Page 38 of Bear In A Bookstore
An elderly woman looked at her eagerly, holding her flute with both hands. Her face morphed into pure pleasure. “Oh, dear, it is you!”
Kora nodded politely.
The woman sidled up to her, wide-eyed like a child meeting Santa. “The book was so much better than the movie. I hope you don’t mind me saying that. The way you wrote Nigel Port, such a nasty villain. I had nightmares about him. Can you imagine? Nightmares about a fictional character?”
Kora felt the plastic smile tighten on her face, rigid and unmoving. Breathing through her nose, she reminded herself to calm down. It was fine. This was fine. Just a fan. It was bound to happen sometime. She knew this moment was coming. Just a fan wanting to talk about her books. That’s all.
“I’m sorry about that,” she managed to say. “He sort of had a mind of his own while I was writing him.”
The woman touched her arm, her expression saddening. “I was so very sorry to hear about what happened to you.”
Kora cut her off. “Thank you. Oh, looks like I’m next in line.”
Another woman approached. “I would be honored if you would come speak at my book club. It’s the first Thursday of the month at the Blackwell Church, seven in the evening.”
A small crowd of elderly ladies formed.
“Oh, that is a great idea, Edna. You know, she could speak to the youth group about non-traditional careers.”
“We could auction her off for next year’s fundraiser. Lunch with the author!”
She smiled politely. “Oh, well, I—”
“I heard he died on your doorstep. Is that true? You must have been so afraid. Did you sell the house? I couldn’t live there knowing a man had died on my steps.”
“Bethann! Watch your manners!”
Kora’s pulse rushed in her ears, pressure building in her head. The room began an insidiously slow spin.
“Did you know the man before he . . . well, before he . . .”
She shook her head. Blinked. Tried to swallow. The room spun faster, moving in time with her racing pulse.
She heard the whispers around her then.
I thought that was her. Did she say E.J. Breene, the author with the movie? I knew it was her the moment I saw her, but I didn’t want to say anything. You know how celebrities are. Is she, a celebrity? I suppose . . . you know, tabloid fame. Her work’s not that great. Don’t know how it became a movie. She’s more famous because of what happened than she is for her books. Poor dear. What a mess.
There were a hundred pair of eyes on her. Some smiling. Some judging. The ladies bombarding her with requests and comments. Bile rose in her throat. She shouldn’t have come. She should be home right now, in her flannel pants, sipping tea. Alone where no one could remind her of what she tried so hard to forget.
Just then, someone took her hand and slid it over a very hard arm. Desi. She exhaled in relief.
Not Desi.
An attractive older man with dark hair and blue eyes smiled down at her as he gracefully led her from the line. “Excuse us, please.” He winked at the elderly woman, who smiled fondly at him.
“Of course, Rowan. Nice to see you.”
The man whisked her to a table before she could think to protest.
“Have we met?”
His smile reminded her of someone. And the shape of his eyes and mouth. Familiar.
“Rowan Mitchell. You know my sons, Dax and Desi.”
Her mind was beginning to settle, and she felt like she could breathe again.
“Yes, of course.”
