Tessa

I thought New York City was out of my element, but Mr. Black’s house looks like something out of a Hollywood movie. It’s larger than my entire high school back in Alabama.

“I can’t believe that’s his house.” Mr. Hammond laughs, and I swat the air to hush him. “I pictured him living in a log cabin somewhere in the woods of New England, typing away on his laptop. Not this.”

“It’s actually his wife’s family estate. But you didn’t hear that from me.” Mr. Hammond buttons his lips with a twist of his fingers.

The driver eases the car up to the front circle drive. A large wood and iron front door sits in the middle of the monstrosity. It looks more like the entrance to a castle, where one would find Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. I’m surprised a line of servants isn’t greeting us. Maybe it’s because we are in stealth mode.

When the car stops, there’s a fluttering in the pit of my stomach. It’s not every day a person gets to meet their literary hero. I wring my hands and smooth my hair, resisting the urge to twirl it between my fingers. Old habits die hard.

“Nervous?” Mr. Hammond asks, glancing at my hands.

“Just a little bit.” The car stops, and I hold my stomach. I feel like throwing up. Maybe it’s the early morning mimosa. Bad decision. “What if I say something stupid? Like, I’ve read all your books and love them? I have to be more creative.”

“He’s going to love you.”

“I’m not so sure. Look at me.”

“Believe me, I can’t stop.” The wicked tease in his eyes quickens my pulse and lightens the mood. So what if I look like a midday stripper delivering a “special” message under my coat.

I hand Mr. Hammond’s jacket back to him and try to pull the hem of my coat down. Nothing helps, so I give up.

The driver opens the car door for me, and I take the bag containing the cherry tart from him. Mr. Hammond puts his jacket back on, and it falls in place without him having to straighten it. He walks around to my side of the car and places his hand on my lower back to guide me forward.

He moves his thumb in small circles just above my waistline. Shivers follow. He stills his finger for a split second, then resumes his movements. I don’t look up at him fearing I’ll falter. It’s all too much.

We walk side by side toward the front door, but I stop a few feet from it. Yesterday, I was walking the rich soils of Alabama, and now I stand in front of my favorite author’s mansion. What is this life? When my eyes meet Mr. Hammond’s, his handsome face twists in worry. I guess my fears are broadcast all over my face.

“You ready?” He moves a hair from my cheek, and I savor his tenderness. The gentle touch works to calm my fears. I can do this. For him.

Next to the large door, an intercom panel glows from blue lights underneath numerous buttons. The largest one has writing over it, saying: Door bell, obviously.

“I can guess who wrote that.” Mr. Hammond moves to push the bell, announcing our arrival. I shift from side to side, gripping the bakery bag in my hands.

A long minute goes by, but no one comes to answer the door.

“Do you think he’s not home?” I ask.

“It’s a possibility. Do you like cherry tarts?” Mr. Hammond’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t tell Mr. Black this, but I’m not a fan of cherries. I’m wild about strawberries, though. My grandparents have a dairy farm back in Alabama and grew—”

Before I finish, the iron handle clicks, silencing me on the spot. I glance up at Mr. Hammond as the door begins to creak open. He’s leaning forward. I’m holding my breath.

As the hinges continue to moan, Mr. Black appears before us in a gray sweater, matching his thick hair, and black pressed trousers. He’s shoeless with bright white socks covering his feet. I swallow a giggle.

His reading spectacles rest at the end of his nose as he narrows his eyes looking between Mr. Hammond and me. Deep lines scatter across his forehead. Mr. Black doesn’t seem amused. Quite the opposite, judging by his marked scowl.

“Barclay,” Mr. Black says in an abrasive tone. It’s not a good sound, especially since we’re trying to break the ice and get on his good side.

“Don. This is Tessa Holly.” Mr. Hammond gestures toward me. I crack a small grin at Mr. Black, but his face is frozen in a frown.

When no one moves or speaks for a few seconds, the air thickens with tension. I feel words bubbling up inside me and try to contain them, but it’s no use. I hate awkward moments more than missing a sale on my favorite skinny jeans. Besides, Mr. Hammond brought me along for a purpose, so I might as well get to it.

“We brought you a cherry tart,” I announce, walking forward a couple steps while extending the bag out in front of me. Mr. Black focuses on the bag, then drops down to my legs. One corner of his mouth tips up as he meets my eyes. His frown has disappeared. Bingo. I can work with this.

I remove the tart from the bag and flip open the lid. The sweet aroma fills the space around us, drawing Mr. Black to the edge of the doorway like a magnet. He takes the box in his hands and brings it up to his nose. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath.

“This smells divine,” Mr. Black says in blissful approval. I smile up at Mr. Hammond, and when he gleams back at me, I melt.

“The bakery claims it’s the best in Manhattan, and I thought you’d like to give it a try.”

Luckily, Mr. Hammond takes over the conversation. I’m still worried I’ll blurt out some fangirl nonsense. I feel the words, “I’m your biggest fan,” dancing on the tip of my tongue. God help me.

“So, you just happened to be in the neighborhood, or were you on the way to your family home around the corner?” Mr. Black grips the boxed tart, pulling it closer to himself. At least we scored on the dessert.

I stand wide-eyed realizing Mr. Hammond was raised in a home like this estate with servants and silver spoons. I shrink inside, feeling like the complete outsider between these two wealthy men.

“Hell, Don, you know exactly why I’m here,” Mr. Hammond scoffs, pushing his hands into his pant pockets.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Mr. Black mutters, backing away from the entrance. “Might as well come inside. I’ll give you fifteen minutes. After that, I’m eating my tart.”

Mr. Black grins at me with a devilish flash in his eyes. I knew I’d love him.