Page 18 of The Ruse of Romancing
I reached around her, picking up the book. “Of Curses and Pomegranatesby Danielle Baldwin.” I read the title out loud before flipping it over to read the back. It only took me a moment to realize this was the book every woman I’d interacted with this summer had raved about. It was the kind of book that made careers, for authors and cover designers.
“Please don’t read the synopsis while I’m standing here,” Danielle said, covering her face with her hands. “I never knowhow to react when people are judging my book baby in front of me. It’s okay if it’s not the book for you, I just don’t need to know that.”
I quirked an eyebrow. “What makes you think it’s not for me, Danielle Baldwin?”
“It’s Dani. And probably because it’s very much a romance and you don’t strike me as the romance kind of guy.”
I pressed a hand to my chest in mock offense, continuing to hold the book with my other hand. “I feel like I’m being judged and coming up short. How do you know I’m not a romance kind of guy? I’ll have you know, I can be very romantic. I’ve even read at least one Jane Austen novel.”
I’d read it in high school, and I didn’t remember which Jane Austen novel, but that was beside the point.Jane Eyrewas by Jane Austen, right? Or was thatWuthering Heights?
“It’s just... um... I... uh,” she stuttered, clearly thrown off by my response.
“If nothing else, I am a design guy, and this cover,” I held the book up for her to see, as if she wasn’t familiar with her own book cover, “is very well designed.”
“Thanks! I wish I could take credit for that, but my publishing house hired this incredibly talented designer and—” She broke off with a groan, smacking her forehead as if just remembering some crucial piece of information. “The cover.” She muttered.
“The cover?” I asked, curious how my comment could have led to this response. I felt like it was a good, solid compliment, but her reaction said otherwise.
“I forgot that, in addition to writing the second book in the series, I need to send in suggestions for the cover design. And with my cover designer on an unexpected hiatus, I’m supposed to be reviewing a few alternative artists my publisher is considering.” She continued muttering to herself, patting her pockets, likely in search of her phone.
Her comments had my interest further piqued. If her publisher was considering a new artist for her cover, could I possibly get myself on their radar? It would mean shifting this interaction firmly away from anything romantic into something professional, but I had no issues with that. There would be more tourists. There was no guarantee I’d get another shot like this to get my work in front of a publisher. And even if they didn’t use me for this book cover, maybe they’d consider me for other books.
I couldn’t fully hear what Dani said as she pulled out her phone, something about “Avery” and “murder” and “run away to Alaska,” but I got the sense that her stress levels had just skyrocketed. Maybe, if I played my cards right, I could help with that stress level and do a bit of networking.
I looked around, trying to come up with some way to redirect the conversation when I registered the sounds around us. Specifically, the sound of a very loud, very angry Joyce Campbell getting closer to the cash register, and Spencer’s quieter, placating voice attempting to calm her. It sounded very much like Joyce was gearing up for the aforementioned customer service lecture and Dani and I were about to become unwitting audience members.
Panicked, I glanced around the bookshelves for an escape, not certain which aisle the unwelcome pair were coming down but certain they’d arrive soon. Spencer’s open office door caught my attention, offering the only viable escape route.
“Quick, hide!” I snagged Dani’s arm and pulled her into the office with me, flipping off the lights and closing the door behind us.
Chapter 8
Dani
Thereweresomanythings wrong with my current predicament, starting with the fact that I’d followed a stranger into a dark, confined space without question and ending with the fact that I didn’t hate it.
When he’d pulled me into the office, I’d stumbled a bit, so his hands were on my arms, steadying me, and I wasn’t necessarily eager for him to let go. The man smelled amazing, something woodsy and sweet, kind of like a lumberjack and a bakery had a baby. Not to mention his hands communicated a level of strength that 90 percent of women would find attractive. At least according to the totally unbiased, peer-reviewed fictional assessment I’d made in the brief moments since he’d tugged me into Spencer’s office with him.
“Why are we hiding?” I whispered the question as the man released me, and I immediately missed the contact and the zing it sent down my spine, even as I took a step back from him. He was a stranger, after all. Even if he smelled and looked like theman of my dreams. Honestly, I’d pictured a man like this when writing Petros, though Petros’s hair was longer and darker, and he had a bit of scruff.
“Joyce Campbell.”
I let out an exasperated huff. “You say that name like it means something.”
“That’s because it does mean something.” His voice was deep and earnest. It held a familiar quality that I couldn’t quite place. Maybe he sounded like an audiobook narrator I’d listened to recently or something. “Joyce Campbell is the kind of woman nosy busybody stereotypes are based off of.”
I shrugged, not sure if I should be intimidated or impressed by the woman. “So, she’s a strong flavor. I still don’t understand why that means we have to hide in the bookstore office in the dark.”
“If I can delay your first run in with Joyce Campbell, I’m going to do it. Trust me, the longer you can go without meeting her, the better.”
“While I appreciate your heroics, I think I can handle one opinionated person.”
“Famous last words.” He muttered. “I’ve seen Joyce make grown men cry by just looking at them. Those grown men were her husband and son, but still.”
I snorted a laugh, not sure what to think of the man in front of me. I could just make out his features thanks to the light coming from under the door and I could tell he had defined cheekbones. Maybe I needed to reevaluate Petros’s scruff. There was something to be said for an attractive, clean-shaven man.
“Shh, you don’t want to give away our location,” he hushed, though I was fairly certain his lips were quirked up in a teasing smile with that assertion.
