Prologue #2
THE NEXT DAY I WOKE WITH A RAGING HANGOVER and a lot of dislike for my friend. There was a reason I wasn’t a drinker—I never liked being out of control. Plus, hangovers were not my thing. Why would I possibly want to be hungover for the conference?
I popped aspirin, drank as much coffee as I could get my hands on, and ate a huge breakfast. That had me feeling a little better.
The nerves I thought had abated came roaring back when Nathan and I walked the hallway to the conference center.
The doors would open in twenty minutes. My day started with the panel—I was secretly glad I would get it over with early—and then I would be at my table by noon for when the readers were unleashed to get in line for their favorite authors. The whole thing was daunting.
“How are you feeling?” Nathan didn’t look as if he was nursing a hangover at all.
“I hate you.”
He smirked. “You’re fine. Do you feel more relaxed?”
“No. I just feel as if I have anxiety and an upset stomach. Oh, and the headache isn’t helping.”
“You had like three drinks.”
“Four.”
“That’s still not enough for a hangover,” he said.
“Not all of us drink like we’re 1980’s frat boys.”
“How do you even know that reference?”
“I know things.” In other words, I’d seen movies. I rubbed my forehead. “This day is going to suck. I can feel it. It’s going to go off the rails.”
“It’s going to be fine. Take a breath.”
“You take a breath.” I detoured toward the coffee cart. Caffeine was not usually my friend, but I needed more. “I should have ordered room service last night.”
“You need to learn to unclench a little bit. Author life is going to be absolute torture for you unless you learn to take a breath.”
“I’m fine.” I didn’t feel fine. “I’m perfectly fine.”
I stepped up to the coffee cart, perused the offerings on the little chalkboard at the front of it, and opened my mouth to order. A small whirlwind in the form of a person knocked me out of the way with a well-timed hip, and I careened sideways before I could utter a single word.
“Sorry,” a singsong voice called out.
It was already too late. My equilibrium was off because of the hangover, and I lost my footing. I fell into a book display for a mystery writer, knocking all her hard work out of the way and sending books scattering in every direction.
“Holy crap!” Nathan tried to catch me but I was already down. I’d completely decimated Amy Ryan’s table.
“Oh my god!” she screeched as I scrambled to collect her books from the floor. “What did you do?”
My cheeks burned under her scrutiny—she was a formidable presence, which was why she’d been placed so close to the coffee cart—and I struggled to find a single word of apology.
“It was an accident,” Nathan interjected quickly. He grabbed my elbow to help me up. “He was knocked into your table.”
Amy didn’t look convinced. “Oh, really? Did a ghost knock you into my table?”
Frowning, I glanced back toward the whirlwind.
What I found was a petite woman dressed in short shorts and a skintight shirt with a bedazzled shark on it.
Her hair was long and black and her eyes a striking blue.
The look on her face suggested she was about to offer up the biggest apology in the world.
I braced myself for the “I’m so sorry”—fully prepared to be gracious—but instead heard “You shouldn’t have been in my way.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?” I snapped.
The woman—her lanyard identifying her as a fellow author—lifted a shoulder.
“You were blocking the coffee cart.” She wiped a hand over her face, which looked as if it was still boasting makeup from the night before, including the sort of eye shadow that made her look like a raccoon. “I need caffeine.”
I blinked. Then I blinked again. “Who … what … who…?”
“Are you going to fix my table?” Amy screeched, drawing my attention back to her.
“Of course,” I said automatically. “I just … of course.”
I bent down and started collecting books. Nathan helped. By the time we were finished, the whirlwind was gone. She’d knocked me over, caused Amy Ryan to be infuriated with me, and then waltzed off with her coffee.
“Who was that?” I demanded when I managed to step away from Amy. She’d regaled me with a nonstop litany of complaints the entire time we’d worked. I was glad to get away from her.
“Amy Ryan,” Nathan replied. “She writes mysteries.”
I pinned him with a withering look. “Not her. The one who ran into me.”
“Oh.” Nathan’s shoulders hopped. “I have no idea.”
“Where did she go?”
“It doesn’t matter. Your panel starts in exactly two minutes. You don’t have time to track her down and kill her.”
That was a bummer. Not that I was into murder or anything. Because he was right about the time and I was a man who was never late, I ran across the convention center room and managed to get to the stage with exactly 2.5 seconds to spare.
I landed in my chair, out of breath, and double-checked that I was in the right seat. The placard in front of me read B. B. Bates. The one next to mine read Bree James.
“Hello,” I said automatically, hoping to ease the tension coiling inside me. I’d had a plan. That plan had gone out the window, but it could still be salvaged. I believed that right up until the moment I lifted my eyes and realized I was looking at the whirlwind.
She smirked as I glared. “Hey,” she said in a friendly tone. “Bree James.” She stuck out her hand.
I looked at it, then her. Then I scowled. “Yes, I believe we met by the coffee cart.”
Bree was the picture of innocence. “What do you mean?”
“You ran into me, knocked me into Amy Ryan’s table, then took off without picking up your mess.”
Bree took a long sip of her coffee. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said with a straight face.
That only made me frown harder. “Are you kidding me right now?”
Her lips quirked, then she pointed toward the crowd. When I glanced in their direction, I realized all eyes were on us. They seemed fascinated.
“It’s going to be a fun panel, huh?” she said, amusement dripping from every word. “I can’t wait to see how it goes.”
That made one of us.