Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Zander
I’m trying not to admit to myself I’m sad this book is almost over.
One Train in December is, quite possibly, one of the most riveting books I’ve ever read.
I haven’t dived into much historical fiction.
When I was in a book club, once upon a time, the books were mainly literary or general fiction, with a few historical sprinkled in.
None were like this. I’m a man that works in words.
It’s my job to know what to say. But I don’t have words for this.
It’s that good.
Adelaide Ramsay is a literary genius. I have to figure out a way to tell her that isn’t too forward or creepy.
I started reading her book on Sunday, after I’d grabbed a pizza on the way home post-event. And now, two days later, I’m back in my apartment, back in my designated reading chair, and twenty pages from the end.
I put the book down on the slate grey coffee table in front of me, page 353 folded down. I can’t finish this book until I have her next book, and then I need the upcoming book, and then I need to know the inner-workings of her mind that made these glorious books happen.
I exhale in the silence of my one-bedroom apartment.
Silence that immediately becomes unbearable without Adelaide’s words to keep me company.
I’m getting ahead of myself, I know. But nobody has ever made me feel this adrift.
Unless we’re talking about the unmooring that happens when you lose your parents and make a series of terrible choices.
But this kind of unmoored is not one I’m familiar with. It’s like she threw my world off its axis with one smile.
Instalove. That’s what I’m told this kind of feeling is in the romance world.
Fate. Destiny. Soulmates. It’s all a bit much for me. But as I sit, listening to the ticking of the wall clock anchored next to my front door, I have to wonder.
Lucy, my golden retriever, rises from her dog bed—the one she only uses out here. She sleeps curled at my feet otherwise. Her little toes tippy tap on my laminate hardwood floor until she stops in front of me. She sits, then shifts her front legs and whines, somehow reading my mind.
I laugh. “Don’t worry, Luce. You’re still my number one girl.”
Her mouth drops as she pants, tongue lolling as if she’s smiling.
I bend and scratch her underneath her light blonde chin.
She’s an old girl. Nine years my soul dog.
She turned my whole life around, if not entirely saved it.
I tap my knees and she hops up as though she’s still my little baby dog.
She throws her full weight against me and ravishes my face with kisses.
“Oh, I know,” I say, rubbing behind her ears. “You’ve had a long, hard day of resting and you need a little love.” She thumps her feathery tail against my legs and lets out a low, rumbling purr, a quirk I discovered many goldens do during our first month together.
Lucy gets settled, somehow managing to curl herself in my lap. She nudges at my hand with her nose until my fingers splay over her belly and I resume the pats. Content, she rests her head and shuts her eyes.
I tip my head back against the armchair’s cushion and sigh.
I won’t be finishing the book tonight, Lucy’s made sure of that.
But she’s also made sure I’m alone with my thoughts, again, and those thoughts turn back to Adelaide.
My free hand itches to pick up my phone.
My last remaining rational thought says, hey, don’t do that.
Which then spirals to, she’ll never like you.
Who could ever like me once they know what I’ve done?
My fingers close around my phone. Don’t do it.
I tap in my passcode and scroll through apps until I get to Instagram.
Nothing good can come from this. I swipe to my tagged photos and click on the one Beaver Creek Library posted of the Festival of Local Authors yesterday morning.
She’s going to be disgusted by you. I find Adelaide’s tag, a photo of her grinning at the podium, holding up one of her ARCs. Last chance to rethink this.
Instead of listening to the creeping doubt, I click “message”.
Zander
Hey! I’m sure you get a lot of messages so no worries about responding to this. I just wanted to say I finished your book. It was incredible
I hit send before I have a chance to overthink.
And then I feel the instant regret seize my stomach in a white-hot clench.
She’s probably going to think this is weird and creepy, because it is weird and creepy.
I’ve heard from my author peers that they get a lot of unsolicited, unwanted, horribly prying messages.
I get a lot of unsolicited messages. I’ve gotten messages suggesting where I can go and what I should do with myself.
But I’m a big boy and nobody hates me as much as I hate myself, so none of them can hurt me.
The messages I lack, however, are ones I’ve heard many women in the profession get.
The ones from readers asking about their sex lives, if their sex scenes are inspired by true events, if they practiced certain positions to get it right.
The ones from men, soliciting acts nobody asked for, asking for dates and personal details, threatening when they don’t get what they want.
Sure, I’ve gotten messages about how much someone hated my book, but I’ve never been propositioned in my DMs.
In the grand scheme of things, I know my message to Adelaide is nothing like that. I just assume the moment you see a man’s name pop up as a notification there’s a certain blip of anxiety.
Which is why it’s so surprising my phone buzzes in my hand not even a minute after I send the message.
Adelaide
Thank you so much!! Text me on my personal so I don’t miss any messages, okay?
She attaches her personal account. Holy shit.
At the very least that means she wants to talk some more.
I heart the message then shift to the new account.
Instead of her name with author at the end, it’s a mixture of her initials (I assume her middle name starts with L) and numbers.
Her profile photo is of her with a bright bouquet of flowers just below her chin, the camera so close I can count every single one of her freckles.
I request to follow. It’s accepted a moment later and I get a message.
Adelaide
Is this your only account?
Zander
Yeah. I’m not on here enough to justify having more
Adelaide
Oh you're one of those guys ;)
I’d laugh if I wasn’t the kind of guy who only had one account because my “brand” involved me using my real name.
I couldn’t publish a memoir without using my real name so people could look up my real story.
My agent probably took me on before she should have, but she always says she saw something in me.
She helped me build the following I needed in order to sell the book.
And now, yes, I just don’t have the energy to have a personal and private account.
I’m only here to post publishing updates anyway.
Zander
Lame? Low key? That’s my vibes
Adelaide
Lol whatever you say Mr. Browning. Welcome to my finsta
Zander
Finsta?
Adelaide
Dude, I’m the one who writes HistFic, not you. Get up with the new lingo
I smirk. Aforementioned instalove feelings seem to be growing.
Zander
I will do better
Adelaide
You better. Anyway! Thank you for saying such nice things about my book. I’m not even halfway through yours and that makes me so mad. I haven’t had time to sit down and read but I want to!! Look!!
She sends a photo of herself curled up on a white and pink plaid couch. Her legs are covered by a fuzzy blanket and a book with an ivy embroidered bookmark sits in her lap. My book.
Zander
This was definitely not me nagging you to read. I’m a fast reader, always have been, and I needed to tell you how much I love it
Adelaide
DO NOT WORRY AT ALL. Honestly your message kind of made my day
Zander
In that case, can I make it even better?
Adelaide
Be still my beating heart
Yes
Flatter me
So I do. I spend the next hour talking about every little piece of her book I adored, and she spends the next hour roasting me.
My heart stutters every time her messages come in.
I haven’t felt this way in years. It only takes an hour for me to realize I’m done for.
One way or another, Adelaide Ramsay is going to change my life.