Page 4 of Bookworm and the Beast
Wide shoulders, thick, raven-black hair, smooth olive skin, and blue-green eyes the color of Caribbean waters when viewed from a seaplane.
They sparkled with humor and intelligence and elevated his handsomeness from mere Hollywood heartthrob to Hemsworth-brother levels. I doubted if even Erin’s male model co-workers could compete.
“Next in lineplease,” the woman repeated, highly irritated now.
My heart leapt into my throat, and my feet felt like they’d been welded to the floor.
What was the matter with me? I wasn’t acting like myself at all. I snapped into action and rushed forward, practically skidding to a stop as I reached the table where stacks of novels with their iconic black covers surrounded the author.
He smiled warmly. “Hi. Thanks for coming. I’m Jack.”
Those eyes.Those spectacular blue eyes—which apparently possessed mind-erasing powers—were trained directly on me.
All the words I’d practiced fled my brain like a flock of birds lifting off from a power line.
“Who should I sign this to?” Jack waited, pen poised over the title page of an open book, dark eyebrows raised expectantly while my mind scrambled for a name.
For myownname. Which I’d completely forgotten.
A name… a name… any female name. God help me. Say something, Bonnie.
“Bonnie!” I blurted, flooded with relief. “It’s Bonnie.”
Jack chuckled and started writing. “Pretty name. How do I spell it? B-O-N-N-I-E?”
That was when it happened. The babbling.
It came in with no warning, the way a tsunami sneaks up on the shore and then obliterates everything in its path.
“Yes. It’s Scottish. It means beautiful, which is not to sayI’mbeautiful—I’m not—it’s just what my parents named me becausetheythought I was beautiful, and don’t all parents think their daughters are beautiful? You’re beautiful.”
He glanced up sharply.
“I mean yourwordsare beautiful. All of them. I’ve read all your books, like, a million times. Wow, I can’t believe I said ‘like.’ I never say ‘like.’ That’s such a middle school word, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve used it in conversation since then, but it’s just so cool to meet you. That’s another middle school word, ‘cool,’ but itisso cool to meet you, and I just love you, and…”
Jack had stopped writing and was now staring at me.
Maybe he was wondering whether I should be wandering around unsupervised with myobviousmental and emotional challenges.
Or whether he was in some sort of danger from the nonsensical stalker woman.
It was like I was outside my own body, watching him watching me, and still the words just kept coming, tripping over each other and banging together in a jumbled stream-of-consciousness alphabet avalanche I seemed powerless to contain.
I didn’t realize I’d also been gesturing with my hands until the cup of chai latte flew right out of them.
And landed on the table.
Where the lid popped off.
The contents exploded across the surface of the table, drenching the books and bookmarks and pens atop it.
But it didn’t stop there. No, that would have been only a Category 3 nightmare.
This one went for full-on, batten down the hatches, evacuate the low-lying areas, declare a state of emergency status. The fragrant brown liquid rushed toward Jack like it was a heat-seeking missile programmed to target his lap.
That was when I cried.
As the runaway beverage hit his crotch, Jack yelled, “Fuck that’s hot,” and leapt backward.
