Page 13 of Old Flames

“Let’s hope it’s delayed indefinitely,” Vicky said. “I hear he’s an ass.”

Ayesha scanned the crowd. “He isn’t here, either.”

Jules knew exactly who she was talking about. “Maybe he’s not coming.”

“He’s the keynote speaker,” Ayesha said. “That would be rude.”

Jules shrugged. “Maybe he’s rude.”

Before Ayesha could protest, Daphne gestured to her and off she went.

Vicky pointed out Mathis Taylor. A handsome man, he stood a head taller than the small group of admirers he was chatting with.

“What do you make of him?” Vicky asked.

“He’s alright.”

The raven-haired Englishman now called New England his home. Lean and limber, he had the look of an urban athlete who rose at dawn to run five miles before clocking in at work. His author bio confirmed he ran marathons. His greatest dream was to conquer Boston.

“I meant as a writer,” Vicky said. “Have you read him?”

“I have,” she answered. “He’s good.”

Hide Your Daughters was his most successful novel. Set in the mist-covered landscape of the English countryside, a population lived in fear of a strange beast who claimed first-born girls. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s hot.”

“I thought we were talking about his work,” Jules said wryly.

“It’s all one piping hot bundle.”

Mathis must’ve felt the weight of their stares, because he looked up and fixed them with his gray eyes, a gaze as sharp and assessing as their own.

“Yeah,” Jules said. “I see it now.”

She took a sip of her drink. If they’d hoped to be welcomed in the style of Hemingway, with daiquiris and mojitos, they were disappointed. The theme of the evening was Classic Horror. The bartender was dressed as Frankenstein’s monster, green face paint and all, and the waiters donned their Party City finest. The cocktails were ghoulish in nature. Vicky clutched a Headless Horseman and, by the looks of it—a swish of neon green—Mathis was polishing off an Exorcist. It was all very creepy and off-putting, but they’d signed up for this. Besides, Jules’s zombie—a Cuban rum, apricot, and grenadine concoction—wasn’t bad.

The hot author who ultimately made his way across the lawn to join them at the pergola wasn’t Mathis Taylor but Sebastien Smith, the author/illustrator of a popular Scooby-Doo-mystery-type series set in his native Los Angeles. In the series the ghosts were real, and the meddling kids cruised around town in a lowrider instead of a trippy van. However, independently and under the pen name SMITH, he published immaculately drawn monster erotica. Before joining them, he grabbed a devil’s tail off a shabby Dracula’s tray.

“Ladies,” he said. “What do I have to do to join your clique? The boys will buddy up, and I’ll be the odd one out.”

Queer, Black, tall, and handsome, he had the soulful eyes and the able hands of a true artist.

“There’s no entry fee,” Vicky assured him. “We’re down one member, anyway. We lost Ayesha to Daphne Narcisse.”

Ayesha and the creative director had hit it off instantly. Short of staff and overwhelmed, Daphne found in Ayesha a fellow planner, a lover of to-do lists and tasks, and an eager volunteer.

“Good,” he said, relieved.

“You may not remember but we met at the Festival of Books,” Vicky said. “A group went out for tacos. It was a while back.”

“I remember,” Sebastien said with a flash of that dazzling smile. “I wasn’t sure you did.”

“Are you joking? Those tacos are a core memory of mine.” Vicky rested a hand on Jules’s arm. “This is Jules. Say hi, Jules.”

“Hi. Love your work.” That was all she managed to say. The late-day breeze carried the faintest whisper. Hadn’t anyone heard it?

“Same here,” he said. “That goes for the both of you.”