Page 7 of Hot to the Touch

Chelsea hoped she’d found the client she’d been looking for, though she had Jessie scanning the other submissions just in case. The meeting today would be the determining factor. She had the contract drawn up for him to read and sign. All she had to do was approve of his personality, and they’d be in business.

A triple knock sounded at her door, and Jessie’s dark afro was the first thing that poked through, her face following. “Your two o’clock is here. Want me to send him in?”

“Yes, please. Thank you, Jessie.”

Chelsea closed the organized file on her desk and awaited with her fingers interlocked in front of her. She’d been through the same drill hundreds of times in seeking out exceptional novelists. But most people didn’t have manuscripts and communication skills as strong as the ones that Callum Forester had demonstrated.

She was optimistic.

Another knock sounded at the door, and Chelsea immediately called for him to come inside. He stood tall, walking into her office as if he owned the room. The confidence that exuded from him didn’t feel cocky, but as if he knew that what he gave to her was a quality manuscript. He had a rightful confidence.

He held a case at his side, demonstrating that he hadn’t come to the meeting unprepared. His clothes held no wrinkles, and his hair, the multiple inches of it, appeared professionally groomed. Even his facial hair was groomed in a shapely manner.

Chelsea couldn’t deny that he was an attractive man. Averyattractive man.

“Mr. Forester, it’s great to finally meet you,” Chelsea said, standing on her one good leg and extending a hand across her desk.

He reached his large hand across to her, capturing her much smaller, manicured one in a firm grip before shaking it. He remained standing as she sat.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Rourke. I’ve researched your other clients, and you’ve had a successful career. I’m humbled to even be here with you today.”

“That’s generous of you. Please, have a seat.”

He followed her instructions. Even the way he sat, straight-backed and one leg crossed over the other, indicated a level of class she expected in her clients. Chelsea did a happy dance in her mind, but she wasn’t yet out of the woods.

“We have a variety of things we need to discuss today. Some things are personal and will be more conversational. The other parts of our conversation will be about your book, your writing schedule, and your future plans for writing. Because let me be clear: I don’t accept one-time clients. My clients continue to advance their careers after their first book. Do you plan on doing that?”

He nodded. “I’ve been writing the greater part of my life, and while I haven’t been published yet, I have every intention of continuing my writing career. I’d like to make it a career, which is why I came to you.”

Chelsea nodded, and took a few notes on the flaps of his file. “I may be a means to become published and receive some notoriety, but your writing will speak for itself. I may give a foundation to my writers, but they build their own careers.”

Chelsea recognized the look of dejection as it crossed Callum’s face, so she brightened her expression. She didn’t want to scare away her client, but she needed to know that he could stand on his own if she represented him.

“Now, with that established, let’s talk about your book.”

Chelsea spent an hour discussing his novel with him—the direction he intended it to go, the plot points, and most importantly, the development of the characters. He’d been right on the money in all his descriptions, and he talked so animatedly that she knew he’d attract readers. His bright smile and handsome face would also gain him a readership if he continued with his craft, and Chelsea did not doubt that he had every intention of doing just that.

Chelsea lost herself to the conversation, hardly noticing as the time passed and his animated responses grew excitable. He often gave her looks that drew her from her trance, as she recognized flirtatious glances when she saw them.

She hoped that it was simply his personality—that he was vocal and overly generous with everyone. When they reached their conversation unrelated to his book, Chelsea knew she’d seen the signs correctly.

“What about your personal life inspires you to write romance novels?” Chelsea asked, resting her chin in her hand.

“What about your life inspires you to represent them?” he teased. There was a distinct difference between making friendly conversation at an interview and being blatantly flirtatious. “There’s nothing particular that inspires me in my life. I enjoy escaping from reality, and I’m not in a relationship at the moment. It made it easier to escape and explore a world of possibilities that I can’t in real life, you know?”

Chelsea wanted to relate, but her mind found its way back to Redmond. They were far from in a relationship, and the ball was so firmly in his court that she wouldn’t dare to pursue him again. She hated the not knowing, but she felt a definite romantic attraction to him, and even when she hadn’t, escapism had never been her reason for enjoying romance novels. It has always been the easy marketability of them.

“You mention escapism,” she said, trying to draw the subject away from romance. “What about your life do you want to escape?”

He pondered for a moment as she clicked her pen. “Reality as a whole, I’d say. It’s not that I don’t love my life and the world we live in, but a break is nice. We’re past the point in our lives when we can get away with asking pretty women on dates when we see them or go to frat parties and escape the outside world for a while. When you get into your thirties, reading is an escape.”

His smooth-talking would likely get him far in life, but Chelsea saw the way he worked around the topic of romance and pretty women. So long as he maintained boundaries and didn’t come onto her, she’d represent him. She knew she didn’t need to feel so desperate, but his novel wasexcellent, and finding the full package—a great novelist, an intelligent person, and a great communicator—was rare.

Should she cut the interview short to avoid any advances?

“I hate to ask,” he started. She internally cringed. “But what happened to your leg?”

From his perspective, all he could see was the crutches. She wanted to shout that it was none of his business—that the incident was something she’d rather not discuss, but it was a fair question. He likely wanted to know about her, too. Callum was, after all, about to entrust her with a novel he’d written.

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