Page 22 of Bookworm and the Beast
“Oh, don’t worry yourself,” Mrs. Potts assured. “He’s been very much looking forward to this.”
Her tone was pleasant, but she didn’t meet my eyes as she said the last part. What was going on? I was getting a bad feeling about all this. Oh, I hoped Jack wasn’t planning to stand me up.
As if reading my mind, Mrs. Potts said, “He’ll keep his word. He always does. Now… why don’t we start in the basement? There’s a bowling alley down there and an Olympic-sized pool where Jack swims his laps every morning.”
“Must not be too early in the morning,” I quipped. “I read that he likes to write late into the night.”
“Well… I’ll let him tell you about that sort of thing… if he wishes to discuss it.” Her forbidding tone told me he most likelywouldn’twant to discuss it.
I'd seen a good portion of the house and taken more pictures than I could ever use for the article when we came to a display case containing an array of plaques and trophies.
“Are these all writing awards?” I asked Mrs. Potts.
“They certainly are. They mean a lot to him.” The older woman let her eyes roam over the collection. “I think everyone, no matter who they are, needs to feel appreciated. We all need encouragement. And writers… well as far as I can tell, writers are insecure creatures by nature. Jack is no different. In fact, he might be more in need of encouragement than anyone I've ever known.”
I gave her a quizzical glance. “But how could that possibly be true? He's a best seller. He has what every writer dreams of.”
Lifting one of the trophies, a tall, cylindrical, distinctly phallic cut-glass sculpture emblazoned with his name, I recognized it as the most coveted writing award in fiction.
“I mean look at this thing. It’senormous. And he hasthreeof them. Most authors could only dream of ever earning one.”
“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Potts held out both hands as if afraid I might drop the heavy statuette. “You might want to put that back down. He gets a little—”
There was a sound behind me, something close to a growl.
“Who said you could touch my things?”
Chapter Six
Private Possessions
Bonnie
The voice was deep, smoky, and rich. Gooseflesh sprang out all over my arms and neck, and I bobbled the precious award, nearly dropping it.
Whirling around, I was confronted with the last thing I’d expected to see.
Yes, Jack Bestia was standing behind me—that part I did expect. But he didn’t look anything like the dashing, handsome man I’d checked out online and seen at the book signing two years ago.
This Jack Bestia looked like a wild man. His curly hair was unruly and desperately in need of a trim. His dark beard was… well, it was something to behold.
It made him look like one of those fictional pirates whose nickname began with “Dread.”
When was the last time he’d shaved or even groomed it?
He wore a t-shirt so old it had to be a relic of college. In fact, its snug fit made me suspect it might even date back to high school. His legs were clad in ancient denim, the fabric worn thin enough it was possible to see the contour of his thigh muscles through the jeans.
Jack didn’tlooklike a guy who sat at a keyboard all day long. Between the powerful legs and the biceps popping beneath the frayed sleeves of the shirt, it looked more like he spent his days at the gym.
A pair of beat-up basketball shoes completed the unorthodox ensemble. He smelled nice, at least, like soap and high-end shampoo, but he looked out of place here in this elegant, expensive home.
A locker room would have been more appropriate—or a remote cave, perhaps.
Naturally, the turquoise eyes were still there, but today they looked cold, like frozen Arctic seawater. And I’d been right when assessing his height from the photos online. He was huge.
He towered over me—so much taller and larger than I’d realized when I’d seen him sitting down at the book signing.
He was, in a word, intimidating.
