Page 5 of Cupid's Beau

“I do.” Jack settles in, his large body filling the space.

He’s more relaxed than earlier. Just a regular guy having dinner with friends, instead of the brooding celebrity who first arrived. Except for the insane levels of hotness, of course.

“Neneh tells us you’re in room 15,” my father says, passing a bowl of stew. “Best view of the bay.”

Jack serves himself, then shares, “I used to come here as a kid. With my mom.” That catches my attention. “Different inn back then.”

“Ah, you must have met the Hendersons,” my father nods. “Good people. They retired to Florida a while ago. We bought it from them.”

“The wraparound porch is the same,” Jack says quietly, almost to himself. There’s warmth in his voice, a faraway gaze, a soft expression on his face. Then he takes a bite of the mafé and his eyes widen. “This is amazing.”

My mother practically glows.

“You should try her thieboudienne,” I say without thinking. “It’seven better.”

“Then I’ll have to stay a few more days,” he replies, looking directly at me.

His eyes send my heart into another gallop. This is ridiculous. I’m a complete fool. Reacting like some groupie.

“Speaking of staying,” my mother says with a feigned innocence that wouldn’t fool a toddler, “Neneh’s here to work on her new book. Are you familiar with her work, Mr. Ellis?”

“Ma,” I groan, but Jack’s already turned his gaze on me with interest.

“You’re a writer?”

My mother cuts in before I can respond. “Her last book was on the Times list.”

“Briefly,” I correct. “Very briefly. And it was the extended list.”

“Still counts,” my dad adds his two cents around a mouthful of food. “And that review in The New Yorker-”

“Can we talk about something else?” I interrupt. “Anything else? The weather maybe?”

Jack’s watching our exchange with what looks suspiciously like amusement. Then he asks, “what do you write?”

“Women’s fiction,” I mumble. “Nothing you’d-”

“‘Baby Blues,’” my mother announces proudly. “That was her last one. Have you read it?”

Something shifts in Jack’s expression. His eyes widening almost comically. “The one about the jazz musician and his daughter?”

I stare at him, mouth agape. “You read my book?” Jack freaking Ellis read MY book?!

“I…” Pink tinges his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. Oh My God! Big, brooding, Hollywood star reads women’s fiction. And his slight embarrassment about it is so freaking cute that it almost makes me forget to faint about the fact that he read my words. “My sister recommended it.” His eyes find mine again. Serious this time. Solemn. “She said it reminded her of us. Of our family.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what to do with that. With myself. With the fact that Jack Ellis has not only read my words. But they meant something to him and his sister. And it’s not just because he’s a hot celebrity I’ve had a crush on since I first saw him on TV as a teen. No. This is the greatest compliment an author can ever get. This is why we write. To touch people. To connect with real-life stories. Honor and share them.

My father interrupts the intense look Jack and I were exchanging. “The new one’s giving her trouble though,” he stage-whispers.

“Papa!” I run a hand down my face. Can I return my parents for a refund? “Not trouble exactly,” I say, stabbing at my food. “Just… taking its time.”

“Writer’s block?” Jack asks, and there’s something gentle in his voice that makes me look up again.

“More like writer’s entire concrete wall.” I attempt a smile. “Hence hiding out here instead of working in my apartment inNew York.”

“Sometimes a change of scenery helps,” he says. “Different perspective.”

Our eyes meet across the table, and for a moment I forget my parents are there. Again. Letting myself drawn in the calm intensity of his stare.

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