“I bet he did,” I retort. “I’ll let my editor know you’re straight lined to me moving forward.”
“I was giving you until tomorrow. By the way, the cherry tart was a nice touch. Not to mention, the gorgeous delivery girl … or ‘friend.’” He chuckles, using air quotes.
“We’re just friends.” I try to define the lie I spoke only minutes ago. It’s more a hope than a deception, because I would like to be her friend while she’s in New York City. Return the favor preferably with her in my arms.
“I don’t understand this ‘friends’ business with young people. Men didn’t nuance their relationships with women in my day.”
“It’s not like that,” I object, because random hookups have never been part of my sex life. However, I can’t say how many girlfriends I’ve had over the years. Dozens perhaps.
“Sure,” he says with an epic eye-roll. “She’s smart and beautiful.” He pauses a beat. “You’re stupid.”
“She’s too young.”
It’s a fact—not an excuse. I’ve never dated anyone more than four years younger than me.
“That’s not what your father thought when he met your mother. He also never called her his friend.” Don crosses his arms over his chest, a look of victory in his eyes.
“But he did call her his secretary,” I say with a smirk, knowing my mother was so much more than an office worker to my father. She was, and still is, his everything.
“Minor details,” Don says in a matter-of-fact tone, and we both smile, because he’s right. Age is just a number when two adults are attracted to each other, or so I’ve heard from my parents.
“The devil is usually in those pesky details,” I add.
I hardly know anything about Miss Holly, other than she’s from Alabama, and maybe a little too trusting if she came to help me today without any solid facts.
“As you get older, you learn the devil haunts your regrets.” Don stays stone-faced, and I let his words of wisdom sink in. “Bring Tessa to the awards dinner. Make an old man happy and sit her next to me. In the meantime, I hope you get your head out of your ass and realize you can’t be friends with a woman like her. I can tell she’s already gotten under your skin.”
Has she? Or do I just want to get under her trench coat?
14
Tessa
I run my fingers along a shelf in Don’s library. I can’t believe he and I are on a first name basis. I want to call my mother, the true lover of books, and tell her what’s happened today. Everything seems so surreal, I wonder if she’d even believe me.
I spot one of my favorite books, The Count of Monte Cristo, and pull it from a tightly packed shelf. The leather edition is worn around the edges and the gold embossed writing on the surface has faded with time. I let the large book fall open in my hands, revealing a page with a crushed dried rose. I hold the delicate flower in place, wondering if Don left the faded red rose inside years ago.
Before I close the book, I notice a passage marked with hearts in the side margin. “Woman is sacred; the woman one loves is holy.”
I want to believe Don highlighted these words and saved the rose in remembrance of the woman he loves or loved. He does weave a thread of romance throughout his stories, as so many great authors tend to do. I’ve always thought the greatest books would be mere words on a page without a lovers’ struggle within them.
Carefully, I close the book and return it to its rightful place. I glance over the shelves, searching for another title amongst the hundreds. As I reach for The Sound and the Fury by fellow southerner, Tennessee Williams, my phone vibrates, alerting me to an incoming text.
I reach into my coat pocket and pull it out. After a quick glance at the screen, it shows I’ve missed five texts from Maggie. The last one begs me to call her, so I do. She answers after the first ring.
“So, spill.” The words fly out without even a quick hello. Talk about anxious for details.
“We’re at Don Black’s house—or more like his mansion. I’ve never seen a home like this before.” I move over to a lush velvet couch and sit down. I choose a seat that gives me a full view of the library’s door. If Don wasn’t kidding, he’s only giving Mr. Hammond fifteen minutes, so I’ll be ready in case their meeting ends soon.
“Is your head spinning?” Maggie asks.
“You have no idea. But there’s something wrong with me,” I confess, twirling a strand of hair around my finger.
“What could possibly be wrong? You’re with a hot as fuck guy in your favorite author’s home. You’re living your best life.”