The front door is thick oak.
It’s cozy. Quaint.
Basically, the opposite of spooky. The type of house that would have pumpkins and orange live laugh love signs instead of Halloween spiderwebs and skeletons.
I grab the heavy brass knocker and rap three times.
And wait.
I try again.
A cold gust of wind rattles the bare branches overhead, sending a scatter of loose snow swirling across the porch. I shiver and glance over at Daphne. She lifts her hands in question, and I shrug.
I knock again.
On the fourth strike of brass against wood, the door jerks open.
Surprise yanks me backward, my heart leaping into my throat.
“Can I help you?” a gruff voice asks.
Much like his home, Graham Deadwyler is not what I expected from a horror author. He’s a bit rumpled, wrapped in a dark robe that looks like it’s seen better days, years ago. Gray sweats bunch around his ankles, disappearing into a pair of white fluffy slippers.
Huh.
His hair is a shade darker than mine and overgrown, brushing his cheek. His jaw is covered in scruff. His eyes pin me in place, a bright, piercing blue.
We do sort of match, in a Barbie and Ken doll kind of way. We both have blond hair and blue eyes, anyway.
But that’s where the resemblance ends. Is this what Beverly thought I would like? A cranky recluse who dresses like he lost a fight with a pile of thrift store rejects?
None of it matters. What matters is getting the book and moving on to the next step.
I give him my best movie star, thousand-watt smile, the one I practiced in the mirror every day to prepare for interviews and meeting directors and industry executives. “Hi, Graham, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Vivien Ha?—”
His gaze flicks behind me to Daphne in her car. “Not interested.” The door slams in my face.
I blink at the door a few times in disbelief.
When I open the passenger door to Daphne’s car, her laughter spills out.
“Did you know he would do that?”
She pats me on the shoulder, catching her breath. “I knew he might. He’s a prickly SOB.”
My mouth drops open. “Why did you tell me to go up there?”
“Because this was very entertaining.”
A strangled laugh escapes me. “For whom?”
“Oh, come on. That was fun. Admit it.”
I shake my head. “That was not fun, that was humiliating. And I didn’t get the book. How am I going to do this? He won’t even talk to me.”
“You’re smart. You’ll think of something. Hey, maybe you can get like your fancy agent person or manager to call him. Don’t you Hollywood types do that all the time? My people will call your people, and all that?”
“No.” There is no way in hell I’m calling anyone in the business. I can’t risk it. They’ll tell my mom everything, then she might figure out where I am. I need another way.
