Page 4 of One-Click Christmas
I sit for a moment, trying to memorize the detailed nuances of her. The soft tap of her pen as it hits the counter. The warm light from the window that catches the golden strands in her hair. The way her brows knit together in concentration.
She’s gorgeous, and for a brief second, I find myself interested in opening the door, interested in stepping inside, interested in learningherstory. That doesn’t happen often.
The young woman looks up, freezing in place when she sees me sitting outside. Her expression is blank, almost like adeer in headlights. I know right away what that means. I’ve seen it plenty of times before from women who’ve read my every word. Women who become obsessed with the version of me they see online. Women who think I’m the man in the books I write.
I should be flattered. It’s these superfans that keep me in business. Instead, my anxiety ratchets and my jaw locks. First off, these women aren’t interested in me. They want the fantasy man they’ve been reading about. The brooding antihero with a tragic past and a possessive streak. They want the man who breaks rules and bends women over for sport. They want the man I’ve built from whiskey and insomnia.I’m not him,not even close, and suddenly the urge to know her melts into a puddle of unease.
The woman brushes the crumbs from her chest and paces toward the door as I make my way over the shoveled sidewalk and toward the entrance. It’s a cold morning, but the chill feels nice for a change. I spend far too much time in the tropics for a man who prefers mountain living, but being close to the publishing house is easier than traveling back and forth regularly.
The door swings open, bringing with it a rush of warmth and a curvy blonde whose smile brightens the room. “Oh wow.” She glances down and then up again. “I said I wasn’t going to say‘oh wow’then I immediately said it. Now I’m repeating it… and for some reason narrating myself. I don’t usually do this. Sorry.” She stretches her hand out but ultimately barrels against my chest with a hug. “I’m Lana. Sorry. Now I’m hugging you. Umm,” she glances down and mumbles an‘oh God’under her breath before attempting composure, “welcome to Chestnut Lane Bookstore. How, ugh, how was your trip in?”
I offer her a smile in hopes that it calms her somehow. “Good. Clear roads for the most part. It’s nice to meet you, Lana. I’m Hunter Black.”
“Oh,” she smiles even wider, “I know exactly who you are. I, ugh, we have some breakfast. Well, the bakery delivers baked goods daily for us, so I grabbed some almond muffins. I read online that you like them.” She mumbles something to herself again. “I mean, I don’t like… obsess over you or anything.”
My brows raise. “What else have you read about me?”
“Oh, umm… I read that you started your career as a writer twenty years ago after a brief jaunt in editing, and that you’re a loner who doesn’t really have much in the way of family left. Also, you love to vacation in the mountains, prefer talking to trees, and you love a steak dinner with a side of chocolate cake whenever you finish a book.” She darts her gaze back and forth as though she’s heard herself speak and wonders if maybe she’s coming off crazy. “But I follow Nora Roberts too.”
“Yeah? What’s Nora up to lately?”
“Oh!” She freezes, eyes darting to the ceiling like the answer is written up there somewhere. “You know, writers are always writing.” The words stumble out in an endearingly adorable lie, as though she has no clue what Nora Roberts is doing these days. “Do you want a muffin?”
“Sure.” I nod, biting back half a smile as I follow her thick, swaying hips to the back of the bookstore. The urge to know her is back again, and so is the impulse to pull out my notebook and write. Something about her brings life to my body and makes me want to write her out, just to see if I could survive her.
She’s young. Maybe my protagonist falls in love with an older man. I haven’t written an age gap romance in a while. Readers love a good age gap. They highlight contrast so clearly. The heroine’s fire. The hero’s calm. They meet in the middle, and something clicks. That, and the taboo nature of it all adds just enough edge to make the reader’s heart race.
“The bakery in town is fantastic,” the young woman continues. “You’re going to love these muffins. I bet you’ll evenwrite about it in one of your books. It’ll be so good.Oh my God,” she mumbles again. “Sorry, I’m really nervous. I’ve read every single one of your books. Some of them two or three times. I even got an early copy of the January release and stayed up all night to finish it.” Her cheeks flush pink as she talks, and there’s a tremble in her voice, but her eyes are steady with mine.
“So, you didn’t get any sleep last night?” I lean against the counter, arms crossed, trying not to let the corner of my mouth twitch into a smile.
“A couple of hours.” She gestures toward the espresso machine behind her. “Nothing an extra shot can’t help.”
Nervous energy crackles between us with the scent of cinnamon and roasted beans. This is the type of woman I don’t usually let close. The kind that’s already built a version of me in her head.A version I could never live up to.But here in the quiet hum of this old bookstore, I find myself wanting to know every detail of this woman’s life.
I take a muffin from the tray. “Should we sit?”
“Oh sure. Yeah.” She follows behind me as I settle into the red velvet chair to the right of the bakery display. “This is wild. I still can’t believe you’re right there… right in front of me.”
I nod slowly, peeling the muffin wrapper like it’s a task that requires focus. “So, what did you think of the new book? You might be my first real-life review.”
Her face lights up like a Christmas tree in Times Square before she leans forward, elbows on her knees, muffin forgotten in her hand. “I couldn’t stop thinking about the heroine. The way she kept choosing the hero even when it hurt. It was like she knew he’d break her, but she wanted to be shattered by him.” She pushes back a strand of hair, her energy calming. “Oh, and that scene in chapter twenty when she calls herself poison… it was so poetic. She just wanted him to prove her wrong. I was screaming it at the pages.”
I stare at her, a little impressed that she’s read between the lines so clearly. Fascinated that she understands the nuances I wrote in the middle of the night on cold coffee and self-loathing. “You’ve thought about this,” I say, holding my voice neutral.
“I really love your writing. It takes me out of all the shit going on in my life. Your characters seem so real. Sometimes I imagine I’m talking to them.” She shrugs. “I know that sounds stupid.”
I laugh under my breath and nod. “Well, maybe, but I spend an awful lot of time talking to them too, so we’re going to pretend it’s normal.”
Her cheeks pink and she leans back in the chair as though I’ve made her nervous.
I shift in my seat, ignoring the way my body seems to be reacting to the gentle excitement in her voice. She’s sweet, but there’s more, and I’m curious about every aspect of her.
“So, what’s going on in your life that you need an escape?”
She blinks as though she’s caught off guard, then gives a small self-conscious smile. “Oh, you know… life stuff. My mom is sick, the bookstore is on its last leg, and I just broke up with my boyfriend of two years. If you’ve ever lived in a small town, then you know what that’s like.” Soft laughter echoes from her thinly, as though she’s trying to make light of something heavy.
“Yeah, that’s some real-life shit.” I scrub my hand down over my beard, partly glad to hear she’s single, though not wanting to show it. “I’m sorry to hear your mom’s sick. Do you want to talk about it?”
