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“I promise as soon as I write those two final words: ‘the end,’ it’ll be in your eager hands. Then you can rip it apart with that red pen of yours so I can fix all my mistakes.”
Dolly shot me a smile. “You don’t make mistakes, handsome. A big publisher should be knocking down your door, too. Really, so should the Hollywood folks. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Seeing your books come to life on the big screen?”
With all the horrible books to movie adaptations out there? I didn’t need my book babies butchered like that. “I don’t need all that. I’m doing just fine the way things are.”
“True. And if those Hollywood folks come calling, we might lose you and we can’t have that.”
“I don’t plan on going anywhere. I love it right here.”
Dolly winked at me. “Well, we love having you, handsome. We just need to find you a good wife so you can bless us with some babies.”
I mentally groaned. A wife and babies were not on my bucket list. Even though everyone in town always insisted that their cousin’s sister’s daughter’s best friend would be a perfect match. I would force a smile, nod my head and tell them I was perfectly happy with remaining single.
I gave Dolly that same smile in answer. I needed to ring up her purchase before she continued to harp on how I needed to find a good woman and make a family.
I wasn’t looking for any woman, good or otherwise and I certainly didn’t want to have sex with one. I fought my shudder.
I told Chase that I’d been staring at him across the diner because he looked familiar. While he did, the familiarity also had to do with what I had always been looking for in a partner.
At first, the man had caught my attention because he fit my type. Then after unabashedly staring at him for a few minutes, I thought I recognized him from somewhere. Chase looked strangely familiar.
From a past life maybe.
I didn’t know and couldn’t explain it. It could also boil down to wishful thinking.
One day my future Prince Charming would ride into my little town and…
I sighed. Obviously, I needed to stop reading gay romances. They were giving me unrealistic romantic expectations.
If only finding my future “hero” was as easy in real life as it was in novels…
But then, it was called fiction for a reason.
I grabbed the UPC reader attached to the store’s point-of-sale system and flipped the book over to scan the ISBN on the back.
The author’s small black and white photo next to the short bio on the back cover stared back at me.
I blinked, thinking I was seeing things, picked up the book and squinted to take a closer look at the photo. Then I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.
I wasn’t.
Son of a bitch.
“I knew he looked familiar,” I muttered under my breath.
I quickly skimmed the generic bio. Of course it included no detailed information on the man who recently rushed out of my shop like Michael Myers was chasing him with a butcher knife.
“Who?”
I glanced up at Dolly, almost forgetting she still stood waiting.
Holy shit. My eyes flicked from her back to the book in my hand.
Chase Jones was actually C.J. Anson, the New York Times, USA Today, Wall-Street Journal and international bestselling author.
Holy shit.
Holy. Shiiiiiiiiit.
We had a freaking legend amongst our midst.
I had read every one of Anson’s blood-rushing, nail-biting twenty-two crime thriller novels from cover to cover, trying to absorb even a smidgeon of the man’s talent.
He hadn’t said a word. Not one damn word.
Was that why he rushed out of the store? Was he afraid of being discovered?
Dolly’s brow was pulled low in concern. “Are you okay, handsome? You suddenly went a bit pale. Do you need to sit down?”
“I’m… fine.” I snapped myself out of my stupor, finished ringing Dolly up and handed her the only copy of Anson’s latest book I had left in stock.
She tucked it against her chest like it was precious and gave Timber one last pat on the head. “I’m sure I’ll be whipping through this one in the next couple of days. I’ll see you when I trade it in, if I don’t see you before.”
I made a mental note to order more copies. Of all the man’s books. I needed to dedicate a whole bookshelf to the man, have him sign them all and promote them as written by a local author.
Without a doubt Chase would tell me to fuck off.
Luckily, being an author had given me thick skin. “Okay, Dolly. Say hello to Chet for me.”
“Will do, handsome.”
And then the mayor’s wife was gone, leaving me standing at the counter, still a bit dazed from the fact that one of my most revered authors had not only moved to my town, he’d been in my bookstore and we’d actually had a conversation. Not the best conversation but an exchange of words nonetheless.
