Page 8 of Roses for Rosie

A suit which fits properly is a prerequisite for success when you are standing in front of thousands of women who expect you to make their fantasies come true because their deadbeat husbands couldn’t care less.

What else do I need? My fountain pen, of course. I make another note. I can’t sign books with any old ballpoint pen. These women will look back on my signature for years, remembering their brush with fame every time they re-read the book. If those memories are going to be good enough to make them buy my next book and the one after that, they better be drawn with a writing implement worthy of the occasion.

My phone buzzes as the alarm alerts me to my upcoming meeting with the bookstore owner. It’s time to get going and find the hole in the wall where I will be spending the next agonizing hour of my day. I tap on my GPS and type in Nooks and Books before I remember that I don’t have any cell service.

I doubt Jamesville is even on a map, not that I keep one in my car anymore. It looks like I will be exploring on foot. I take one step out of the coffee shop and feel my foot slide as I step in a steaming pile of stink. The old lady is apparently above picking up after her dog and now its shit is all over my brand new Allen Edmonds shoes.

This is disgusting, I think as I wipe my shoe in the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street, effectively smearing the dog shit over a larger surface and embedding it in the rows of hand stitching. These shoes will never be the same.

Giving up on the shoes, I stomp down the sidewalk toward the single red light in town hoping I picked the right direction. One drug store, one antique store, two empty store fronts and a greasy spoon diner later, I reach the end of town. I hold my hand up to shade my eyes as I gaze out into the distance. I see nothing but fields and cows until the road turns off to the left.

It looks like I picked the wrong direction after all. That’s about par for the course in this shithole, I think. I turn around and head back toward the coffee shop, avoiding the mess on the sidewalk this time. I continue down the street for another quarter of a mile without catching a glimpse of a bookstore or anything else remotely interesting. The town ends abruptly at a gas station hosting a measly two pumps.

I dodge the potholes littering the parking lot and open the door with my handkerchief to ask for directions.

“I’m looking for Nooks and Books,” I tell the clerk when he wanders in from the garage, wiping his blackened hands on an equally filthy rag.

“Why? You need a map?” He laughs at his own joke while I stare him down. After a moment, he clears his throat and replies, “It’s just around the corner. Turn left on Chestnut and then right on Elm. You can’t miss it.”

I turn on my heel and make my escape. A few hundred yards later I am standing in front of a wall of windows, looking into Nooks and Books. I see a display of my book featured prominently near the front door, but I also see the spawn of Satan sunning itself on a chair to the left of the door.

They have a cat. I hate cats. Those mangy, sneaky little bastards have no place in a bookstore, or anywhere else for that matter. My nose itches just looking at it. I bet it has fleas too. I shudder at the thought and vow to keep my distance from the beast.

I take a deep breath and push the door open, causing the bell above the door to jingle merrily. A young woman looks up from the book she was reading and smiles at me. I freeze, taking her in.

She is curled up in a cozy looking chair in front of a fireplace, her bare toes peeking out from under a long gypsy-like skirt. Every color of the rainbow is shouting at me from that skirt. It should clash offensively, but instead I feel drawn to it. I want to study it. Strike that – I want to study her.

I can’t take my eyes off her. The golden color of her shirt brings out the warm tones in the skirt and the light brown color of her eyes. They are wide and friendly, welcoming and inviting. Her gaze makes me feel seen but not judged, it’s curious but not aggressive or intrusive. I have an overwhelming urge to sit next to her and tell her all my secrets.

Her eyes are only the beginning though. Her shirt is cut low enough to reveal tantalizing cleavage. I imagine slipping the shoulder of that shirt off and running my fingers along the swell of her breast. That would certainly make my stay in Jamesville more interesting.

It’s time to turn on the charm and work some Adam Smythe magic.

“Hello, there,” I greet her smoothly, striding confidently across the store. She stands as I approach. I reach out for her hand when I am close enough to touch her, but instead of shaking it, I bring it to my lips and gently kiss the back of it. Her skin is smooth as silk and her fingers grip mine when my lips touch her. She gasps a tiny intake of air at the gesture. She is putty in my hands.

“You, me, my bedroom, tonight,” I invite, looking her up and down.

Her cheeks redden as she stammers, “I think you have the wrong…”

“I’m never wrong about fate. You and I are meant to be.”

“But.”

“I promise you won’t regret it. Do you know who I am?”

“Actually, I do, Mr. Smythe. But I don’t think you know who I am,” she says pulling her hand from my grasp and backing away. “I’m Rosie, the event planner here at Nooks and Books. We spoke on the phone the other day.”

Pole dancing girl? This day just got infinitely more interesting.

Chapter 5

Rosie

I am up early the next morning after a restless night’s sleep. My meeting with Adam Smythe is today. Emotions are bouncing around inside me, fighting for my attention.

I’m definitely nervous. My cheeks burn just thinking about the way I humiliated myself on the phone with him. I’m excited too. I’ve never met anyone as famous as Adam Smythe before.

When I glance at his picture on the back cover of his book, lust pushes its way to the front of my thoughts. Last night’s fantasy makes me squirm as heat rushes to my core. If he is half as hot in the bedroom as the men in his books are…

---