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“It will be over fast.”
Hudson takes the chair from Gilbert. He used to be our town lawyer, and from what I know, he’s most of the residents at Northern Lights’s lawyer still. He’s dressed in his classic wingtips and a three-piece suit with a pocket watch and chain. A classic elegant and sophisticated look. He takes a seat next to Alice, a guy in sweatpants and slippers next to him.
“Sit!” Alice says a little forcefully, and Hudson and I sit as though we’re children at church. “Introduce yourself.”
My cheeks heat, and I glance at Hudson, who gives me an encouraging smile.
“Hi, everyone, I’m Palmer Ferguson.”
“She’s a Bailey. Sedona’s daughter.” Alice turns in her seat to inform the room.
Okay then. A few of them whisper, which I’m used to. The Baileys always seem to be gossiped about.
“And I’m an author.” I clear my throat. “A romance author, and from what I hear, you picked my book this month. Alice asked me to join you tonight, so I’m here.”
Not my best introduction, but whatever.
“Yes, I have the list of questions here.” Alice pulls a pad of paper from a bag resting at her feet.
Panic races up my spine. How many questions could she have?
“The sex. What’s the inspiration for that?”
“Um…”
Hudson laughs, and when I shoot him a look, he turns it into a cough. Jean, Alice’s sidekick, rushes over and fills a water glass for him. I mentally roll my eyes.
“It’s not really based on inspiration,” I say.
“Come on, it has to come from personal experience?” the guy in sweats asks. “And let me tell you something, you’re one lucky lady. Not everyone is lucky enough to have sex like that.”
My cheeks get hotter.
“You’re a pervert, Melvin!” a woman shouts from the back.
He leans forward. “How do I get the ladies to…you know? Your character happily went down on?—”
“Oh shit,” Hudson whispers.
I give him another scathing look, even if he can’t save me.
“Maybe I should clarify that I write fiction.” I give them a wan smile, hoping that will get us off the topic. “And I like to think my stories are about more than just sex. They’re about love and hope and finding the one person you want to spend your life with.”
“Honey, we’re all late in the game here. We don’t have a long life ahead of us, and we’d like to experience as much happiness as we can,” Melvin says.
“I don’t need someone to harp on what I’m eating and whether I’m walking or did I take my pills,” Melvin continues. “I just need someone to give me a little pleasure.”
A woman two rows from the front raises her hand. She has on red glasses that match her hair, and she appears very grandmotherly. She’ll turn this conversation back where it should be.
I point at her and nod. “Go ahead.”
“You said the guy was very big. How big? What is the average size? Because I only slept with my late husband, and I always felt he was on the smaller side. You wrote that he”—she points at Hudson—“barely fit in her. My husband used to slide right out.”
My mouth hangs open. I have no response. Like none. Hudson puffs out his chest as if I was writing about him. Not that his size is anything to complain about.
“Once again, he”—I point at Hudson—“is not my muse. He’s my best friend.”
“And the father of your daughter. So you’ve slept with him, no?” Jean asks, eyeing Hudson as though he’s cheesecake after dinner instead of the usual sugar-free Jell-O.
