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ke a disaster.
"I think you should make more calls," I say, dismissing her idea as crazy. How does her mind make the leap from model to author?
She shakes her head. "Look, all I'm asking is that you take a meeting with this author. How hard could that be? You never know what'll come out of it."
"I don't think so."
"You must really like doing pushups then," CJ nods, shrugging her shoulders.
"What does that mean?"
"It means that if you don't take this meeting, you might find your self back in the gym … permanently. You may have to go back to being a personal trainer full time."
Those words stop me dead in my tracks.
Go back to being a personal trainer? No fucking thanks.
I can do without wiping up sweat puddles from the seats of gym equipment, or the overweight New Yorkers begging me to make them look like Thor, or hearing every excuse under the sun as to why a client has to skip a gym day, or the occasional weird stalker, or the weird smells, or … the list goes on.
The idea of leaving modeling for personal training doesn't sit well with me.
CJ is walking toward the door, but I stop her. "Wait."
She turns to me and I continue. "It's just a meeting, right?"
"I promise. Nothing's set in stone."
"Fine. Schedule it, and I'll be there, but I still think you're fucking crazy."
"I think you're making the right choice," CJ smiles. "I'll set up the day and time and put it on your calendar."
"Who is this author anyways?" I ask. I realize that I haven't even asked what's arguably the most important fucking question.
"Don't worry," CJ replies, grabbing her bag and walking to the door. She puts one hand on the handle and looks back at me. "I'll work it out and find out who this is."
Without another word, she closes the door behind her.
Just fucking great.
We don't even know who this author is and I've already agreed to a meeting. So much for running a Google search on this mystery person.
This should be interesting.
Abby
"Can I buy you a drink?" the tall man asks me, his pilot cap tucked under his arm. I freeze in place, suitcase handle in one hand and my passport in the other. I take one quick look at my watch, and then back to the handsome pilot. The flight arrived earlier than expected, so I probably still have some time before Cheryl gets here.
And a drink doesn’t sound so bad right now. After spending almost five hours inside of a plane, I guess anything sounds perfect, especially if it’s a drink with a man like this.
His navy blue suit gives him an elegant look, and the combination of golden stripes lacing the wrists of his jacket adds a complimentary touch. The wings over his breast pocket spell out what he does for a living and, even though it shouldn’t matter, it does. There’s something about pilots, especially when they’re wearing a uniform, isn’t there?
I mean, seriously, I’m not alone, am I? You like uniforms too, right?
"One drink," I tell him with a smile, and he closes the distance between the two of us and grabs the handle of my suitcase.
"I’ll take this, then," he replies softly, propping up his blue cap on the top of his head. I trail after him like a lost pup, blessing the Gods for his company; I guess that accompanying a pilot gives you some leeway when it comes to cutting in line.
He guides me through the sprawling airport corridors until we finally get to the first class lounge. I’ve only been here a few times, but it's always worth the extra money. I’m one of those people who hates wasting time at airports (well, who doesn’t, really?) and I always appreciate the extra comfort first-class gives me. Especially if it means I get to fire up my laptop and bang out another chapter. Yeah, no such thing as downtime for us writers—every hour is writing hour.
