Page 6 of Old Flames

“When did you two become so . . . strange?” Ayesha asked.

“You have no idea,” Vicky replied.

The flight took off and once they’d reached cruising altitude, a flight attendant approached with complimentary champagne. It did not take long for her to reveal her true motivation.

“You’re Vicky Paraíso, right? I’m a FANG.”

Vicky was arguably the most recognizable of the three thanks to her thriving social media platforms. Jules caught the spark of envy in Ayesha’s eyes and bit back a laugh. She might have won over the intellectual class, but had she tapped into the voracious fans of spicy historical vampire romance? It was doubtful she ever would.

Ever ready for a chance encounter with a reader, Vicky produced an ARC of her next release, Dreadful Love. She signed it with an airline-branded pen.

Ayesha gathered herself and, champagne glass in hand, got back to business. “How are you guys on your talks? Ready?”

The theme was “Origin Stories.” They were asked to discuss the authors and events that shaped their writing.

“I picked Mary Shelley,” Vicky said in a distracted tone. “I can talk about Frankenstein’s monster in my sleep. In fact, I do. Ask anyone.”

“How about you, Jules?” Ayesha asked.

Jules shrugged. “I whipped something up on Octavia Butler.”

Ayesha frowned. “There’ll be some big names there. You ladies better bring your A game.”

“I don’t think the Florida Keys is the place to bring your A or B game,” Jules said with a stifled yawn.

“Exactly,” Vicky said. “Don’t tell anyone, but we only signed up for the perks. We’re on a girls’ trip.”

“Fine.” Ayesha shrugged. “Make drunken fools of yourselves. Let L.J. White outshine you in the Sunshine State.”

“L.J. White won’t be there,” Vicky said flatly. Then she held up her phone to show them the photo of the guy she was dating. He was an investment banker with brown hair, blue eyes, straight teeth, and good breeding. His name was Brandon Morison, but Vicky called him “Big Money.” In the selfie pic, he hugged Vicky’s pet cat to his bare chest, and the poor thing wasn’t having it.

Ayesha gasped. “Gorgeous!”

“Thanks!” Vicky said brightly. “His name is Kit Kat. I rescued him last winter.”

Ayesha rummaged through the bag on her lap for a tube of lip gloss. “I meant the man in the photo, not the cat.”

“Oh! Big Money? He’s cat sitting for the weekend.”

Ayesha wasted no time reading more into the photo than what it was, a thirst trap with a feline prop. “I love a dependable man.”

Jules snapped her fingers to cut through the noise. “What’s this about L.J. White?”

“Don’t you ladies keep up with the events that you sign up for?”

“That’s what I was doing before you showed up,” Vicky answered.

“L.J. White is the keynote speaker.”

“Wrong. That would be old Gregory Fox,” Vicky said, back to scrolling photos.

Ayesha reached for her phone and read from an open browser. “‘Gregory Fox sends his regrets. Due to unforeseen circumstances, he is unable to attend this year’s seminar. In his place, bestselling author L.J. White will deliver the keynote closing address. We couldn’t be more thrilled to welcome this exceptional author.’”

“Hey now,” Vicky said. “Things just got interesting.”

Jules asked for the phone to see for herself. Next to the short paragraph Ayesha had just read was a headshot, the same as featured on the back covers of his more recent books, the one that somehow didn’t do him justice. It was all there—the pale complexion, the dark hair, the clever brown eyes, the half smile that softened the square jaw—but no photo she’d ever seen had captured his arresting good looks. In the more mature face staring back at her, Jules searched for traces of the younger man she’d met in a back alley years ago. It was all there, but it wasn’t.

“Have you met him?” Vicky asked no one in particular. “He’s a sweetheart.”