Here, with this group of writers trying to grapple with their work the same way he did . . . it had felt right.
Still, he was glad when the small crowd around him dwindled and he could make his way over to the buffet. He already had a vulnerability hangover, and pretty soon he was going to want to hole up in his room and breathe. But for the moment, he kept an eye out for Emerson Lindsor, wondering if she’d understood that the person he’d been speaking to most directly was her. She had a powerful gift, but he sensed a level in her writing that she hadn’t yet unlocked.
What surprised him more was the prickle of his instincts telling him that a harder look at her writing might help him figure out what he was wrestling with in his own novel.
He spotted her at the very edge of the outdoor deck, her back against the railing. She was dressed in both a more formal and a more understated way than most of the other authors. Most of them were in bright floral dresses or aloha shirts, as if they were on the beaches of Cancun and not Lake Pearlwater. But Emerson had gone with something more subdued, neutral city colors in a dress that fit her nicely, as if she’d chosen it for the way it hinted at her figure rather than announcing it.
He suspected she was debating whether she’d like to climb over the railing to escape or try to thread her way back through the milling authors to get out of there. But one thing was sure, she definitely wanted to leave.
He gave a mental shrug and made his way over to her. Why not? It wasn’t like she could hate him more than she already did.
A shadow slipped over her face when she saw him approaching, making her look even more guarded than before. He hadn’t thought that was possible. He abandoned his plan to open with some gentle teasing. Instead, he stopped what he hoped felt like a comfortable distance from her and slid his hands into his pockets, keeping his stance relaxed.
“Hello, Emerson Lindsor.” He kept his tone friendly.
“Hi.” She didn’t look any less guarded.
“Why do I get the feeling you had no idea I would be here?” Everything about her body language screamed it, and the tiny flicker of surprise in her eyes confirmed it. She’d been expecting him to give her a hard time. “Sorry about ruining your weekend.”
She gave him a small smile. “Once I get back to my writing, it should be fine.”
“Fair enough.” He grinned. He couldn’t help it. He liked that she didn’t back down from him. He glanced around the patio and recognized the look in a few peoples’ eyes that meant they’d be edging over to talk to him soon. He softened his smile to Emerson in hopes that she could read the sincerity in his next words. “Hey, I owe you an apology, and I’d love to make it in full, but this is an awkward place to do it. Could I buy you dinner tonight?” She looked startled and then slightly distressed. “It’s not a date,” he reassured her. “File it under the category of ‘the least I can do.’”
“Could I bring my friend Maggie?” she asked.
“So this is going to be a public apology? Sure.”
The tension lines around her eyes disappeared. “I’m not actually going to bring her. I was testing whether you meant it about it not being a date.”
“It’s not,” he confirmed. “Just me eating figurative crow while we eat literal dinner.”
“Humble pie for dessert?”
“Absolutely. Six o’clock?”
She agreed and excused herself as another writer approached him, one who had seen a fair amount of success with her series of young adult novels about teenagers running an Ocean’s Eleven-type heist ring. He accepted her thanks for his keynote and asked some questions about her work before he finally excused himself to his room again.
Once safely inside, he’d meant to nap or zone out in front of ESPN—two sure ways to get past the discomfort he felt any time he opened up—but instead, he found himself reaching for his laptop. He’d just gotten an idea for his lead detective—Sonia Winder—to find a connection to the victim. That’s what always drove Sonia—a strong personal connection that made her unrelenting in pursuing a killer. Somehow, even though the source case for this novel had consumed him more than any other case of his career, he’d had a hard time figuring out a way in for Sonia.
He had the first glimmer now, and oddly enough, it was thanks to that flutter of uncertainty he’d seen in Emerson Lindsor’s eyes. She’d been sharp-edged and biting until that small moment, and the contrast had set off a light bulb.
He wrote for two hours straight, something he hadn’t been able to do in weeks. It used to be his normal pace, and he’d worried that he wouldn’t get there again, so by the time he saved his work and slid his jacket back on for dinner with Emerson, he floated out of his room on a writer’s high.
He waited for her at the hostess stand, relieved when she showed a few minutes later. Not that he was super invested in having a meal with her, but he would have felt kind of ridiculous hanging out there by himself. And he really did want to apologize.
“Hi.” Her voice was low, and everything about her was guarded. She wore the same neatly pressed and buttoned shirt dress from the afternoon. She also wore a watchful look and a stillness that spoke of readiness, as if she could pivot and walk out at any moment. But she did offer him another small smile.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’m glad you’re giving me a chance to make this right.”
“I’m just here to order the most expensive thing on the menu.” But her lips twitched, and he smiled in return.
The hostess led them to their table, and when the server appeared to take their order, Emerson ordered a modest roast chicken dish.
“You really can stick it to me,” he said. “I’m happy to make this a lobster apology.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Do you like lobster?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Then I’d love for you to have some, if that’s not overstepping.”
She shook her head at him, but it was a slight shake, disbelief more than disagreement.
He waited.
”All right, lobster,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“I’m supposed to thank you.”
“Nope. I reject all thanks. You don’t owe me any. So should we get the awkward part over with?”
“If we have to.” Her small smile had grown a little wider.
“Don’t act like you’re not going to enjoy every minute of this,” he said.
A full grin broke out. “I won’t. Please, apologize away.”
He laughed. “I deserve all of this. Let’s start with the panel event. I honestly thought you were Beverly’s assistant when I handed you my jacket. I was trying to get to my seat as fast as possible since I was late after the—well, it doesn’t matter. I would never assume random strangers were waiting around just to take my coat.”
“Late after what?”
“Excuse me?” He looked confused.
“You said you were late to the panel after . . .? What was it?”
“A phone call. Does it matter?”
She shrugged. “Maybe not. I just like details. Helps me understand better. Was it an important phone call?”
It had been one of his proteges from the youth center, a kid named Jarred, calling because he’d finished reading one of Aidan’s books and wanted to talk about it. It wouldn’t normally be urgent, but this was a kid who hadn’t opened up once to Aidan, and he wasn’t about to cut Jarred off early when he finally did. “Yes, it was important,” he said, and left it at that.
“Then I understand.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded, and something inside him relaxed, a knot of tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding on to. She meant it, and the fact that she trusted his judgment of whether it was important without knowing the circumstances gave him the same feeling of accomplishment he’d experienced when he’d seen Jarred’s name in his caller ID.
“Anyway, I didn’t read the room as well as I should have. I already had sever
al people trying to talk to me when I walked in, I saw you helping with the chairs, I assumed you were an event worker, and I handed you the jacket.”
“I understand all of that, but . . .” She tilted her head and studied him.
“But you’re wondering why I kept up the bad behavior?”
“Make this good, because you were pretty bad.”
That startled another laugh from him, and he took the bait. “It’s a good thing this isn’t a date because these next words would be the kiss of death: it’s because you reminded me of my ex.”
Her eyes widened. “That was definitely not what I expected.”
“Not the way you look or anything. It’s just that she spent a lot of time giving me that ‘you idiot’ look you were drilling me with, and I think it was a Pavlovian thing.”
“So your ingrained instinct was to double-down and make me madder?”
He shrugged. “There’s a reason we’re exes.”
She considered that and then raised her glass in a toast. “Exes are the worst.”
He touched his glass to hers. “Sounds like you’ve got a story of your own.”
“It’s like every boring ex-boyfriend story ever told: predictable and not at all worth repeating.”
He took a sip of his wine and set it down. “I’d listen. But we can change the subject back to why I was such a tool. One more time: I’m sincerely sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” He was in the middle of another sip when she added, “Now explain what happened at the coffee shop,” and he choked on his wine.
“You’re not going to make this easy, huh?”
“Not even a little.”
“All right then. The coffee shop was because I felt dumb when I realized I’d picked your spot after making fun of you, and I went on offense. You know, attack first while your enemy is disarmed.”
She tilted her head at him. “I think it’s because your feelings were hurt when I wasn’t happy to see you.”
“You got me.”
She grinned at him, a hint of the sassiness he’d seen in her from their very first run-in surfacing. “I knew it.”
The rest of the meal, they stuck to polite conversation. She didn’t follow any sports, but she paid a lot of attention to Seattle politics and it made for an interesting discussion.
When the waiter came to clear their dinner plates, Aidan half expected her to use it as a chance to bolt, but when the server offered the dessert menu she ordered a slice of chocolate cake. When he chose a cheesecake, she shot him a mischievous grin. “Sounds delicious. What will you have for yourself?”
“I guess that slice was also for the lady,” he told the server. “I’ll take one more for myself.”
“I was kidding,” she said. “I can’t eat that much dessert.”
“You can’t?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“But you should. I think fat and sugar molecules fuel creativity.”
“I thought that was caffeine.”
“I’ll have room service send up a pot of coffee for you.”
“Stop,” she said. “You are fully forgiven. You don’t have anything left to make up for. I’m going to decline the coffee, and even though I should decline the cheesecake too, I’m not going to. I’ve got a mini-fridge. Breakfast of champions.”
He nodded. “It’s practically a cheese danish.”
They smiled at each other again, and Aidan had the same feeling he got after watching a summer blockbuster—he’d enjoyed himself, but it was the surface level kind of entertainment that left him vaguely restless. He’d often go home to watch YouTube footage about the making of the movie and interviews with everyone from the writers to the special effects guys. Only then did he feel that itch scratched, that sense of being fully immersed.
It was his nature to dig deeper, and he’d barely scratched the surface with Emerson.
It shocked him. The one thing he didn’t do was dig deep with women. His relationships were easy and uncomplicated. So why were the sharp angles and shadows in Emerson’s personality what drew him to her most?
Chapter Seven
Emma smiled as she pulled the cheesecake from the fridge. She hadn’t been kidding about eating it for breakfast, and she settled at the table in front of the suite’s balcony doors overlooking the silver lake.
She was halfway through when a knock sounded at the door. Maggie was still sleeping after having socialized at the bar the night before. Emma had gone to bed at eleven and Maggie still hadn’t made it back, so who knew when she’d finally stumbled in?
She answered the knock before it could sound again and wake her friend. A room service steward stood there with a full-service coffee cart. Aidan, she thought with a rueful shake of her head. She should have known he’d do it anyway.
“Compliments of Mr. Maxwell. He left a note and took care of the gratuity.” He set an envelope on the cart, rolled it to the table for her, and left with a smile.
She picked up the note.
Emerson,
Thank you for joining me at dinner. I’m glad we’re good now. I don’t want to be afraid of stumbling across you in any Whidbey Island cafés. I hope this makes up for that invasion once and for all.
Happy writing,
Aidan
She poured herself a cup and sank back into her seat to enjoy it along with the rest of her cheesecake. Before long, Maggie emerged looking like what her students would call “a snack,” dressed in a swishy floral sun dress and strappy wedge sandals.
“Why do you look adorable?” Emma demanded. “What time did you even get back last night?”
“1 AM this morning,” Maggie corrected her. “And it’s because I get the best eye cream money can buy. You ordered coffee! So sweet,” she said, helping herself to a mug.
“Not me, actually. Aidan Maxwell.” She braced for the interrogation which began almost immediately.
“Tell me that story right now. Why did he want to have dinner with you? Why did you agree if you think he’s such a sellout? And why is he sending you coffee? And why are you drinking it with a smile?”
“How did you know I had dinner with him?” Emma asked.
“Because I was in the dining room last night and you were both so deep in that conversation that you didn’t notice me. That’s a big one-eighty from where we were yesterday during his keynote. And by we, I mean you. Spill.”
Emma sighed but didn’t try to fight it, giving Maggie the short version. “He was totally ridiculous the other two times I met him, but his reasons make sense and his apology felt sincere, so I guess we’re okay now.”
“Then you should date him.”
Emma blinked at her. “Uh, I was just sort of shooting for not wanting to kill him the next time I saw him.”
“He’s hot, he lives on Whidbey, and most importantly, you’re available.”
“Proximity isn’t a good enough reason to date someone. He’s not the jerk I thought he was, but we don’t have enough in common to build a relationship.”
“Oh my gosh, who said anything about a relationship? Go out and have a good time with an absurdly handsome man.”
“You’re the absurd one here,” Emma said, rising to head to her room for more writing.
“And what do you mean you don’t have anything in common?” Maggie pressed, as if Emma weren’t trying to escape. “You’re both writers. That is a massive thing to have in common. Maybe the most massive thing.”
Emma plopped back down. “That’s like saying high school wrestlers and Olympic ice skaters have a massive thing in common because they both do sports. It’s not the same thing at all.”
“Is that disdain I hear in your tone?”
Emma shrugged. “Not as much for him. He’s got layers; I heard it yesterday and saw more last night. I get it. But that doesn’t mean his work does.”
Maggie took a long sip of her coffee and considered that. “I like pretty sentences as much as you do. I think it’s okay for books to have sad endings. I
don’t think explosions or car chases make stories better, and I think it’s interesting when a character doesn’t always know what she wants. And I have a lot of readers who feel the same way. But at the same time, I think sometimes writers on our side of the spectrum overlook the lessons we can learn from his side of the spectrum.”
“What are we defining as his and our sides?”
“Book club writers versus formula writers, if you want to put a label on it.”
Emma grinned at her. “Book club” novels were every agent and publisher’s dream, the kind of upmarket fiction that women told their friends they had to read, the kinds of books Oprah and Reese Witherspoon picked and then optioned for movies. “I haven’t made it to book club status, so I’ll take your word for it. I need to learn how you write those kinds of stories, then maybe I can sit down and look at Aidan’s formula. That’s a really nice euphemism for predictable.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Maggie said, lazily wagging her finger at Emma. “When a story sells millions of copies, it’s because the author has found a way to connect to something important in a huge cross-section of readers. Instead of making fun of his formula, maybe you could look at it and see why it works. Lots of writers make fun of Stephenie Meyer’s writing in the Twilight series, but are the millions of readers who loved it really wrong? Or is it the writers who can’t sell enough books to earn back their advances the ones who are missing something?”
Emma was tired of the argument and itchy to get back to her manuscript. She’d been working on the same metaphor for over an hour, and it would nag at her until she had it exactly right. “In theory, I get what you’re saying. But I don’t see how reading Aidan’s police procedural is going to help me figure out how to bring Victoria’s interior struggles to life.”
“Ah, Victoria.” Maggie shook her head. “She’s still not cooperating?”
“She never does,” Emma muttered.
“Let her breathe, quit thinking about her, then sneak up on her when she’s not expecting you and see what you scare out of her.”
Always & Forever: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (ABCs of Love Collection, Books 1 - 4) Page 6