Stirred

by Nancy S Thompson

  “Neither are these retweets,” I said aloud as I checked my Twitter feed. “Gotta love those RTs.” I smiled as I counted over two hundred from yesterday alone. Not too shabby, Eden.

  I tweeted my appreciation right back, a laborious chore, but well worth it.

  Free advertising, I reminded myself, then clicked on the profile of the follower who’d tweeted me last night, noting he’d been busy retweeting almost every single post I’d made over the last two days. He’d even sent out a couple of his own, praising my debut, Joust, as he read through the night.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Bennett,” I said and chuckled as images of Donald Sutherland, father to Keira Knightley’s Elizabeth Bennett, danced in my head. “Wow,” I added, sitting up a little straighter.

  His tweets were not the ordinary and oft seen call-to-action—you gotta read this book! They were direct commentaries on the story. It was rare for readers to engage and actually discuss my book, except to say they loved it or whatever. Of course, those were great, too, but my whole body buzzed like a live wire with the prospect of debating content. And the points he’d brought up were some of the very reasons I’d written the book in the first place.

  Scrolling through, his first tweet made me smile…

  “@EdenMacLaird ~ No rape, bondage or sex slaves & yet still titillating. Imagine that! #KeepingItReal #amreading #Joust #DarkEroticRomance”

  The next had me sighing in relief…

  “@EdenMacLaird ~ Happy to see June & Remi don’t fall into insta-love. #KeepingItReal #amreading #Joust #DarkEroticRomance”

  And the last made me giggle…

  “@EdenMacLaird ~ WTF She doesn’t swallow? At long last, erotic romance with class! #KeepingItReal #amreading #Joust #DarkEroticRomance”

  Actually, it made me spit out my coffee as I outright belly-laughed.

  “Oh shit!” I cursed and ran for a towel to clean the spray off my tablet. Once the touchscreen was spotless again, I settled in, deep in thought, wondering how best to respond to my newest, and rather audacious, fan.

  “@SeanBennett ~ THX! Glad U approve, though I’m surprised U read #DarkEroticRomance, being a guy & all - ENJOY ;P”

  I tittered in excitement and laid my iPad down flat, telling myself I wouldn’t sit and wait for a reply. What I would do, however, was prowl through his profile.

  “Okay, who are you exactly, Sean Bennett?” I asked aloud as I began to poke around. “Third-year law student. Cool. And at the U-Dub, too. Nice. Means you’re smart. Obviously. I mean, look at your tweets to me.” I smiled at the small boost to my ego and read on, my heart skipping at the rest of his profile. “Triathlete. Wow. Devoted son & brother. Aw, that’s sweet. Owner of a broken heart? Hm. Wonder what happened there? Probably just a gimmick to pick-up chicks.”

  I scrolled through some of his older tweets, mostly commentary on current events, Major League Baseball, and constitutional law. I clicked on a few of the links he included in his more acerbic posts.

  “Ah, an idealistic progressive.” I shook my head, sighing at the luxury of the highly-educated youth. “Just wait ‘til you start paying taxes on that wad you’ll soon be earning, Mr. Sean Bennett…Esquire.” I emphasized at the end.

  My finger slid up and down the screen, moving from one post to another, but for all his treatise on social issues, there was very little personal content. Taking note of his obvious disdain of America’s obsession with selfies, I figured he’d post very few photos of himself, but, scrolling through his myriad of twit-pics, I could find none at all, not even his avatar, which was simply a logo for the San Francisco Giants.

  There was one third-party crowd shot of him at what appeared to be the finish line of a triathlon. He was pushing a sporty wheelchair with a young child in it. I squinted hard, trying to discern what he looked like, but he and his companion were at an angle to the camera and too far away to see much detail. He was fit, I’ll give him that. Compared to the crowd around him, he was tall, broad-shouldered, well-defined, and very lean. His hair was a bit shaggy, but then he’d just run a marathon, so…

  “Geez, Eden, get a grip. He’s a kid, for God’s sake,” I scolded myself.

  Well, sort of, I thought a moment later. Young, yes, but still a man. And rather hot, too.

  “Ugh!” I groaned and pushed my tablet away. “It’s not you. It’s everything that happened last night. With Declan and Reely, with that guy at the bar. It’s messing with your head, Eden. They’re all messing with your head.” With my fingers at both temples, I stood and walked over to the double-wide fridge.

  “You hungry, Minka?” I asked when my kitty sauntered into the room with a plaintive cry. “Yeah, me, too, baby. Let’s see what we have.”

  While Minka mewed and weaved a figure eight between my ankles, I rummaged through the shelves, pulling out a foil pack of day-old grilled salmon for her and a strawberry yogurt for myself. I laid a tiny portion of the fish down on the floor then dove into the yogurt like it was my last meal on earth. Come to think of it, I hadn’t eaten at the bar last night, unusual for me. No nachos or guacamole. No sopapillas or churros. Then I recalled why and instantly lost my appetite.

  This husband-cheating-with-my-best-friend thing might prove to be the best diet yet, which really pissed me off, because I dearly loved food. Disgusted, I threw my half-eaten yogurt away and was just about to go take a shower when my iPad pinged from the kitchen table. I walked over to silence it and saw the Twitter notification—not a tweet, but rather a direct message from one Sean Bennett.

  “You are bold, Mr. Bennett, I’ll give you that,” I said and swiped to retrieve the DM.

  Sean Bennett: You don’t think a guy can appreciate erotic romance, dark or otherwise?

  I stared at the blue text bubble next to his Twitter avatar, excited he’d had the balls to personally engage, but unsure if it was wise for me to respond. He appeared intelligent, if a bit sardonic. Innocuous, yet challenging at the same time. But was he dangerous? While I welcomed public repartee via tweets, direct messaging was something else altogether. A little too personal for my comfort, but this guy had aroused something in me. I’m not sure what…or why. Maybe it was last night’s incident in the men’s room, or perhaps it was a base desire to get even with my husband. Either way, that young hottie in the bar had planted a seed I couldn’t help nurturing.

  My head screamed at me to simply delete the message, while my gut urged me forward. There was no evidence this Sean Bennett person ever engaged with the purpose of anything other than witty discourse, to challenge an adversary. He knew damn well he was smart and liked to exhibit as much. And I was not one to run from a debate. So I thought about it then typed in my response…

  Eden MacLaird: I think men are more visual & appreciate images over words on the page.

  I bit my lip and stared at the screen, wondering if he was standing by, waiting for my reply like I was his. That’s when it hit me, how ridiculous I was acting, so I clicked off the app and was just about to set the tablet aside when notification of his answer popped up. I couldn’t help but grin, though my finger shook slightly as it swiped it away and opened the message.

  Sean: As I appreciate YOUR image, but some of us goons can glean a visceral response from words on the page, as well. We aren’t all Neanderthals.

  I sucked in a short breath. Where had I heard that before? I couldn’t help but wonder…

  Eden: Have we met? You remind me of someone.

  I braced for his answer.

  Sean: That would be a very lucky someone, and I’ve never been especially lucky.

  I let out my breath in relief, but perplexed as to why. I suppose I didn’t want to have to ban him so soon, worried he might be a stalker. But that posed another why in my mind, like why I even cared.

  “Because he’s smart. And interesting,” I argued with myself. “And why shouldn’t I, anyway? It’s not like Declan cares.” Pissed I was getting all mopey again, I decided it was time to cut this short.

  Ed
en: You’re too smooth, Mr. Bennett. Sorry, gotta go. Nice chatting. Enjoy the book.

  I sent my last message and had nearly signed off when a reply lit up the screen.

  Sean: I’ve offended you. My apologies. I deal with facts & state things as I see them.

  I sat and gazed at the screen, feeling guilty over my abruptness. Again, not sure why. But what I did know was, I didn’t want to end our conversation. Thinking about all the things I’d given up for Declan, I decided it was time I did exactly as I wished for a change, and if that was cultivating an online relationship with an intelligent, educated young person who just happened to enjoy my book and appreciate my looks, well, so be it. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, and I felt certain there was nothing to fear.

  I just wished the butterflies in my stomach agreed.

  “Shit, that was close,” I swore as I shut the lid on my laptop.

  Trinitee lifted her mug and smiled into her coffee. “That chick ain’t dumb,” she commented, practicing what she called her every-girl speak, a dumbed-down persona designed to hide her razor-sharp wit, a tactic she was honing to appear less of a threat to any who might challenge her. “You gotta be more careful, dude.”

  “Me? You’re the one feeding me lines,” I objected, used to her ever-changing character.

  She shook her head, her grin growing broader. “Only the tweets, you asshole. Those DMs were all you. And the idiot-you, at that.”

  “How else am I supposed to get her to trust me? This is your game plan, not mine, remember?”

  With hooded eyes, Trin set her cup down and relaxed back into her chair. “Then you finish reading her damn book and figure out how to accomplish that on your own. Just don’t cry to me when she fails to take the bait.”

  I snickered. “I know how to bed a girl, Trin. Fuck.”

  “‘Cept this ain’t no damn girl, Sean-boy. She’s a woman, like, what? Forty years old or something? That’s nearly two decades more experience than you. She’ll recognize a player like that,” she said with a snap of her fingers. “You need to go slow. Don’t rush this.”

  I nodded, sighing with the knowledge she was right, as usual. “You think I scared her off?”

  Trinitee glanced around at the other Starbucks patrons then leaned in, her elbows on the small table between us. “No, not yet. But I think she’s guarded, as she should be.” Trin dipped down and rifled through her backpack, pulling out a folder with loose notes inside.

  “I did a little research,” she continued, “and found out Ms. MacLaird just hit the big-time with that book of hers. An Amazon, USA Today, and New York Times bestseller, all within the last nine months. So, on top of being gorgeous, she’s a newly minted celebrity and likely has a stable of stalker-types hot on her ass. You can’t just act like some gold-digger trying to get into her lacy little panties. That bitch be smart, Sean-boy. She has dual BAs in psychology and early childhood development, plus an MFA in creative writing, all from the U-Dub. She can see you comin’ before you even leave the motherfuckin’ building.”

  “Jesus Christ, Trin, I’m not exactly Rob Kardashian. I have a BA in poli-sci and a minor in international studies, both summa cum laude,” I ticked off. “Plus a full-ride to the U-Dub School of Law while on track for The Order of the Coif in nine short months. So don’t act like she’s all above me.” I shook my head. “No one’s above me.”

  “‘Cept for me,” she cautioned with a raised brow and the tiniest of grins.

  I chuckled, annoyed to be caught in her trap yet again. “Yeah, except for you, Trin. Always you.” I shook my head and peered out the storefront window at all the students and local residents bustling along the sidewalk outside. “Okay then, what do you suggest I do?” I asked.

  Trinitee’s grin split her face wide. She held up one finger and proceeded to root through her folder until she found what she was looking for, a flyer of some sort. “This,” she explained simply as she slid it under my nose.

  “What is it?”

  “An event at Secret Garden Books in Ballard, three days from now. Your favorite new author will be reading a passage from her debut and signing copies for her fans between five and eight p.m. And here,” she added as she grabbed a book from her bag, Eden MacLaird’s Joust.

  “You bought a hardcopy?” I scoffed in disbelief.

  She smacked me in the head. “Think, you moron!” she scolded, drawing attention from those sitting near us.

  “What!”

  “What’s she supposed to sign, Sean, your goddamn Kindle? You can’t get close if you don’t have a book for her to actually autograph, you nimrod.”

  “So you bought me her book,” I said, more a statement than a question. “Don’t you think you’re taking this one a bit too seriously? I’m inclined to treat this like a game, same as all the others, nothing more.”

  “Yeah, well, now it’s more of a project, the Let’s-Get-Sean-Laid-by-a-Celebrity-Cougar Project, and I’m the director of events, so consider this an order.”

  I gave Trinitee a long, hard look, trying to gauge how serious she was, and she seemed pretty damn serious. “And what exactly am I supposed to do at this event, boss?” I asked as she stuffed her things back into her bag.

  Trinitee gave me a reassuring tap to my arm and said, “You’re the stud, Sean-boy. You’ll think of something.” With that, she winked and threw her backpack over one shoulder, waved, and sauntered out of the building.

  I shook my head in doubt and flipped the book over in my hands, staring at the author pic on the back cover. “Looks like you and me gotta date, Ms. MacLaird,” I mimicked in Trin’s latest vernacular. I stroked my finger along the image. “Not sure what my pimp’s up to, but…I think I’m gonna enjoy this ride.” That said, I pulled out Eden’s business cards and slipped them midway between the pages.

  Secret Garden Books was a small, independent bookstore sandwiched in a row of retail shops along NW Market Street in Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood, a historic blue-collar waterfront district predominantly known for its seafaring Nordic heritage. But, much like the rest of North Seattle, it had since evolved into a hip, urban enclave of quaint storefronts, trendy restaurants, and pedestrian-friendly walkways. While the shop carried mostly children’s books, they did maintain a section of commercial adult fiction and encouraged local authors to hold signing events and sales.

  I parked across the street a block away and was surprised to see a line extending out the front entry, past the shop next door. I stopped in front of the large window and peered inside. Customers crowded around a long, narrow table set to the right just inside the door. I teetered side-to-side, trying to catch a glimpse, but all I could see was the back of Eden’s dark red hair. I checked the time on my phone—7:45. Damn. I thought by now there’d be few people left, and I’d get the chance for a little one-on-one.

  With an impatient huff, I walked to the end of the line, hopeful the store wouldn’t close by the time I made my way inside. Turns out, I was worried for nothing. The line moved quickly as the store owner hurried patrons along. I allowed two people to sneak in front of me, anxious to be last. The plan worked, and the clock on my phone read 7:59 as I stepped in front of Eden MacLaird.

  Jesus Christ, she was even more beautiful than I remembered, with her pale pink skin all smooth and flawless, her lips full and red and undoubtedly just as soft as the night she’d kissed me, and those long, thick lashes that brushed just above her high, sculpted cheekbones. I swallowed hard as I recalled every detail of the gorgeous eyes beneath her pale purple lids. They were a rich green, like perfectly cut emeralds, only these emeralds had shimmering canary diamonds radiating outward as if on fire, a sun burning bright within the depths. Absolutely stunning, and I couldn’t wait to see them again. So I plopped my book down hard on the table in front of her.

  She didn’t look up at first. She simply grabbed the book and opened it to the title page and lowered her fancy Mont Blanc fountain pen to the blank spot just above her name.

&nb
sp; “Anything special?” she asked before briefly peeking up at me, though her attention returned to the book, ready to scribble out an inscription. But all of a sudden, she seemed to hold her breath as her shoulders grew rigid and squared, and her hand slipped from the page.

  She brought her gaze back up to me haltingly, and I stood there, staring, mesmerized by the intensity of those one-of-a-kind eyes. At first, her brow gathered in the center, but the knot slowly eased, and a tenuous smile pulled up along both sides of her mouth. That grin made the bored light in her eyes ignite into a bright flame just as the hint of a blush stained high on her cheeks. Placing the ivory pen in the crease of my book, she relaxed back into her hard plastic chair and folded her hands in her lap. Her head shook from side-to-side, almost imperceptibly, but I was acutely attuned to her and couldn’t help but notice the confusion in her expression.

  I pointed to the book between us. “How about, ‘To my newest fan. Enjoy!’?”

  Eden didn’t move. I wasn’t even sure she’d heard me. She just sat there and stared with that half-smile plastered on her beautiful face.

  I raised my brow. “You okay?” I asked.

  Her mouth moved like she was about to say something, but the words couldn’t seem to pass between her glossy red lips, so I just smiled back, hoping it would break the tension.

  After another silent moment, Eden blinked and said, “What are you doing here?”