Page 25 of Bookworm and the Beast
What kind of tricks did she have up her sleeve? A sleeve which ended mid-forearm and highlighted the beautiful tone of her skin and delicate bones of her wrist.
At the very least she was a distraction at a time when the last thing I needed was to be distracted.
I paced across the library and back to the desk again. What was taking her so long? I almost hoped shewouldn’tsign the contract, a possibility that was growing more and more likely, based on her body language.
Finally, she looked up and repeated her earlier question, wearing an uncertain smile. “What is this? I’ve never signed anything like this before doing an interview.”
“You’ve never interviewed me before. It’s my standard media contract.”Starting today.“Sign it or no deal.”
“The deal has already been made,” she corrected. “Between your publisher and my employer.”
Rising to her feet, she held the papers out to me. “I can’t agree to these regulations. The interview will be a sham. I might as well just copy and print a press release verbatim.”
I made no move to take the contract, feigning indifference. “That can be arranged.”
Laying the papers on the desk, she studied me, her probing eyes once again penetrating my defenses and going straight for the inner rooms where I kept all my secrets.
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on? What are your concerns about doing the interview?”
She tapped the contract with one pink fingernail. “Surely you didn’t think I’d agree to this, Jack.”
Suddenly my face went hot, and I was very afraid its color matched its temperature. I shifted from one foot to the other.
Feeling like a wild animal caught in a snare, I blurted a thought I probably would have been wiser to keep to myself. “And surely your editor didn’t thinkI’dbe so easily manipulated.”
Her brows drew together, forming a perfect little eleven between them. She sounded perplexed. “Manipulated? All I’ve done is arrive on time and introduce myself.”
“Yes, and… well, look at you,” I accused, waving my hand from her sexy red high heels to her soft, flowing hair. “Your boss is a fool if he thinks I’m going to just fall for a pretty face and start spilling my guts.”
Her expression changed immediately from confusion to contempt. “For your information, my boss is a ‘she,’ and I amextremelywell qualified for this job. I have a masters in journalism and years of experience conducting interviews—many of them interviewing first responders, doctors, lawmakers, and scores of other people whose jobs have actual life-and-death consequences. And I’ll betI’veread at least half the books in here.”
Her eyes scanned the shelves again before coming back to me, filled with disdain. “You’re so lucky to have a library like this, and you don’t even appreciate it.”
For a second her audacity faltered, and she looked as if she couldn’t quite believe she’d gone off on me like that. But then I added fresh kindling to the fire.
“You know what I don’t appreciate? Having judgment passed on me by a second-rate ‘journalist’ who writes about other people’s writing for a living, who’s probably a failed novelist herself and interviews real authors so she can bask in their limelight instead of having the guts to keep following her own dream.”
The brown eyes grew round with fury, her pretty complexion paling. It took her a minute to respond, and when she did, the words came out like rapid-fire darts.
“You know what I think? I think you’re the one who’s afraid.” She swept the papers from the desktop onto the floor and pointed to them. “That ridiculous contract is evidence of abject terror that you’ll slip and accidentally let people see who you really are. Based on what I’ve seen today, youshouldbe scared. I doubt they’d be very impressed by the real you.”
The words hit a little too close to home. It was my turn to blanch. My hands trembled with a potent blend of rage and, yes, fear.
Bonnie picked up her purse. “I’m sure you have better things to do than be interviewed by a ‘second rate journalist,’ and IknowI have better things to do than stand here and be insulted. I’ll see myself out.”
“Fine,” I shot back.
“Fine!” She spun on her heel, stepping on the contract and striding furiously toward the library door.
My gut was boiling with shame before she even reached it. My behavior was inexcusable. But I stayed silent and didn’t pursue her. That fear she’d so accurately diagnosed subsided with each step she took away from me.
Bonnie reached the door, but instead of charging from the room, she turned back to face me. There were tears in her eyes.
A sharp pain pierced my chest, and for just a moment I had the distinct impression we’d met before.
“And to think I idolized you.” Her voice was thick with recrimination. “Your first book was my biggest inspiration. You’re right—I did want to be a ‘real’ writer once, and that book was the reason. Don’t worry. You’ve cured me of my stupid hero-worship. A great writer once said, ‘Fear is a beginning, a starting point. Don’t treat it like an unscalable wall and let it end your journey before it even begins.’ I may never have success as a novelist, but at least I faced my fears and scaled that wall today. You should try it sometime.”
