Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love Book 5)

by Ali Parker

  However, a big smile and a “would you like a breakfast sandwich with your coffee today?” went a long way with New Yorkers. I had a seventy-percent success rate. Mare told me she would have to make bigger orders if I was sticking around.

  I’d told her she’d better hop to it because I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.

  My first week of tips grossed a total of one hundred and twelve dollars. That blew my mind. I’d been expecting fifty bucks maximum. This left me with sixty-two dollars more and I was over the moon about it, even though a hundred bucks didn’t really get a girl all that far these days, especially not in this city. I’d promised myself that my tips would go right into my savings account. I didn’t need anything and I needed to build up a cushiony buffer in my bank account for any unforeseen, just-in-case scenarios. You never know what waited around the corner for you and I was the kind of person who needed to be prepared for any kind of surprise.

  What if I needed to get my wisdom teeth pulled?

  What if Sonia was short on rent and needed a helping hand? I’d have no problem forking out a bit extra if she was in a tight spot because those kinds of gestures usually came full circle and I trusted her.

  What if I owed more money on taxes than I expected?

  There were so many things that unexpectedly cost money as an adult and my parents had raised me well. I hated not having that wiggle room. Without it, I was a stress ball of nerves and anxiety just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Had it ever happened?

  No.

  But that wasn’t the point.

  It was half past two in the afternoon on Tuesday when Callie put her hand on my shoulder while I steamed milk for a gentleman’s hazelnut latte. “Hey,” she said, “I’m just going to pop into the back room and have a bite to eat. Are you good to handle things for fifteen minutes on your own?”

  I tried not to audibly gulp in intimidation. “I think so.”

  “If you need me, just holler down the hall and I’ll come back up.”

  “Okay.”

  Callie gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You’ve got this. Getting thrown into the fire is the fastest way to learn. Trust me.”

  I tried to do just that—trust her—as she made her way down the hall and left me behind the counter alone for the first time since I was hired.

  It wasn’t easy flying solo between the cash register and the coffee bar. I’d ring in a drink, hop over to the other half of the bar, and start frothing milk and pulling espresso shots. I’d pump syrup into cups, top drinks with whipped cream and other appropriate toppings, and slide them across the bar top while calling the drink out over the music and the chatting customers. The steady line of customers never ended.

  The real test came when a young woman with a bag of books showed up. She wanted to exchange her books for a store credit, which Mare had shown me how to do two times this past week. I had to sign out of the coffee shop POS and into the bookstore system, where I had to enter my employee identification number and navigate the bottom tabs on the screen to the credits section. I did my best to estimate what each book was worth, typed the book titles into the system, allocated their prices to the name, and put the books in a cardboard box behind the bar to be shelved and tagged before going on the floor.

  The young woman took her in-store credit with a smile and began perusing the dense bookshelves at the back of the shop.

  Meanwhile, the customers continued to come in a steady line. About half of them were regulars who already knew I was new, and they were the best ones to serve because they had wonderful patience and were willing to wait for me. Some even offered words of encouragement and noted how I was already faster than I was last week.

  Those people made the overwhelm a little less intense.

  Others, like the gentleman in a sleek black suit with perfectly styled hair and a shiny watch he kept glancing at while he tapped the toe of his shoe on the floor, didn’t help with said overwhelm. He watched me like a hawk while I made him his drink, took it with a scowl, and didn’t say thank you.

  “Don’t sweat the asshats like him,” Callie said, tying her apron around her waist as she returned from her break. “He’s just one of those dicks who thinks his time is more important than anyone else’s. If anyone is ever rude to you, Mare will support you refusing to serve them. Just so you know.”

  “Really?”

  In my old job, that had been a big no-no. If a customer was rude, you smiled and made it better for them. Whatever they wanted, you gave it to them. If you couldn’t, you brought the manager in. It didn’t matter how disrespectful they were to you. You were to grin and bear it.

  But I liked the sound of how Mare did things.

  “Absolutely,” Callie said, moving in to take over behind the cash register. “She’s got no time for people who treat her staff poorly. She wants this to be a good place to work. How can you have that environment when you have trash clientele?”

  “Your aunt is seriously the best.”

  “I know. Just don’t tell her that. Her ego is already big enough.” Callie tipped her head toward the hall from which she’d just returned. “Do you want to go put your feet up and take a breather? I can hold down the fort while you take a break.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” I said.

  As I made my way down the hall, I realized how sore my body was. Working at this little coffee shop wasn’t an easy gig. Being on my feet all day, bending and crouching, steaming, receiving inventory, stocking shelves, fridges, and bookcases? It all took a toll on the body. Most of my tension was at the nape of my neck and between my shoulder blades. My hips hurt a little bit, too.

  Sinking down into one of the chairs at the table in the break room felt heavenly. My sore muscles sang with relief and I fished my phone out for a distraction. I was going to text Wes and see how his day was going, but as I opened his contact info, my phone started ringing.

  I beamed as a picture of my mom showed up on my screen.

  I hadn’t heard either of my parents’ voices in a while and I missed them dearly. I answered the call and pressed the phone to my cheek. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, baby!” My mother’s voice was ecstatic. “Your father is here too and you’re on speaker phone.”

  I grinned. “Hi, Daddy.”

  “How’s the big apple?” my dad cried into the line.

  “It’s good! You called at just the right time. I’m on my break at work. On to week two at the coffee shop and it’s kicking my ass.”

  “New Yorkers are a different breed,” my mother said.

  “You’ll be one of them in no time,” my dad added.

  “I don’t know if I want that.” I giggled. “I don’t want to lose my small town charm. Anyway, how are you guys? Better question, where are you guys?”

  “You won’t believe it,” Dad said.

  “Take a guess,” Mom said.

  “A guess?” I mused. “Of all the countries in the world how could I possibly guess?”

  “We’ve always wanted to go,” Mom said.

  “Always,” Dad agreed.

  My parents had this way of talking like they were one person that always made me smile. I pursed my lips, scratched my chin, and considered where they might be. “I don’t know, guys. Venice? Peru? New Zealand?”

  “Nope,” they said in unison.

  “Just tell me!”

  My mother’s laughter filled the line and she cried, “We’re in Dubai!”

  “Dubai?” I exclaimed. “What? Seriously? Why haven’t you sent me pictures?”

  My parents chuckled and assured me pictures were on the way. They just hadn’t had time to sit down at a computer, plug their camera in, and transfer the files. My parents had an old school Kodak camera that they took on every single trip with them. The amount of memory cards they owned was almost as appalling as the amount of photo albums that filled the bookshelves in their basement suite. Most were family albums, but as of late, they’d been adding all their travel al
bums to the collection. The physical copy still won out against the digital one for them.

  I checked the time and sighed. “I’m sorry, guys. I have to go back to work. I’m so glad you called. It’s good to hear your voice. I miss you both so much.”

  “We miss you too, kiddo,” my dad said.

  “We’re thinking of coming back home soon,” my mother said. “When we fly back, we’re going to try to make a pit stop in New York so we can come see you. Then we’ll make our way home after that.”

  “Really?” I asked hopefully.

  “Really,” she said. “It’s been too long. We’ll keep you posted, all right?”

  “Okay,” I said, cheeks hurting from smiling so big. “Love you guys.”

  “Love you too.”

  We ended the call and I returned to my place with Callie behind the bar. She took over the espresso machine while I worked the register. I was thankful for it because I needed the practice. Despite how messy and clumsy I was, making the drinks came easier to me than managing the register. Computers had never really been my forte and this sales system wasn’t all that straightforward.

  About an hour passed before a woman in a matching skirt and blazer strolled in wearing a pair of sleek and expensive looking sunglasses. She had long black hair pulled back in a straight pony tail, and her lips were painted a magnificent fuchsia shade. She scanned the room until her green eyes fell on me. A smile curled those pink lips of hers and her hips swayed from side to side as she approached the register. Her heels stopped clicking on the floor when she leaned against the counter in front of me.

  She tapped a fingernail that was the same shade as her lips on the bar top. “Hi, my name is Kelly Green. I’m a journalist from Wallflower Literary Magazine. I was wondering if you had a minute to chat.”

  I frowned. Wallflower? That was a huge literary magazine that published dozens of short stories monthly and had led to the discovery of many brilliant authors who wrote in various genres.

  What would a journalist from an online magazine want with me?

  Kelly set her designer purse down on the counter, popped it open, and pulled out her wallet. “I’ll take a non fat, sugar free, no whip caramel latte, please.”

  Chapter 24

  Wes

  Harriet stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows in my publisher’s office in Manhattan. Today she wore a pair of ruby red pants, black high heels with red soles, and a black turtleneck. A long gold necklace hung around her neck that matched the gold earrings in her ears and I was struck by how meticulous she was with her clothing and appearance.

  I suspected Harriet had always cared a great deal about what other people thought of her. Clothing and makeup seemed to be her way of trying to control an uncontrollable narrative.

  My publisher, Wilson Gaines, sat on the opposite side of his desk from me. His office was a sprawling room full of books, modern and somewhat cold looking furniture, and strange artwork. To my right on the edge of his desk was a statue of a pair of broken scissors. Behind him on the shelves boasting books he’d published were more strange figurines, most of which he’d told me he collected from various countries he’d visited.

  Every time I sat in this seat, there was something new in his office. Today it was the statue of the broken scissors.

  “It’s from a local artist in Paris,” Wilson said when he caught me studying the statue.

  “It’s interesting,” I said.

  “Isn’t it?” Wilson mused. He cocked his head to the side to regard the statue. When he’d had his fill, his attention returned to me. “And so is your newest book, Wes. I was pleased to read it. Smooth work, nice wrapped-up ending, an easy sell, I think.”

  “That’s good news,” I said.

  Harriet turned from the window. “It’s brilliant news. We think we can release it before Christmas.”

  I frowned. “Doesn’t that seem a little rushed? I mean, I figured there’d be some rewrites or revisions.”

  “Minor things,” Wilson said almost dismissively. “Nothing that you won’t be able to turn back to us within a week, I’m sure. We have three cover designs already in the works and as always will refer to you to choose which one you like best. Harriet here has been scheduling some promotional dates where she’ll send signed copies to local bookstores. Which means, of course, that you’re going to have to sit down like you did last time and sign some copies. You good with that?”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  Harriet came over and sat down in the open chair beside me. She folded her arms under her breasts. “You know, these promotional tours would be financially more successful if people were coming to meet the author.”

  “No,” I said, knowing where she was going with this. “Absolutely not.”

  “All right, all right.” Harriet held both hands up innocently, flashing me her palms. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I was just saying.”

  Wilson chuckled. “I understand your desire for privacy but Harriet has a valid point.”

  “I never said it wasn’t valid,” I said. “I’m just not interested in putting myself out there like that. Besides, how greedy do we have to be? We make more than a good living on these books. And I already have an idea for my next one.”

  Harriet blinked at me.

  Wilson leaned back in his seat. The leather groaned and he pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Do you now?”

  I nodded earnestly. “Yes. I’m in a good place writing wise. I figure I should take advantage of it.”

  “I like your style, Parker,” Wilson said.

  “Care to share what it’s about?” Harriet asked.

  I shook my head. “Not yet. Let me get something on the page and see how it takes shape. But you guys will be the first to know when it becomes something.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Wilson said as he got smoothly to his feet. He held out a hand for me to shake as I stood as well. “As always, it’s been a pleasure, Wes. I can say confidently you’re one of the easiest writers my agency works with.”

  I shot Harriet a look. “My agent likes to convince me otherwise when we’re running up against a deadline.”

  Wilson chuckled and smoothed out his suit jacket. “Well, Harriet has a job to do, too. Someone has to keep you in line, don’t they?”

  Harriet lifted her chin defiantly. “See? Wilson understands. It’s not easy dealing with you writer types, Wes. You have minds of your own and you’re hard to read. All I know is I have to keep you on your toes and I have to make sure you hit your deadlines because if left to your own devices—”

  “I know, I know,” I cut her off. “I’d wither away to nothing and both of our careers would go down the toilet.”

  She grinned. “Exactly.”

  “Your approach still isn’t my favorite,” I muttered.

  Harriet got to her feet and nudged me in the ribs with her elbow. “That’s because it’s effective and what you need. A firm hand and—”

  “Someone bossing me around,” I finished for her.

  Harriet nodded approvingly. “I feel so understood.”

  I rolled my eyes at her, thanked Wilson for seeing us today, and made my way out of the office with Harriet on my heels. She wrapped an arm through mine and her hip bumped against mine as we walked down the long hallway of the publishing house to the elevators.

  “Good job in there,” she said. “I mean it. I know you’ve been a little frustrated with me lately but I’m glad Wilson didn’t see that. I can stand to back down a bit, if that’s what you want.”

  I arched an eyebrow at her. “Who are you and what have you done with my agent?”

  She rolled her eyes and used the hand draped through mine to flick the inside of my forearm. “I’m just saying. I know I can be a pain in the ass. And maybe, just maybe, I could stand to give you a bit of space, too. Maybe I don’t need to stay on top of you as diligently as I think I do. If you say the writing is going well and you can manage yourself, I believe you.”


  “You’re scaring me.”

  We stepped onto the elevator and Harriet laughed. “Is it really that jarring?”

  “That you’re being so nice and reasonable? Yes. What happened? Did you win the lottery or something?”

  She jabbed the button for the lobby and scowled playfully at me. “No, smartass. It has nothing to do with money.”

  “What then?”

  “Honestly?”

  I nodded. “Honestly. How long have we known each other for, Harriet? Sure, you’re a royal pain in my ass, but you’re also a huge part of my success.”

  “Is that a thank you?” she asked daringly.

  “Don’t push it.”

  Harriet gave me a wry smile and averted her gaze as her cheeks turned pink. Was she blushing? Up until this very moment, I didn’t even know my agent had blood in her cheeks with which to blush. She’d always been such a calm, cool, and collected force to be reckoned with.

  Who was this bashful woman beside me?

  “My husband and I went through a very rocky patch recently,” she said. This surprised me. Harriet and I didn’t talk about vulnerable things with each other. We didn’t have that kind of relationship. But here she was, blushing, talking about her husband. “I hadn’t realized I’d done it, but I’d become his manager. I spent so much time telling him and the kids what to do that it became my permanent state. I wouldn’t let anyone do anything to help me because I’m so obsessed with things being just right. You know?”

  “I know terribly well, yes.”

  “Shut up.” She smirked. “Anyway, Chris and I decided to do marriage counseling. I was so afraid that I’d created too much space between us to come back from. But we’ve been working our way through it and yesterday… well, yesterday was a breakthrough for us and I guess my perspective shifted a little bit.”