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“That really happened,” he says. “Not to Ghost, but to me.”
“You’re kidding.” I’m smiling now and thrilled to have a little glimpse into his writing world. “It happened to you?”
“Yeah,” he confirms. “I went to arrest a woman and she sprayed me with whipped cream. I reacted about like Ghost. It was a ‘what the fuck?’ kind of moment.”
I laugh. “Definitely not what anyone would expect. And Ghost just licked the whipped cream and kept moving. Did you?”
Now he laughs. “No. Most definitely not. I was not as agile on my feet as Ghost. She got away and I looked foolish. But that’s the fun part of writing him. He can be everything I’m not.”
I’m charmed by his ability to laugh at himself, probably more so because I’ve worked with enough authors to know that many cannot. Especially those in the big league, as Dash most certainly is in his career.
“It was perfect,” I say. “It really was. And so many of the reviews talked about that scene. It made Ghost human. That’s where your talent is. You have a Dexter thing going on. You make us root for someone we probably shouldn’t root for, and as a former editor and reader, I respect that skill.” I hold my hands up again. “And I’m not just saying that. Believe me, I’ve had books I edited I didn’t truly love. And I certainly did ramble on about loving them.”
“Did you say you didn’t love them?”
“Not to the author, and that’s not out of a lack of courage. Editing isn’t always about the books you like as an editor. Sometimes it’s about books that will speak to other people, like a different item on the dinner menu.”
He grimaces. “I don’t think anybody is going to like the book I’m working on now.”
“Said every author while writing their current work.”
“No,” he says. “I’m not normally this off when I’m writing.” He scrubs his jaw and then studies me. “I never let anyone read my work while I’m writing, but maybe you can do it? Just tell me what you think is off.”
“I’d be very intimidated to do that. And besides, I don’t think you should change your process. If you don’t let people read, don’t start now.” The seriousness of my advice is overshadowed by a loud grumble from my stomach.
Heat rushes to my cheeks and Dash laughs, motioning toward the bakery. “Sounds like you need a cupcake. Want to have it with me?”
“I would love to have a cupcake with you and a coffee in one of those mugs you have on your table. I love those mugs and everything about this place. I used to come here when I was in college to study.”
“I found it when I moved to the neighborhood a few years ago,” he says. “I’ve actually written a good part of several books sitting at the table I’m saving for us now.” He motions me forward. “Let’s go get you a cupcake and coffee,” he adds and there is warmth in his eyes, and a warmth between us that is as intriguing as the man.
I don’t know what this is between me and Dash Black, perhaps nothing but friendship, but whatever it is, cupcakes and him are too much to resist. Perhaps too much for my own good, but I can’t seem to care right now. Dash Black intrigues me, he excites me, and I haven’t felt those things in a very long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dash and I enter the bakery side by side to be greeted by Jackson Summer, the owner of the establishment. Jackson is fifty-something, a tall, distinguished-looking Black man with a neatly trimmed beard, and a friendly smile. His voice and eyes are warm as they land on me. “There’s my girl,” he greets, pulling me into a full-on bear hug. “How you been, babe?”
Jackson calls everyone babe, including men, but somehow it works for him and makes us all feel like his special guests.
“Good,” I say. “It feels good to be back here. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, it has,” he says, motioning to Dash. “You his editor or something?”
“More like he’s my cupcake companion for now,” I say. “Your cupcakes are yummy. Cupcakes and his books together are the best. I’m a lucky girl.”
“I’m working on getting her to read the piece of shit I’m writing right now,” Dash says grumpily. “It just won’t come together.”
Jackson offers a knowing look and leans in close to me with a conspiratorial, not-so-quiet whisper, “He thinks they’re all shit. I’ve never heard him say a book was good until after it releases. Even then,” he scratches his jaw, “I’m not sure he’s ever said his books are good.”
“That’s not true,” Dash argues. “I’m just trying to do Ghost justice.”
Jackson winks at me and pats Dash’s arm. “I love this guy. Ghost is as real as you and me to him. The way he frets, it’s almost as if he’s afraid Ghost is going to shoot him if he doesn’t write the book as he’d want it.” He glances at me. “You’d never know he’s a superstar, now would you?” He doesn’t wait for my reply, adding, “Black and white cupcake with a cinnamon dolce latte in a red cup?”
