Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“It’s beautiful. Thanks,” she says in a dreamy voice.
Holding her hands to her chest, she walks toward Don and stops in front of him. She reaches up on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on his cheek. Pleased with himself, and her, he smirks. I ball my fist.
“You’re welcome,” he sputters. Southern women.
He bends down to pick up a small kitten standing near his feet. The cat’s fur is a butterscotch color. Calico, I think, and a damn cute one too. “I’ve named this little guy Shakespurr after a new blog I found. Have you heard of it?”
Don looks at me for an answer, but I have no clue. I shift on my feet when Miss Holly pipes up, hopefully saving the day again.
“I know that blog,” she gushes with excitement.
“My agent turned me on to it. It’s not every day a millennial crowd get books written by an old man like me.”
“That’s not true. Believe me. I’m one of your biggest fans,” she exclaims, then proceeds to turn bright red and bows her head. “I swore I wouldn’t say that.”
When her shoulders fall, I want to tell her not to worry, because he hears that all the time, but that’s likely the very reason she’s embarrassed. It’s what everyone says to him.
“What was your favorite book?” Don asks, a big grin on his face, eating up this beautiful young woman’s attention. Where’s his wife anyway?
“His Secret was your best thriller, in my opinion.” Miss Holly gives him a dazzling smile. “You’re the king of writing palpable tension. Never letting the reader know how you plan on peeling the onion.”
“Wow.” Don whistles, and I stand amazed at Miss Holly’s assessment. She’s nailed his unique brand. It keeps the pages turning and the books selling. “You truly are familiar with the Shakespurr blog. It’s almost exactly what they said about the book.”
“Uh-huh,” she singsongs, tilting her lips in a smile of victory. She should be proud she cracked this stubborn man’s crusty exterior.
“Follow me to the kitchen, Barclay. You need meds before your lips take over your entire face.” Don crooks a finger over his shoulder as he walks toward the library door.
“Great,” I grunt.
I touch my lips. Damn fluffy fur flying in the air. One cat makes me sneeze and scratch, but apparently a house full of felines requires major drugs.
“Behave,” I whisper to Miss Holly before I follow behind Don.
She bites her lip, and damn if I don’t want to kiss the living breath out of her. Aside from her not being an employee, it’s best we are separated during my talk with Don. Everything about her distracts me to no end.
Once in the kitchen, Don turns on his oven and places his tart inside it. He gives me a glass of water, along with a Claritin. I swallow back the pill, hoping the medicine works quickly. I need to be sharp with so much at stake today.
Don shows the way to his large veranda, and I swear this house needs a map to navigate the rooms. Once outside, we look over a sculptured garden where a glimmering pool shines in the late morning sun. Thankfully, I don’t see a cat in sight.
“Gertrude likes to open the pool the first of May, though the water feels like the Artic until late July.” Don guides me to a large wrought iron table with cushioned chairs. “Please, sit.”
We both take a seat, and I set my glass of water down on the table. Clearing my throat, I begin.
“Don, we need you at the Warwick Awards Saturday night.” I hold nothing back. After all, he’s only giving me fifteen minutes. “Why haven’t you answered a single email or call from us?”
“I was waiting,” he says, picking a piece of invisible lint from his pants.
“For what?” His answer perplexes me. I can’t read minds. “Is Mort offering you more?” I adjust my collar.
“Hell, he’s always offering me more, but that’s not the reason I haven’t responded.” Don takes a breath before continuing, and I find myself on the edge of my seat—and possibly my career. “I was waiting for you to reach out to me.”
“Me?” It makes no sense. “Fill me in.”
“Well, your father was my go-between at Hammond Press, and I was expecting the same thing from you after he left. Instead, I was shuffled off to an editor.”
“I had no idea you were such a diva.” I laugh, and Don smiles. “So that’s it? If I work with you, you’ll come Saturday night?”
“Believe me. I was going to show up. Though, I wasn’t sure which table I would sit at. Mort happened to mention he had an empty chair.”
My jaw tightens at the thought of Don at Mort’s table. Mort’s mocking smile flies through my mind, though I imagine his yellowing teeth.