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“I’m not afraid of hard work, but I doubt you will constitute my worst case.”
“Wait.”
Brooklyn laughs easily. “Jack tells me Ali forced you to email me.”
“Did he? Dixon overestimates Allison’s powers.”
“She’s your best friend?”
“Since seventh grade. I guess if you can survive junior high school as best friends, you can survive anything.”
“That’s the truth.”
I’m curious. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Well, what made you go into this line of work? I’ve read some of your work. I would think you’d be vying for a staff writing position at The Times by now.”
“If only. More like web news. That seems to be where the work is these days. Immediacy and all.”
True.
Brooklyn continues. “Don’t get me wrong, I would love to write for a major newspaper. I still write. It doesn’t pay the bills. Not dependably. I found myself helping friends and colleagues organize their work. A friend suggested I capitalize on my talent. I took his advice. I don’t see myself doing this forever. Not full-time. But it’s a bridge.”
“I get it. I have to ask—how do you feel about traveling to Connecticut? You must have tons of clients available here in the city.”
“I do. But I have to hop a train either way. And my sister lives in New Haven.”
“Ah, an excuse to visit.”
“Not that I need one, but, yes. Besides, I love your books. Why wouldn’t I want to help you sell more of them? Better yet, find time to write more of them.”
She’s read my books? Really?
“You look surprised,” she surmises.
“Probably because I am.”
“Why?”
I don’t have that answer. A small, yet well-known publisher published my last four novels. Fortunately for me, the publisher picked up my catalogue. That has taken enormous pressure off me. Marketing still rests mostly on my shoulders, and getting projects completed on someone else’s timeline is not my strength. That’s why I caved and contacted Brooklyn.
“I love fantasy,” Brooklyn explains.
“I would have pegged you for historical novels or biographies.”
“Because I write political pieces?”
I nod.
“Yeah, well, we all need an escape.”
I agree. “I’ll drink to that. When do you think you can start?”
“When do you want me?”
Heat flushes my skin. What the hell is the matter with me? This is a business meeting with a woman who has to be half my age. Okay. Maybe she’s nothalfmy age. Close enough. She can’t be much older than my nephew, Jeremy. Wait. What if she is younger than Jeremy? Oh, God. Why am I even thinking about this? Now. Here. In front of her. Jesus Christ, Carter, you have lost your mind. I sip my cappuccino, hoping it will cover the rosy tint of my cheeks. She smiles. Stop. No smiling. Now, she laughs. Oh, just kill me and get it over with. I realize it’s been a while—no, it’s been a millennium since I’ve had sex. At least since I’ve had sex with someone other than my mermaid. Sounds like an exaggeration. It doesn’t feel like an exaggeration. I write about the things I don’t have in my life: love, sex, magic, and mystery. Scrap the last one. My entire life is a mystery.
