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The surgeon made his farewell to the opposition and walked towards us.
“Get ready,” Michael said.
“For what?” I whispered back.
“For his story.” He glanced down at me and added, “We’ve all got a story, Trolley Girl, we just have to be brave enough to tell it.”
“And find the right audience,” I muttered, then greeted the surgeon warmly.
His story was about hens.
I hadn’t seen that coming.
But he told it, and I listened, and then we talked about my products. And when he left, I had a new appreciation for silkies and an appointment to see him on Monday.
“Well done,” Michael said. “Your first contact made at a cardiac conference.”
I smiled. My cheeks spreading so wide they actually hurt.
“You know your audience,” Michael said softly from beside me. “You know what they want. Now,” he said, leaning closer, “write that book.”
I stared up at him as he stared down at me.
Write that book.
I nodded my head, and he winked at me.
I fell asleep that night dreaming about blue eyes and laugh lines and a man who wears a suit and burgundy tie and winks at me.
