Page 3 of Bookworm and the Beast
“You really are an optimist, aren’t you?” Erin modified her cynical tone, attempting to match my idealism. “Maybe you’re right. They have to exist—somewhere. Who knows? You’ll probably meet someone when you start your job next week.”
She didn’t look as sure as she sounded, but I appreciated the effort. We took a few steps forward as the line progressed.
“That’s one of the best parts of working for a newspaper. You do something different every day and meet new people all the time,” I said.
My new job as a writer for the New York Daily Report was what had drawn me to Manhattan.
I’d never been one of those people who dreamed of living in a massive city—I preferred small town life actually—but when I’d seen the opening at the legendary newspaper’s book section, I had jumped at it. It was the perfect opportunity to combine my love of books with my journalism experience.
The position didn’t pay much, but my needs were pretty simple, and meeting a great guy would be a very welcome bonus.
“Are you nervous? To meet Jack, I mean?” Erin asked.
“Oh, no,” I assured her. “I don’t get starstruck. I’ve met a few famous people as part of my job, and it didn’t affect me at all. I mean, they have morning breath and go to the bathroom like the rest of us.”
“Sure,” Erin said. “But I was an extra on one of those SVU shows last year, and I totally lost it when one of the stars got behind me in line at craft services. I nearly dropped my potato salad on his shoes.”
I shrugged. “This is different. Jack’s a writer, I’m a writer. We use the same twenty-six letters to do our jobs, right?”
* * *
Finally, we made it inside and up to the third floor where a table was set up inside the rare books room for attendees to get a signed book, exchange a few words with the famous author, and maybe, if they were lucky, a selfie with him.
I wouldn’t even ask for a photo—I didn’t feel the need to prove I’d met him or anything. All I wanted was the chance to tell Jack how much his writing meant to me. His books had even inspired me to write one of my own.
Well, I might not tell himthatpart.
Heprobablywouldn’t laugh at me—he was said to be friendly, approachable, and kind to his fans—but I didn’t want to take the chance.
And I hadn’t toldanyoneexcept my parents that I was writing my own book. Maybe when it was done.
“So, I have to go find the little girls’ room,” Erin said, hopping a bit on her toes. “That chai went straight through me. You’re okay here, right?”
“Of course. Go. I’ll meet you downstairs near the registers.”
She left, and I took the opportunity to mentally practice what I wanted to say to Jack. Over the past few years, I’d met a few authors at local book signings. Most of them seemed really friendly and frankly thrilled that anyone had showed up for their events.
But this wasJack Bestia.And I wasn’t quite as cool as I’d claimed to be to Erin.
In fact, the closer I got to the signing table, the more jittery I became.
My belly bubbled with a broth of anxiety and excitement. Thankfully, I hadn’t consumed much of my own chai. I’d mostly used it as a handwarmer, afraid to add any ammo to my nervous stomach.
Yes, rehearsing a few phrases was definitely prudent.
When I had them memorized, I shifted to self-talk.
Be cool. Cool, calm, friendly but not a blabbering idiot. Definitely no blabbering.
Ihadbeen known to overshare at times when nervous.
“Next please.” The tone of the signing facilitator was decidedly impatient, as if it wasn’t the first time she’d said it. I blinked, realizing the customer ahead of her had moved away. It was my turn.
And there he was—Jack Bestia in the flesh.
He was… impressive. So much larger and better looking in person than he appeared in his official author photo. In fact, he was beautiful.
The thing I’d said about how looks didn’t matter? It was true, butwow.His were hard to ignore.
