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Sam huffed in irritation. “Still can’t stand not being first, huh?”
Lincoln tried not to groan. He felt like they were kids again, arguing over stupid shit. He should have taken the high road back then. He was five years older than Sam. First, he’d been frustrated by his little brother’s rebelliousness, then he’d gotten mad, then when he went to college, he’d tried to tell himself he didn’t care what Sam said or did.
He’d been trying to convince himself of that for the past twelve years.
“Come to New York for one week to attend the meeting,” he said. “It’s at the end of May. Get your lawyer to review the ownership documents. Learn about the imprints, meet the editors, study the budget and what we’re up against. Then make a decision.”
“If you think—” Sam stopped abruptly, his gaze shifting past Lincoln’s shoulder to an attractive, dark-haired woman who was approaching them. “Hey, Callie.”
“Hi, Sam.” As if sensing the thick tension, she stopped a distance away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just having lunch with a friend and saw you over here.”
“No, it’s okay.” Sam waved her closer, his voice gentling. “This is Lincoln Atwood. Lincoln, Callie is Jake Ryan’s wife.”
Smothering his anger toward Sam, Lincoln turned to Callie. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. We spoke on the phone last week.”
“Yes, of course.” She slipped her hand into his, her eyes lighting with both relief and admiration. “I’m so pleased to meet you as well.”
The writer part of Lincoln’s brain assessed her classical features, innate poise, and the academic sophistication gleaming in her elegant blue suit and understated jewelry.
“Jake didn’t mention you were coming to Bliss Cove,” she said.
“I don’t think he knows.” Lincoln smiled faintly. “I actually didn’t know myself until a few days ago. I hope I have a chance to meet him, too.”
“Oh, you must.” Callie reached up to fiddle with her gold necklace. “He’d be crushed if he knew he’d missed you. He’s in LA visiting family right now, but he’ll be back next Saturday. I hope you’ll still be here?”
Next Saturday was a full week away.
“If not, he can come back early,” Callie added quickly, darting Sam a worried look. “He’s been thinking so much about how to do justice toTruthonscreen, and he’d welcome your input.”
Lincoln scratched his neck. “Unfortunately, I’m not a filmmaker.”
“But you created the characters and story, which is where it all starts.” Callie twisted her mouth, a flush rising to her cheeks. “I’m being pushy. I apologize.”
“No, it’s okay. Uh, I should still be around. Please let Jake know I’d be happy to talk to him.”
“Wonderful.” She smiled and stepped back. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say hello and let you know about Jake.” A crease suddenly marred her forehead. “Oh, a literature professor at Skyline College mentioned you were injured in Afghanistan. I hope you’re all right now?”
Lincoln’s gut twisted. “More or less, thanks.”
“Good.” She smiled again. “Professor Kenworth teaches two of your books in his Modern Literature unit. He’s quite a devoted fan, so he keeps up on all things Lincoln Atwood. Okay, I’m really going now. Thanks again. Good to see you, too, Sam. I’ll stop by tomorrow to pick up my books.”
With a little wave, she walked back to a table where two other women were seated with their lunches.
Lincoln felt Sam watching him as he took the receipt from Grant, added a sizeable tip, and signed it. He left the receipt on the bartop and pushed Sam’s cash back in his direction.
Sam ignored the bills. “What was she talking about? You were injured?”
“It was nothing.” Lincoln put his credit card back in his wallet. A burning sensation suddenly crept into his shoulder.
“An injury sustained in Afghanistan couldn’t have beennothing.” Sam crossed his arms, a deep groove appearing between his eyebrows. “What happened?”
“Do you really care?” Lincoln winced when the sharp words flew out of his mouth. “Shit. Sorry.”
Sam’s shoulders heaved in a sigh. “Okay, what? You want me to Google it?”
“It didn’t make the news…not much, anyway.” Lincoln grabbed the pint glass and drained the last of the beer. “I was embedded with a troop in a village outside of Kandahar when an IED exploded. I was caught in the blast.”
Sam opened and closed his mouth. His throat worked with a swallow.
