I finish signing the books, and then Winnifred and her boyfriend buy another two from me. I sign them and then the happy couple takes off to meet other authors. For a minute, I’m able to just chill and relax, so I take a chance to sip my water and look out over the room.
It’s crowded: more crowded than I thought it would be. The event I’m signing at is a three-day ordeal with writers from all over the country. Everyone flew in to get together for drinks, networking, and general information-sharing. A few of the more experienced writers even put on workshops, so I got to find out more about how to hire a graphic designer for my book covers and even how to start marketing on deeper levels.
Overall, it’s been a wonderful few days, but for me, this is the highlight.
Spending Saturday night hanging out with other writers, connecting with readers, and signing books before sending them out into the world is a thrilling experience. Part of me never wants this to end.
As I’m looking out into the crowd, I don’t notice the man approaching my table at first. He clears his throat and I turn to look, but I’m caught off guard and I jump back a little. The corner of his lips twitch and he smirks at me.
“First time meeting new people?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.
Instantly, I bristle. Okay, so this guy is hot. He’s like, rip-off-my-panties and spank-me-until-I-come hot. Why is he here? The models are on the other side of the room, and as far as I know, he’s not one of them. At least, if he is a model, he’s someone I’ve never seen, but oh, I’d love to put him on a book cover. He’s tall, dark, and delicious.
“No,” I finally seem to find words. “It’s not my first time meeting people.”
“Ah, well, you could have fooled me.”
I cock my head and stare at him. Who is this guy? Unlike most of the people who wander by, he’s looking at me: not my books. Most people who read care about what the book looks like: not the author. He doesn’t even seem to notice my books at all. Instead, his gaze is just centered totally on me, and it’s making me really, really uncomfortable.
“So,” I say, searching for an ice breaker that isn’t Do you have a girlfriend already or may I apply for the position?
“So.”
“What kind of books do you like to read?”
“Oh, I like a little bit of everything,” he says. He reaches out and traces one of my covers. He doesn’t look at the book, though. Instead, his eyes stay on mine, but I’m drawn to his hand. He’s careful with my books. He touches them gently, almost in a caressing way.
What would it feel like to have him caressing me with those hands?
“That’s great,” I swallow. Suddenly, my mouth feels really dry. “Well, there are quite a few choices available, if you like paranormal stories,” I point out.
“Where do you get your ideas?” He asks, interrupting me.
“Excuse me?”
“Your ideas,” he says. “Where do they come from?”
It’s a question I get a lot, but I can’t quite put it into words without sounding like a total idiot. I mean, I’m definitely not going to tell this guy that I have dreams about werewolves and vampires and secret worlds that exist alongside our own. That would be crazy.
Right?
I’m not going to tell him that these dreams started when I was thirteen or that I’ve been spending the better part of my adult life trying to get the stories out of my head so I can live a normal life.
For me, writing isn’t just about entertaining the reader.
It’s about survival.
There are way too many stories spinning around in my brain for me to ever be able to stop writing. For me, it’s therapeutic to get all of the words out that I need to.
“Oh, well, a writer can get ideas from anywhere. Some writers get ideas when they’re at the supermarket and some find that the ideas seem to flow when they’re having fun or trying new things. Some people-”
He slams both of his palms down on my table and looks right at me.
“I didn’t ask you where other people got their ideas.” He practically snarls at me as he says this, and suddenly, I get the distinct impression that this guy isn’t a fan after all. “I asked where you get yours.”
I open my mouth and close it again. There’s no way he could know about the dreams. No way, no how. There’s no chance that a guy like this knows anything about a girl like me, but it’s on the tip of my tongue just to tell him.
I shouldn’t.