally not acting like they have sense.
He wouldn't be the first author who has opted out of events because of bad behavior. "
"Oh." I process this, my stomach churning a little at the thought of him being traumatized or assaulted at an event. That shouldn't ever happen. "You think something like that happened to him?"
"It's possible. Or it could just be that he's a rare man in what's traditionally viewed as a woman's space.
Most readers are amazing and behave themselves, but I'm guessing the ones who don't can make it uncomfortable very quickly for male romance authors…
just like it gets uncomfortable very quickly for women in spaces men view as theirs," she says.
She isn't wrong. I've wanted to throat punch far too many men for catcalling me just because I dared to walk by worksites. It's gross, and it's damn near a universally shared experience for women.
"Not to mention," she continues, "people can be dicks in general.
They say things they shouldn't, ask inappropriate questions, and pry for information they have no business knowing.
When you write spicy romance, I'm guessing the questions can get invasive sometimes.
Imagine being the lone man or woman in a crowd, being asked what sexual experiences in your past helped you write one scene or another. "
"Oh, gross."
"If it's happened to Cassia, you don't think it's happened to him?" Lilah quirks a brow at me. "People do and say all kinds of shit they shouldn't, especially when they're hiding behind a keyboard or think they're a faceless number in a crowd."
I nod thoughtfully. "Maybe I should talk to him, let him know this won't be like that."
"You can try," she says doubtfully, "but if he doesn't want to come because of past experience, you probably aren't going to change his mind. Maybe you should just accept the date instead."
"Oh, hell no. Not happening."
"Liar." She grins before cutting off another piece of paper.
I stick my tongue out at her, but she's too busy folding to notice. Which is probably a good thing since it's the most immature response ever. But I've got nothing else.
Dammit.
I watch her fold for a moment. "Hey. Is Loralei acting weird to you?"
"What?"
"Loralei," I repeat. "Is she acting weird to you?"
Lilah pauses what she's doing, her brows furrowing. "Maybe a little. Why?"
"I don't know." I shrug. "She was here yesterday for a while after you left, but she just kept checking her phone the whole time. It was weird."
"Maybe she's waiting for news on her car? It's still in the shop."
"No. I think she's seeing someone. At the library the other day, she was almost…giddy? She kept smiling and humming. When has Loralei ever been the humming type? She's almost as shy as Sarah."
Lilah turns slowly to face me, her eyes narrowed. "I know that tone, Jazz. Whatever you're thinking about doing, do not do it."
"What? I'm not thinking about doing anything," I protest. "I was just curious if you noticed it, too."
"Uh-huh." An exasperated smile flickers at her lips. "Leave the woman alone. If she's seeing someone, she'll tell us when she's ready. Don't stick your nose in it."
"Ugh." I scowl at her, pushing away from the bench. "Fine. You're no fun." What am I supposed to do with my life if I can't be nosy and pry into what my friends are doing with theirs? Harass River, right.
"Where are you going?"
"To see what I can dig up on River!"
"I'm not bailing you out!" she calls after me.
"I'm not going to jail!" I shout back.
Bright and early the next morning, I pull up outside the 1920s-era Spanish Colonial Revival at the very end of the block, two miles from the bookstore.
The house is gorgeous, with a gabled roof and Terracotta pavers lining the driveway.
River's Lincoln Navigator is parked out front where he left it yesterday.
I sit in my car for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts and figure out what I want to say, but I have a feeling it's a lost cause. As soon as I see him, we'll end up locked in the same battle we've been in since I cornered him in the library.
This is a problem. Mostly because, as much as I hate to admit it, I've been dreaming about the infuriating man. Last night, he cuffed and arrested me, and then did filthy shit to me in the back of a squad car. I woke up right before he made me orgasm. I'm still pissed about that, by the way.
I don't like him, but I can't deny being attracted to him. Anyone with eyes would be attracted to him. Not to mention, he's written some of the most incredible books.
I just can't wrap my mind around how a man as infuriating as him can write like he does.
I feel seen when I read his books…and then I stand in front of him and cannot fathom how the irritating man in front of me is possibly the same one who had me sobbing into a bowl of Cheerios at three in the morning, while Letty, a single mom from Kansas, fell to her knees, screaming on the battlefield where Caladan, an alien prince from Occunia, had fallen to protect her son.
Make it make sense!
It doesn't. Which means either there is far more to him than he's shown me…or he's a wizard. There are no other viable options here.
For the record, I'm going with the wizard theory. The less I know about him, the better. I want to actually be able to continue reading his books once this is over and done with. And heroes are nothing if not disappointing when you get to know them in reality.
It's far easier to skip that whole mess and just make up a story…which is precisely why he's a middle-aged, anxiety-riddled college professor in my head.
He's making it damn hard to hang onto the vision.
I mutter a curse under my breath and climb from the car.
My heels click on the pavers as I hurry up the driveway, determined to figure out, once and for all, what his actual problem with meeting readers is, so I can solve it and we can get this thing done.
Then I can go back to thinking he's a boring college professor, and all my problems will be solved. Easy, right?
I press the doorbell with the sinking suspicion that it will not, in fact, be that easy.