Chapter 11 #2
“Only one drink?” asked Scarlet as Alice slipped back into her seat. “I thought you were having one.”
“I was till I spilled it on Parker Black.”
Scarlet’s eyes got big, then so did her smile. “Seriously?”
Alice nodded. “Seriously. Accidentally.”
“Accidentally on purpose? I wish I’d been there to see that,” said Scarlet, looking to where their archenemy was slipping
into his seat. “Look at him over there, pouting. I love it. And just wait until the whole world sees him sucking up to a romance
writer old enough to be his mother.” She chortled. “Parker Black, you have no idea what kind of snake pit you’ve stepped into.”
Alice loved the idea of Parker Black getting a taste of his own nasty medicine, but she couldn’t shake the premonition that
he wouldn’t be the only one who got bitten in the snake pit. “This could backfire,” she said. “I don’t think you should post
that picture anywhere.”
“I don’t see how it could. Don’t worry, this is going to be the perfect payback,” Scarlet predicted. Her smile was smug. “I
swear, I should be in a book. I’m brilliant.”
“Parker, what happened to your tuxedo?” his mother asked, looking at the stain on his shirt and jacket lapel.
“Close encounter at the bar. No big deal,” he said. Just big enough to sour his mood.
He sat there and fumed. Alice Willoughby had a gift for making a man feel like a jerk. First the mess after the debate and
now this latest exchange. She’d dumped her drink on him and yet here he was feeling like the weasel king.
It was those big Alice in Blunderland eyes of hers. She was like a heroine in one of the romance novels he’d been reading
from, all innocent and perfect. She’d barely come up to his chin, but she’d managed to make him feel small, like one of the
idiot heroes in those books. And to think his own mother wrote that stuff. Ugh.
He forced his eyes to look away from her. That glittery red dress drew them back like a magnet. With the neckline low enough
to make a man wish it would go lower, and the skirt that swirled around her legs, she’d looked like she’d escaped from some
classic movie. It was a take-her-out-and-take-me-off kind of dress.
Well, he had no intention of doing either.
Darn it all, why hadn’t she believed him when he said he wasn’t responsible for that meme!
He tried to focus on the conversation at the table, then wished he hadn’t. The couple seated with them wrote mysteries as
a team and were acquaintances of his Uncle Jerome. Unlike Uncle Jerome, the guy was a wimp, and his bulldozer wife kept running
over every sentence he tried to finish.
“No, Edward,” she corrected before he could complete his story. “We didn’t meet them in Edinburgh. It was in London. We’d
just done a reel featuring the Agatha Christie memorial,” she said to everyone.
The man’s face reddened. “That’s right. I forgot.”
“He forgets a lot,” said the wife. She offered no gentle smile to accompany her words, no wifely pat on the shoulder. “But that’s why you’ve got me, right?”
He nodded and managed a weak smile. “That’s right.”
Poor guy.
Waiters were appearing with wine. Parker reached for his glass as soon as it was filled, all the while wishing he hadn’t finished
off his drink. He could have used it. It was going to be a long night.
Somehow, he got through dinner. The food was excellent, but he didn’t enjoy it any more than he enjoyed the speaker who came
after. She droned on too long and too boringly about how reading as a child had helped her survive mean-girl bullying and
then turned her into the literary genius she’d become.
“Her last book tanked and here she is doing the keynote,” muttered their pain-in-the-butt dining companion as the woman finished
to polite applause.
“Genre fiction never gets the respect it deserves,” grumbled her husband.
“Yeah, we cry all the way to the bank,” joked Uncle Jerome. “Right, sis?”
“Right,” said Mom. She’d been doing well writing romances, well enough that she’d quit her day job.
She’d worked for years as a librarian—not the biggest salary in the world for a single mom, but she’d made it work. Uncle
Jerome had been her backup, helping at Christmas, he and his wife taking them along on many of their vacations. Somewhere
along the way she’d started a side hustle, helping him with research for his books, and that had led to her deciding to try
her hand at writing. Mom had done okay for herself, and Parker was glad for her success.
He just wished she’d decided to write mysteries. Or science fiction. Anything but romance novels.
Luna had been one of her biggest fans. She’d even asked Mom for writing advice, which she’d been happy to give . . . before everything with Parker had gone sideways. Then she’d thanked Mom for her help by doing her best to humiliate her son. Mom had refused to give her a cover quote.
Thank God every writer wasn’t a Luna. His mother and uncle were both class acts, and so were many of the other writers Parker
had met through Uncle Jerome.
A well-known writer took over to hand out an award to an up-and-coming newbie, and Parker surreptitiously checked the time
on his phone. Even though these literary events were always for a good cause, he wasn’t a big fan of them. As with any profession’s
gathering, attendees came together to brag or bitch, depending on what was happening with their careers. Admiration and envy
always swirled around this kind of affair, leaving some smiles genuine and some fake. Books were the key to happiness and
would save the world. Just ask any writer.
Or they’d be a great way to take a shot at the guy who’d broken up with you.
Or they could be the way to boost ratings, if you made fun of them.
Suddenly, Parker found himself feeling small again. He was pulling the plug on his romance novel ranting. Enough was enough.
Men had heard that particular message loud and clear and now it was time to move on. He could find plenty in the world of
sports to rant about on his show. He didn’t need the pink hearts.
“Oh, yeah?” Jay argued when Parker was back at the station come Monday, getting set to go on. “I guess you haven’t seen the
latest.”
They’d both watched the game together on Sunday. What could have happened since then? “What are you talking about?”
Jay pulled his phone from his back pocket. Parker’s unease grew as Jay punched the screen. He turned it to Parker. “Arne sent it to me last night.”
There on some woman’s feed was a shared post of Parker and his mom, him listening like a good son, her with her hand on his
arm. “What the . . . ?”
“That’s you, having an affair with a woman old enough to be your mother.”
“That is my mother and you know it,” Parker snapped.
“Yep, but all those women out there who hate you don’t.” Jay turned the phone back so he could read. “ ‘Parker Black is a
hypocrite,’ ” he quoted. “ ‘He makes fun of romance novels but here he is out with Genevive Eden, who writes them.’ And yeah,
there are a lot of comments on you being a gigolo and a boy toy to boot.”
“That’s sick,” Parker said in disgust.
“No, that’s revenge. It’s everywhere. And guess what people are choosing for music to go with the post.”
“I don’t want to know.”
Jay ignored him. “ ‘Love Is in the Air.’ How’s that for special? I’ll give you three guesses who’s behind this, but you’ll
probably only need one.”
“Alice Willoughby,” Parker said in disgust.
“It gets better,” said Jay, and showed him a post by a radio personality from another station who was out for his ratings.
Woman-hater sports radio personality is a secret romance reader. Way to score points, Parker.
Parker ground his teeth.
“You’re gonna have a lot of calls to deal with today,” Jay warned as he put his phone back in his pocket. “This is not the
time to back off. In fact, you’d better double down. You’ve lost credibility.”
Jay was right.
“What’s the deal, man?” demanded one caller. “I mean, if you’re into older women, hey, no judgment. But is she a romance writer like I’m hearing? You gone over to the pink side?”
“That’s my mom. The real writer was cut out of the picture. I was there with her and my uncle, Jerome Riddle, who writes the
Jason Stone books,” Parker explained.
The real writer? Okay, that had been a poor choice of words.
“I guess Mom is a safe date. Or maybe you couldn’t get a date,” teased Jay, making sure he was on air.
Haha. Producers should be not seen and not heard.
“Yeah, well, we know you can’t get one,” Parker said. “Anyway, guys, not to worry. Your man is still blue through and through,
watching out for you all. And, hey, speaking of watching, let’s talk about yesterday’s game.”
Nobody wanted to talk about yesterday’s game. Everybody wanted to either diss or tease him. Mostly, they wanted to rant.
“You’re a fake,” one man accused. “Go on, admit it. You’re just as whipped as the rest of us.”
Parker could see Jay frowning on the other side of the glass.
“Can’t happen,” he shot back. “Since I’m not with anyone.”
Calls dwindled after that, and Parker wound up doing a long monologue about the latest Seattle Kraken team news.
“You got to do something to get your creds back before Harlan hears about this or we’re both going to get flushed down the
toilet,” Jay said after the show.
“Me? It was your idea to read from those stupid books.” Like the ones his mom wrote. Please, God, don’t let anyone Mom knows have been listening today.
“Hey, you were all over it. And you’re the personality.”
Who had thought it was a good idea at the time and who was now a hypocrite and a gigolo. Score one for Alice Willoughby. Looks like you got your revenge, lady.
“You’re right,” Parker admitted.
“You can’t take this lying down,” Jay said.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. Think of something to give the ratings a boost.”
Think of something. No problem.