Chapter 1 #2
on-screen. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was Gabe’s headshot, very professionally captured, and a book—like the
ones stacked on the table, which I could now read the title of on the screen. Seasons.
He wasn’t just Gabe the bookseller. He was the Gabriel Scott, the Pulitzer finalist. Scott, the winner of the National Book Critics Award for his debut memoir.
I gasped, and the mint slipped down my throat, getting stuck in the wrong pipe. I coughed, fighting to dislodge it. I kept
coughing, realizing I was in real trouble now. Heimlich. Does anyone still know how to do it? Gabe’s Pulitzer-finalist face showed concern.
My mother popped up, shrieking my name. Our eyes met at the instant my soul left my body. I witnessed my own terror, watched
my flailing arms, and then . . . whack! The mint flew out of my mouth like a tiny missile followed by wind, cells, DNA, and
everything else inside me. I’d been slapped on the back—hard. I collapsed into a chair.
Beck’s appreciative “Thank you, Jesus” met my ears right before a cup of water appeared in my blurred vision.
I accepted it and looked to my left as I raised the cup to my lips.
It was Gabe, or was I supposed to think of him as Gabriel now?
I blinked a few times, clearing the blurry haze, and focused on his face.
I became acutely aware of why he made me so uncomfortable, why an uneasiness settled just below the surface that made my heart speed up a little and my mouth dry—a lot.
He was handsome. Fine, actually, in a he’s-too-young-for-me-but-I’ve-still-got-eyes kind of way.
I took a sip of water and lowered the cup.
He said, “Alex Wesley. Wow. It’s been a long time.”
Long enough for you to write the book of the century, I thought, raising the cup to my lips again. I continued to sip so I didn’t have to say anything.
“We almost lost you.” His eyes crinkled at the corners with his smile, and I reckoned—wrinkles—not so young.
My mother was talking, whispering, “Thank you,” to someone other than God. Gabe stood. “You’re okay, but no more small pieces
of food for you tonight.” He smiled again, and this time it was deep enough to reveal his dimples. Dimples. Who even still had those other than men in romance novels?
He walked away, or maybe it was a stroll. Which verb would I use if I were writing . . . strut, stride? Something that conveyed mad swagger.
I was still searching for my word when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and faced the man who I instinctively knew had
been my savior/assailant. I didn’t know if I wanted to thank him or hit him back. He’d probably bruised every bone from my
vertebrae to my sternum.
He dropped into the chair next to me. “Sorry I hit you like that, but believe me, the Heimlich hurts worse. I was hoping I
could get it out with one hard one.”
I nodded and said, “Thank you for—”
“Saving her life,” Beck interjected, slipping into the chair behind us.
Shifting my insides was on the tip of my tongue. I grinned a little and said, “Yes. Thank you for saving my life.” I secretly wanted to press assault charges. My lungs were loose. And where was that mint? He needed it. That garlicky meat on the toothpick was a catering fail.
Beck interjected again, saying, “My daughter is a writer too. She’s written almost thirty romance novels.”
A bristle of irritation ran through me. She knew I hated it when she did that. Through gritted teeth, I said, “Mom, don’t.”
Someone tapped a microphone, and then I was grateful Gabe was being introduced so all eyes were back at the front of the room.
He had a long bio. He looked embarrassed as the introduction went on and on. I knew that feeling. Listening to someone read
your credentials was like being eulogized. When asked for my bio, I tried to send over the shortest one I had, but sometimes
people rooted around for more info. Had Gabe given someone this long soliloquy, or was he hoping this would end soon? I couldn’t
read him.
He took the microphone after prompting from the moderator and started talking about his inspiration for the book, his writing
process, themes, and contemporary relevance . . . one deep, impactful story at a time. Then the moderator fielded questions.
I know it must have been my imagination, but Gabe seemed to keep finding my eyes in the crowd. When he was finished, applause
rang out. The moderator announced that books were for sale and Gabe would be signing.
Beck popped to her feet. “I’m getting one.”
“Mom,” I whined, protesting because I wanted to get out of here, but she was already gone.
I’d trained her well. She always supported an author with a purchase.
Even when she was poor and the book had sprayed edges.
Even when she would not read it. Beck didn’t read serious literature.
She was afraid of feeling strong emotions.
Sometimes I thought she’d spent her whole life running from her own heart.
She didn’t yell. She didn’t cry. She didn’t let herself love out loud.
Her strength looked like calm to most people, but I knew better.
It wasn’t calm. It was control. And I surmised it was the reason she didn’t like talking about the past. There was a lot of grief there, including the death of my father months before they were supposed to get married and a complicated relationship with her parents—both now deceased.
I remained seated, feeling some kind of way for not joining everyone in line, but also feeling a way about who Gabe had become
as a writer. I wasn’t a jealous person, but I couldn’t deny feeling envious about all he’d accomplished with his debut book
when I was nine years into my career and quickly falling out of love with it. An email requiring a hundred pages wasn’t helping
my relationship with the business.
The moderator was back, announcing that Gabe would be drawing a winner for a giveaway.
Beck was back at my side. “You should have come for the picture.” She held out her phone, showing me their friendly smiles.
“By the way, I entered you in the giveaway when I registered.”
Luck had zero interest in finding me. I sighed again.
“Alex, do you know how many times you’ve sighed and groaned tonight? Just sit.”
I refused to. “I have to pee.”
I left her, moving through the crowd in the direction of the restrooms. I heard the moderator saying something about luxury . . .
a cabin . . . a week. Just as I reached the corridor, a different voice boomed from the speakers. A male one. Gabe’s. “The
winner is Alex Wesley.”