Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
The outfit has nothing to do with John. Nothing.
Duct tape makes a great corset.
Elaine’s Army is here.
“How do I look?” I asked Otis for what had to be the tenth time since we arrived in Chicago.
We’d packed the car with overnight bags and snacks, slapped on camera-ready makeup, and sang through the Rocky Horror soundtrack—twice—on the two-hour drive down I-90.
Otis had scored us tickets to Everybody’s Talking About Jamie from a theater friend, and we planned to head there right after the conference.
I hated leaving Mom alone for a whole weekend, but I was looking forward to doing something that wasn’t directly tied to the fate of the shop.
“You still look hot,” Otis said. “Like the last time you asked me. Not as good as I do, but it’ll do.” He linked his arm with mine and tugged me toward the room where the announcement would be held.
The hall was brightly lit, buzzing with attendees gathered around signing tables or flowing toward one of the many stages set up for panels.
I stalked across the room in platform thigh-highs and a tight black dress, a loose green trench coat thrown over top, readjusting my girls.
Otis slapped my hand away.
“What?” I asked, straightening the name tag that absolutely did not go with the vibe.
“Stop fidgeting. You’ll ruin my perfectly curated aesthetic,” he said, tugging me closer and smiling at a very handsome man in a sleek gray suit.
I grumbled and dragged my tongue across my teeth to check for lipstick smudges. The price tag was still attached to the back of my dress—I prayed I could return it in time. Not that Otis needed to know that.
“Or,” he said, “are you worried about what he will say?”
I stopped short. A few people behind me bumped into one another. I ignored them. “Not everything is about John Kater, Otis.”
He leaned toward a polished window to check his reflection. “I wouldn’t mind being on the cover of the New York Times. Maybe I should be your stand-in.” He turned back, grinning. “Oh! What if you ghostwrote for me? The beauty and the brain.”
I told myself the nausea that had kept me from eating all the Snickers Otis had stashed in the glove box was from nerves—or the press. Definitely not because I had, in a moment of absolute madness, sent John a selfie. Definitely not.
Chicago’s Book Fair agenda was jam-packed: talks, workshops, an indie author panel, and an agent pitch party.
All of which sounded far more appealing than sitting through the 4 p.m. press conference for Haller & Mark.
The idea of being called up like a contestant on a cruel literary version of Let’s Make a Deal made my skin crawl.
Behind door number three? Maybe a book deal. Maybe public humiliation.
Otis bumped his shoulder into mine. “You’ll be fine. Just pretend to be me.” He smiled.
“I’m really sorry about missing your last rehearsal,” I said as we skirted around a table for self-published erotica.
He shrugged, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s alright. I know how your mom can be.”
I could hear the unspoken follow-up—we’d had this conversation before. She’s your mother, not the other way around, Otis liked to remind me.
“Oh look,” he said, holding up a truly heinous book cover. “Angela and Her Busty Cupcakes: Book One of the Spicy Baker Series. Think that’ll cheer her up?”
I snorted. Then my phone buzzed.
“Speaking of the baker,” I said, answering without checking—only to realize I’d just accepted a video call.
“Oh, hey Mom,” I said, quickly tilting the phone to crop Otis out of the frame.
“Nora, Liebling!” she exclaimed. “Carol just taught me how to video call!”
“I can see that,” I said, trying to move to a quieter corner. But just then, the doors to the main stage opened, and we were swept up in a flood of people.
“Where are you? I thought you were on a trip with John?” Mom asked, holding the phone at arm’s length. She was perched on Carol’s porch, whose bottle-red hair was peeking in from the side. The sight made my heart twist. I could count on one hand how many times Mom had left the house this year.
Otis gaped at me.
I shrugged and mouthed, What?
“You deserve all the pitchforks they’ll stick in your ass in hell for keeping up this pitiful charade,” he whispered.
“Where is your famous boyfriend, Nora?” Carol practically shouted into the phone.
Just then, a warm hand brushed my waist. The scent hit me before anything else—undeniably him.
My heart stuttered. Stupid heart.
“Hi. You must be Nora’s mom,” said John, in that smooth baritone. His breath grazed my cheek as he slid an arm around my shoulder.
Otis clutched his chest like he was witnessing a royal wedding.
I rolled my eyes. He wasn’t that gorgeous.
My mother beamed. “Oh ja, that’s me!” she said, stabbing Carol with an I-told-you-so finger.
“Sorry, Mom. We gotta go, we need to… uhm…” I scrambled for a reasonable explanation for the background noise—because I may have told her I was spending the weekend with my boyfriend in a quiet cottage.
“It’s a surprise,” John said smoothly. “I wanted to spoil her this weekend.”
I turned to him, raising a brow.
He smirked, giving my back a light squeeze. Trust me, his face said. I know what moms like.
And he was right.
Mom was fanning herself. FANNING herself.
“Well, you two lovebirds go and enjoy yourselves,” she said. “But you have to come for dinner when you’re back.”
“I’d love that,” John replied, voice warm and convincing.
A flurry of conflicting emotions spun through me. I waved goodbye and hung up before she could ask what season he preferred for a wedding.
John stepped out of reach almost immediately. I looked up at him, half apologetic, half annoyed. “She’s got Instagram now, and she’s told the neighbors. Sorry ’bout that.”
He shrugged, hands sliding into his pockets—pulling the waistband of his slacks just low enough that I could see, if I wanted to (I didn’t… obviously), the start of a trail of hair leading downward.
“It’s not a problem,” he said in a tone that hinted at all the things he wasn’t saying.
“You know, because of your—” I stepped closer, voice low. “Engagement,” I mouthed.
He looked down at me, amused. “My PR team can always discredit you,” he said lightly.
“Charming. How’s Queequeg?”
“Still fat.”
I bit my lip to hide a grin.
His gaze dropped from my face to my neck… then lower, snagging on the thigh-highs I was wearing. “You look…” He swallowed. “You look great, Nora.”
I waited for him to mention the selfie. But he didn’t. Just kept looking at me—my neckline, my collarbones, my legs.
A sudden heat surged through me. One that had absolutely nothing to do with how good he looked in that slightly unbuttoned white shirt. Or the memory of him pressing me against the shelf in the shed, his body caging mine.
Nothing at all.
I looked over my shoulder. “I guess we should go in?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, undoing another shirt button. “You nervous?”
I leaned back on my heels, realizing I’d risen to meet his height—like he was generating some kind of personal gravitational pull I couldn’t quite resist.
“Nervous about going home empty-handed? Or the fact that freaking Lew Elliot might end up holding my manuscript in his hands?”
He tilted his head, about to say something—when a camera flash lit up the side of his face. He blinked, adjusted his collar, and waved politely at the photographer.
I took a step back.
Otis appeared between us like a summoned spirit. “Hi, I’m Otis—Nora’s better half.”
At John’s wary expression, he added, “Better, very gay half.” He flashed a dazzling smile, his silver eyeliner catching the light like a disco ball.
John offered his hand—so old-fashioned. Otis grabbed it enthusiastically.
“Nice to meet you,” John said smoothly. “Nora’s told me a lot about you.”
“Has she now?” Otis grinned, still clasping John’s hand like he might never let go. “She’s such a treasure, isn’t she?”
“Uh… yes. Yes, she is,” John said, carefully pulling his fingers free from Otis’s too-tight grip.
“And hot,” Otis added.
“Okay, we better get going,” I said loudly, steering Otis in the opposite direction.
“See you inside,” John said with a nod to Otis, then turned away to sign someone’s book.
I let out a breath, enough air to fill a hot-air balloon.
Otis leaned in, whispering, “Is it just me, or did it get really warm in here?”
“Shut up,” I replied, suddenly breathless. “I need a drink.”
“It’s 2 p.m.”
“Perfect.”
Camera flashes filled the room. Reporter after reporter crowded in. The place was severely under-chaired.
I was under no illusion—this media circus was here for John. My tension had eased slightly once May and Jeremy arrived and took their seats beside me, where little note cards marked our names.
Otis kept throwing me double thumbs-ups every two minutes, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was texting me bad dad jokes.
Charlene sat one chair away. “How are we all doing? So good to see you.” She patted my shoulder and waved at May, who was—unsurprisingly—knitting under the table.
“We’re just waiting on John,” Charlene said, craning her neck to look through the crowd. Pointless—John would tower over everyone anyway.
My phone buzzed. It was Otis.
OMG, is that HIM next to you?
I glanced at Jeremy, chatting with May. He was wearing a hand-knitted scarf. The two of them seemed even closer than before. Maybe I’d misjudged him.
Jeremy?
You mean Jeremy, my future husband? I will end our friendship if you don’t introduce us ASAP.
You won’t.
I won’t. But I’ll be mad.
Didn’t think he was your type.
And what exactly is my type, love?
Pocket full of party drugs. Body glitter. Owns at least one harness.
Rude. But also true.