“Maybe I can snag you one at the front, get it autographed. I know the author,” I say.
The woman gasps and claps her hands over her mouth. It’s kind of fun, being the one with the inside track. It feels like I know a celebrity. Hell, maybe I do.
“How do you know Julia?” the woman asks, suddenly turning coy. I play along, lifting an eyebrow.
“I know her very well,” I tell the woman, leaving a hint of suggestion in my voice.
The woman giggles and even blushes. Christ, I need to tell Tyler about romance conventions.
“Maybe she based one of her alphas on you. Rolph Armani, maybe.” She really seems to like that idea.
But . . . Rolph Armani? I can’t help barking out a laugh.
She giggles as well. “Yeah, I know. Some of the names are kind of ridiculous. But isn’t that half the point? It’s a fantasy, after all. Like, if I met a guy on the street named Clint Embers, I’d know he was either a hustler or a wrestler. But in fiction? Totally normal.”
“Right,” I say, moving up the line and still carrying her books.
I’ll admit it; I’d sort of imagined Julia signing books for a bunch of sad, lonely housewives who’ve never held a job in their lives and need someone to fix all their problems. You know. Someone who thinks the names Rolph Armani or Clint Embers belong to actual human beings. But as I chat with the woman—Maria, as she introduces herself—I see my idea was pretty mean-spirited. All right, I’ll say it: idiotic. Maria’s a pharmacist who rock-climbs in her spare time. Corinne, who’s right ahead of us and couldn’t help overhearing the conversation, introduces herself as a forensic scientist. Like Maria before her, Corinne is dumbstruck by my presence and all but starts prodding me to make sure I’m real and not a hallucination. It turns out that having a young man in this signing line is kind of like finding the Holy Grail, if the Holy Grail had a penis.
Women are peering at me, looking sideways or standing on tiptoe. And a lot of them seem to already know each other.
“Look, I’m kind of over the whole billionaire thing,” Maria says, offering me a gummy peach ring. I decline, and she chews thoughtfully. “Like, I get kind of tired of the over-the-top wealth porn. But that’s why Julia’s books are so amazing. She gives you the old clichés, the ones you think you’re going to hate. You know, the one where the girl has to pretend to be the billionaire’s secretary to get information for the cops, and then he becomes her Dom, all that kind of stuff. Except that her characters have, like, actual quirks of their own. One of her Doms was really into collecting, like, vintage Pogs from the 90s. And her women are all ballsy.”
“Not a lot of damsels in distress,” I say as we head up to near the front of the line.
Maria actually laughs at that. “Oh, hell no. Like, when I was reading my mom’s Harlequin romances from the eighties, I read a lot of ladies crying in corsets or fainting in Monte Carlo or something. I know there’s a place for all that, but it’s not relatable anymore, you know? My husband can’t afford for me to sit at home all day, and I wouldn’t want to.” She shrugs. “It’s fine if that’s what you want, but most of us can’t afford that lifestyle.”
“You’re very action-oriented,” I tell her.
Maria laughs. “Yeah, I’m all about action.” She nudges me in a very wink-wink way. “That’s probably what I like best about Julia: the sex scenes are fucking hot, man.”
I laugh along with her, but she’s absolutely right. The memories of last night are still a little hazy, but I distinctly remember growing hard as Julia read to me. It was the words, sure, but even better was how they were enhanced by the softness of her voice, the way she twirled her hair, the little smirk that graced her lips whenever she read something she thought sounded particularly good.
She’s good at what she does, and she loves it. That’s incredibly sexy.
Finally, we’re at the front of the line. I deposit Maria’s books on the table in front of Julia, but she’s finishing up a conversation with a woman who’s moved off to the side. The woman’s crying, or has finished crying pretty recently. Her eyes are still watery, her cheeks red. Julia gives her a tissue. I notice she’s holding on to the woman’s hand.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to gush like that,” the woman says, her voice soft and shaking. “I just wanted you to know how much it means.”
“Trust me, I feel the same,” Julia says, grinning. She’s even wiping her own eyes now.
As the woman leaves, Julia looks up at me and waggles her brows. “A tall, dark stranger enters my midst. Anything in particular you want signed?” she asks, brandishing her pen. “Any parts?” Her eyes trail down my body, obviously landing on my crotch.
Maria starts laughing.