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All of that was true because I had no reason to dig further. I supposed now I did.
“Does your signature make them worth more?” The question was lame since I’d been on plenty of book tours and to signings myself, so I already knew the answer.
Truthfully, I should leave. I wasn’t sure why I was extending this conversation by choice since conversations always led to questions.
Questions I wasn’t willing to answer.
“Depends on who you ask,” he answered.
He was once again matching my energy of being distant. “I’m asking you.”
“Then no.”
I knew for a fact that was untrue but maybe he wanted to challenge me by getting me to argue.
“But can you sign one of yours?”
I was surprised. “You want me to sign a copy for you?”
“Sure, since you used to be one of my favorite authors.”
Used to be.
Damn. I deserved that. “And now?”
“Let’s just say I have a hard time separating the creator from the art. So, actually, if you’re going to sign any, I prefer you sign them all. My customers would love that more than I would. Dolly might even buy some to keep on her shelf instead of trading them back in.”
I wasn’t ready to do that. If I signed more than one copy for him personally, I was afraid someone—including Dolly, the mayor’s wife and town gossip—might discover who I was by pestering Rett on how he obtained those signed copies.
I wasn’t ready for anyone to know I lived here, other than Rett. Even though other people could easily figure it out since Rett did, most people didn’t hone in on the small details and most likely wouldn’t put two and two together. Just like me when it came to figuring out that the man before me was Everett J. Williams.
My assumption was Rett hadn’t told anyone that Chase Jones and C.J. Anson were one and the same. And for that, I had to be appreciative. I steered the conversation away from signing my books so I wouldn’t sound more like a callous dick than I already did. “Your writing is good.”
Rett tipped his head. “I dabble. I’m not as proficient as you.”
The man didn’t dabble and I wasn’t lying. His writing was good. No, it was excellent. The best I’d read in years. Rett had real talent. Enough for me to keep listening on the long, boring drive from Long Island. Enough for me to want to finish reading the whole Dexter Peabody series.
Books rarely kept my attention anymore. Actually, not much did. But his series had. I even considered reading or listening to the author’s whole backlist, if he had one. That alone was a compliment toward the quality of his writing.
“Also unlike you, I haven’t made any kind of bestseller list. My readership isn’t nearly as large as yours, either.”
“With the quality of your work, I’m surprised. The truth is, your writing is stellar and I’m impressed. It takes a lot to do so.”
“Noooo. Really?” he asked with a twist to his mouth.
I stared at those lips, then closed my eyes and shook my head to cast away any thoughts about how they would feel against mine.
You’re not here to make friends, Chase, and you’re also not here to find a lover.
I moved to Eagle’s Landing for two reasons… To escape the deafening noise in both my head and surrounding me, and, more importantly, to write. That was it. I didn’t want attention and I didn’t want sex with anyone other than my husband.
Unfortunately, the second part was now impossible. All I had left was our intimate memories. The memories of how being with Thomas made me feel, both in bed and out of it.
He’d been what some might consider my “one true love.” No one could ever replace him and I wasn’t willing to even try by finding someone else. The loss of my husband had left a hole in my heart so great no one would ever be able to fill. Anyone who tried would fail. I acknowledged the fact to even try wouldn’t be fair to the person trying.
If all I had left were my memories to keep me company at night, I was okay with that. Actually I had to be, since anything else wasn’t a choice.
For that reason, I shoved away any sliver of attraction to Rett and steered my attention back to publishing, a much safer subject. “You should get an agent. You’re that good.”
“I don’t want an agent.”
Why wouldn’t he want an agent? His career could explode with the right representation. “An agent could sell your books to one of the big five publishers.”
“I must have missed where I asked for your advice.”
Oh yes. He was certainly giving me back the same energy I had given him in our previous encounters. Of course, I deserved it and couldn’t hold it against him. “Being with a publishing house could do great things for your career.”
