Nicholas

 

 

If I pride myself on anything, it's my ability to focus. Give me a chair and my laptop, and I can churn out a chapter or two in the middle of Grand Central Station on a Saturday afternoon. My brothers call me the King of Compartmentalization.

It serves me well. I get my job done and I keep my publisher happy. I haven't missed my self-directed, daily word count in over a year.

The last time I fell off pace I was nursing a massive hangover brought on by the equally impressive advance check I'd cashed the afternoon before. I drank myself into a fog and ended up in the bed of a woman who didn't have an ounce to drink.

The frequent text messages she sent me for weeks following that night didn't impact my writing at all. It did serve as a reminder that I'm apt to say just about anything if I've had too many beers.

I told a stranger I loved her and wanted to marry her.  She took it to heart, yet I couldn't remember a thing. For that reason, and that reason alone, I limit myself to one drink at a time.

Yet, today, I'm on my second scotch and it's just past one o'clock in the afternoon.

I blame Sophia, the petite brunette with the beautiful blue eyes I met on the subway.

I didn't bother to get her surname or her number last night before I took off for the book signing. I thought I wouldn't need it. I assumed she'd be at this restaurant at least fifteen minutes before I showed up at noon sharp.

Women tend to be punctual when you've got something they want. That might be a reservation at the trendiest bistro in the city. It could be the chance to spend a few hours with one of the most successful novelists in the world. More often than not it's the unspoken promise of what will follow the meal.

I don't ask women to meet me here because I want to spend an afternoon describing my creative process. I meet them here because it's less than a block from the apartment I occasionally use as an office. I write there and when the mood strikes, I fuck there.

I follow the same routine each and every time.

It begins with lunch at my regular table in the corner of this bistro at noon sharp. 

If my date is receptive, we take a walk to my office.

By early evening I'm on my own again with the physical ache gone and my mind sharp and clear.

I want more. Hell, I need more, but it's not that easy.

My face is on the back of six worldwide bestsellers. Shirtless pictures of me taken in a gym locker room have been morphed into too many memes to count.

Women send me nude photos of themselves. I get propositioned on a daily basis.

Ignoring it is an option but why the fuck would I do that? I revel in it.

I'm riding this crazy train until I decide it's time to step back into reality. From where I'm standing now, I've barely left the station.

"You're Nicholas Wolf. Sophia didn't tell me I'd be meeting you."

I look up and into the face of a man with dark hair. He looks like he stepped out of a boardroom. I, on the other hand, look confused as hell. "Who are you?"

"Gabriel Foster." He extends a hand over the table. "Sophia, my assistant, sent me here."

"She told me about you." I shake his hand, but I don't offer the seat across from me because there's no need. He's settled into it, his palms on the top of the table. A thick gold wedding band circles his ring finger. "And your wife."

"Isla." The way he says her name tells me he loves her. I feel an unexpected sense of relief. It shouldn't matter to me whether Sophia is fucking her boss, but for some reason, it does. This guy is too starry-eyed over his better half to touch another woman.

"Beautiful name," I offer with a raise of my glass. "Will Sophia be joining us?"

I already know the answer to that. I half-expected her to race to catch up with me when I exited the subway last night. I slowed from my regular pace to a leisurely walk with the hope that she'd fall into step beside me. She hadn't. After that, I spent the next two hours scanning the faces of the legions of women packed into the bookstore in Times Square waiting for me to autograph books, arms and yes, even the top of one's tit. Sophia never showed.

He shakes his head. "She gave me a birthday card an hour ago with this address. She told me I'd be meeting someone special here. I've got to say, I assumed my wife would be sitting here waiting for me."

"Sorry to disappoint." I chuckle. "I was under the impression I was meeting Sophia for lunch."

"Really? How well do you know her?"

I know she stood me up. She sent her boss to collect the promised book on her behalf. "Not well. We're barely acquaintances."

"So you assumed Sophia was meeting you and I showed up? Is that what this is?"

He's as polished as every high powered executive I've ever met. I know his type. Everything has a place in his world, including his assistant. If she fucked up and put him in the middle of an embarrassing situation, her ass is on the line. I highly doubt he views her as irreplaceable.

"Sophia arranged for me to give you a gift." I reach into my bag and pull out the book I promised her last night. "Your wife asked Sophia to get me to sign Burden's Proof for you, but Sophia requested an advance copy of my next release."

"Action's Cause?"

I nod. I take great satisfaction in his knowledge of my work. He may run an empire that's successful enough to afford him the Rolex he's wearing, but he's practically salivating at the sight of the book in my hands. "I'll sign it to you."

"To my wife." His finger darts in the air. "I realize it's meant to be a birthday gift for me, but Isla is by far, the biggest fan you have. Sign it to her. I. S. L. A."

I suppose what they say is true. Sacrifice comes in many forms when another owns your heart and soul.

I sign it quickly, my signature an illegible curl of dark colored ink.

After sliding the book across the table, I finish the last swallow of scotch in my glass. "I'd buy you a drink to toast your birthday but I've got a deadline to meet."

It's bullshit. My current deadline is more than a month away and I'm on track to meet it later this week. Sharing another second of my time with this guy isn't part of my day's plan; seeking out Sophia is.

"Understood." He stands. The book I just signed is clutched firmly in his hands. "I'll keep this under wraps. I know you don't want details leaked before release."

"I appreciate that." I do. The book is set to hit shelves and e-readers in less than two months and review copies have already gone out.  Spoilers are an inevitable part of the process but keeping them to a minimum is advantageous to not only me but more importantly, to my publisher.

The hastily pulled together reading and signing last night was the brainchild of my publicist. She's determined to create such a high level of buzz for Action's Cause that sales will surpass everyone's expectations. She's proven that she can work magic, so I follow her lead.

"I can't thank you enough for this, Nicholas."

"It's my pleasure." I open my wallet and toss a few bills on the table before I push to my feet. "Sophia is the one you should be thanking. This was all her doing."

She's the one who managed to get the book into his hands without having to step foot near me. It's impressive. It's also annoying as fuck.

"I'll thank her as soon as I'm back at the office."

"Tell her I said hello." I pat him on the shoulder as I brush past him on my way to the exit. "And, if you wouldn't mind, tell her I'll be in touch."