CHAPTER THREE
An hour later, she was seated at her table, copies of Love’s Tender Fury stacked all around her. She made herself sign books like a zombie, never looking up. As always, Joe was at her side, constantly scanning the crowd.
“Will you cut that out?” she murmured. “What is this, your Secret Service impersonation?”
“Just watching for a familiar face.”
She scrawled something unintelligible on a copy of Love’s Tender Fury, slammed it shut, and handed it back without looking. “Next! Let’s keep it moving, please, I’d like to get lunch before midnight.” She turned to Joe. “Who are you looking for?”
Joe didn’t answer, and she went back to her work, trying to hold her temper. Book signings always brought out her worst traits—and she had so many worse traits—and she had promised herself she wouldn’t be a bitch today. Should have promised something easier, like overhauling the tax code.
Beside her, Joe gasped. “Oh my God! How do I look?”
“Like your usual dippy self. Luckily I’m not the type to be hung up on looks, or I’d definitely trade you in...for...a newer...uh...model.” It was hard to concentrate. It was extremely hard to concentrate. While she was signing, an enormous pair of white, fringed buckskin pants had entered her line of vision at crotch level. She slowly looked up...and up. Blanco in person was huge—well over six feet. “Guh.”
Blanco stretched out a hand as wide as a bowling ball, grabbed Love’s Tender Fury , and handed it to her. “Sign, por favor.”
Recovering, she took the book. “Big fan of romance novels, are you?”
Blanco, of course, was staring at Joe, who was staring back. Marie tried to make eye contact, in vain. “Sí. I am...how to say? Libro grande. ”
She raised her eyebrows. “You’re a big book?”
“Big fan. Sign, please.”
“Okey-dokey. Love the fake accent, by the way.” She flipped open the book and began writing. “To...my good...friend...Blanco. I’ll remember...last night...always. Your passion...your stamina...your broken English. Yours in eternity, Jessica C. LeFleur.”
She slapped the book closed, wondering if he would actually read the inscription, and gave it back to him. Blanco took it and looked her full in the face—finally.
“I have a flat tire.”
She rolled her eyes. The guy was transparent and unbelievable. “This isn’t the Triple A booth, pal.”
“Jack!” Joe yelled, startling everyone around them.
“Gosh, how rude of me,” she said with faux brightness. “Blank-o, this is my friend Joe, who likes to refer to himself as Jack. Joe, meet Blank-o.”
“I mean...I have a jack.” Joe smiled weakly.
“Bien. Vamos.”
Just like that, he turned and marched out, and Joe scrambled out from behind the table to follow. Amused in spite of herself, she watched them go. As did about fifty awestruck spectators.
*****
About ten fans back, Tony Freeman was in line. He’d asked himself again and again why he was here, and could find no satisfactory answer. Instead, he kept pulling out his business card, then stuffing it back into his pocket, then pulling it out—it was getting a little crumpled from all the handling. He kept peeking around the people in front of him to look at Marie/LeFleur.
“Hi, I’m Tony Freeman,” he practiced. “Tony Freeman, Mutch and Munch. Hi there...hi, I’m Tony...how are you? Hello. Freeman’s the name...books are my game. Ugh.”
Get hold of yourself, moron. Don’t know why you’d be nervous. Anyway, she’s rude and full of herself . “Hi, I’m Tony Freeman, Mutch and Munch. Are you looking for representation? I realize this isn’t the time or place, but perhaps we could discuss it over dinner?”
That was about right. Interested and friendly, but not a potential stalker—exactly the stalk-free pro-literature image he wanted to project.
Before long, it was his turn. Marie grabbed yet another copy of Love’s Tender Fury and signed it without looking up. He wasn’t surprised; he didn’t know her that well (at all, actually), but it was clear she hated being where she was. The woman was a mystery, an aggravating mystery, and Tony Freeman had never been able to resist a mystery.
He took a deep breath and prepared to launch into his speech. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
He’d been prepared to be ignored. When she spoken so abruptly, it threw him off. So did her looks—he hadn’t gotten much of a glimpse yesterday, but today he did. And she was spectacular, like a heroine out of one of her own romance novels. Shoulder-length blonde hair, big green eyes. Fair skin. Mouth downturned in a frown, but he could see her lips were full, the lower one tender and waiting for kisses, kisses that—
“Next.”
And that was that. He’d been so busy staring at her like a school-boy, he’d blown his chance. And, walking away, he knew he’d never have another one.
His cell phone beeped at him and he fished it out. “Biggest chump in the world speaking.”
The voice that greeted him was a pleasant contralto, slightly breathy, and ridiculously young. “Having a rough day, Tony?”
“You could say that. If this is about the Girl Scout Cookie thing, I told you, the check’s in the mail.”
“Nobody writes checks anymore, dude. Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“What? Why? Who is this?”
“Dr. Simms.”
He waited.
“Aw, c’mon. The inventor of the incredible life-changing app that you refuse to use.”
He yanked the phone from his ear and glared at it like it was a snake. Then he sighed and pressed it to his ear again. “Not you guys again. How many times do I have to explain this? I don’t want to use your app. At what point do I have to start legal proceedings just to be left in peace?”
“Aw, don’t be like that. Your boss is just looking out for you, and I’m obligated to make myself available to my patients.”
“But I’m not your patient. And I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m perfect. Everything’s perfect.” Tony glanced back; he could barely see Marie, surrounded by fans, but that one glance was enough to weaken his resolve. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“And you’re a real psychiatrist?”
“Board certified; I can send you a pic of my bona fides if you like. I’m sort of a genius. Well, scratch ‘sort of’. But call me Dr. Doogie just once and...”
“Who?”
“Pop culture reference. I’ve been binging on Hulu. Look, you’ve got the time, I’ve got the time...to use a complex psychological term, why not spill your guts?”
He hesitated, but he was dying to confide in someone. He supposed the trendy dial-a-shrink would have to do. “Well...there’s this woman.”
She laughed. “Isn’t there always?”