Harrison is grinning in that awkward way folks have when they don’t remember somebody but think they should. I bestow a bro-hug—half embrace, half back pat—and tell him how nice it is to see him again. As I disengage, Trevor’s forearm brushes my back. He’s reaching for our drinks. Still, the hairs stand up on my neck. I become hyperaware of his presence, of how many inches there are between his body and mine.
“It’s good to see you, too,” Harrison says, regaining his footing. “These things aren’t the same without your face brightening the room.”
I thank him for the compliment and make small talk, throwing in ample flattery for both novelists as I carefully sip my drink. Imbibing to excess isn’t exactly frowned upon in my profession. My own literary heroes would fill a church basement had they not been such unrepentant boozers in real life. Still, technically, I’m working. Plus, I can’t be sure that the stiff drink combined with the hormones won’t make me sick. I don’t want to leave too soon.
Mutual praise meanders into a discussion of beloved new books and detested television dramas, the stuff of idle conversation that, for writers, amounts to shoptalk. Pickney groans about the latest adaptation of Superman heading to the small screen. Hollywood won’t take a significant risk on a new show unless it’s adding to a masked-man franchise. Shame, really, since he had high hopes for his current series.
“What are you working on now?” he asks me, possibly because he realizes that there’s nothing less sympathy inducing than the complaints of the rich, famous, and ridiculously successful.
“An affair-slash-murder mystery.”
Trevor smiles at me as though he knows a secret. His dark eyes threaten to reveal it. “She won’t say any more,” he says to Pickney. “No outline.”
I attempt a hearty laugh. What comes out is an unappetizing low-cal version. “I like to discover my endings along with the reader.”
Trevor winks. “She wants to keep me in suspense.”
Pickney excuses himself two more drinks in. He’s sorry for being an “old man,” but he must surrender the all-nighters to us “young ’uns.” The apology is nice, albeit unnecessary. We all know that Pickney’s popularity, rather than his age, demands the early bedtime. He’s been chatting up fans and midlist writers like me all day, each of us courting his friendship. Fame must be exhausting.
Once Pickney departs, Harrison becomes increasingly drunk and incredibly forward. He brags about his latest work during a conversation of far better-known authors and tells me that I’d be the perfect female foil for his oversexed trilogy hero. “You’re . . . How do the British say it? A ‘fit bird,’ eh, Trevor?”
To his credit, Trevor pretends not to hear him and calls over the bartender. I parry the remark with some ridiculous segue about the best books having bird references in the titles: To Kill a Mockingbird, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, The Goldfinch, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Afterward, I feign a yawn and say, speaking of birds, I really need to return to the nest. I’m on an early panel.
Trevor confirms my “packed” schedule, though he must remember that he and Pickney are the only ones with breakfast speeches tomorrow. My sole appearance isn’t until ten. Most likely, he is happy to have me gone so that he can resume convincing Harrison to switch houses.
My fellow writer bestows a tight good-bye hug, way too familiar for someone who needed to be reminded of my name ninety minutes before. I pull away, feeling like a field mouse wresting free from a python. As a result, Trevor gets nothing but a halting wave, which I regret while making my way to the elevators. As I wait for the next car to arrive, I think about penning an e-mail apologizing for my rudeness. Sorry I had to run. Harrison was giving me the heebie-jeebies. Thanks for the drink. What would he write back to that?
The imaginary exchange so engrosses that I almost miss the presence of the man behind me. Once I sense him, my body goes into a full alert. I can tell he’s large, strong, and standing inches closer than he should. There’s latent intent in the lack of space between us. For a moment, I wish I had my gun.
When the elevator arrives, I step to the side, allowing the person behind me to enter so that I may check him out. Trevor lords over me. His Adam’s apple peeks above the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt. “Realized I should call it a night too.” The spark in his eye says he doesn’t typically do what he should.
I swallow the urge to flirt. In my head, Beth is comparing his neck to a cannon, his shoulders to kettlebells. She’s no Shakespeare. She needs to shut up.
“Something wrong?”
“No. Nothing.” Again, I pretend a yawn. “I had a marathon writing session before I came down to socialize. Everything is still hazy.”
We file into the elevator along with a couple of badge-carrying conference attendees: a man and a woman, married according to the gold rings on their held hands—though, not necessarily to each other. Business trips are notorious for bad decisions. The couple exits on the fifth floor. I repress the number seven.
“How’s the writing? Or are we still not discussing that?”
“I’ll talk about it all you want—in a month.”
He pouts. I tell myself that the full lips pulled beneath his neat mustache make him look like an unhappy Schnauzer. In no world, however, would such a derogatory description fit. If Trevor were a canine, he’d be something sleek and powerful. A Rottweiler or a Doberman.
The elevator dings. “Saved by the bell. This is my floor.”
“Courtney booked us all on seven.”
The door opens. We both exit, me first since I’m a lady and Trevor has British manners. “Why seven? Lucky number?” A twinge of horror follows my question. Did I really just ask him that?
“Maybe.” He smiles with one side of his mouth and steps forward. The motion opens his jacket. I glimpse the outline of his torso in his thin shirt. Beth’s voice continues chattering. His stomach is a mountain range designed by a symmetry-obsessed God. This man is so sexy, he’s turning my inner prose purple.
I force myself to look down the hallway, increase the speed of my walk. Heavy footfalls echo behind the click of my stilettos on the worn carpet. I pull my keycard from my purse as I stride to the door.
“This is me.” I push the keycard into the slot.
The footsteps stop. “Good night.”
He’s standing a foot from me, close enough for me to smell his cologne. There’s musk and tobacco smoke. Cigarettes and sex. I say good night. Or at least my brain does. But my mouth, outfitted with Beth’s sultry voice, says something else.
“It was nice chatting with you earlier on the plane.”
“You too.”
“I appreciate the time.”
Each word brings him closer. Is he moving or am I? My heart is racing.
“We should definitely talk more,” he says.
The door beeps. I pull it open and escape into the jamb. Beth is still yammering in my head about Trevor’s body. “Let’s make a date for early next month, after you’ve read the book.” I allow myself one last glance over my shoulder. “Good night, Trevor.”
He gives me a smile and sign-off wave. I shut the door and then flop onto the bed. Beth is screaming. I bury my head in the pillow. “My husband didn’t cheat on me,” I whisper. “I have no excuse.”
Part II
Everybody lies about sex.
—Robert Anson Heinlein, Time Enough for Love
Chapter 9
After sex, I don’t sleep. Instead, I lie on my back and stare at the smooth ceiling pockmarked by pot lights, daydreaming about revealing my revenge to Jake. I imagine returning home at 6:00 AM, just as he is showering for work. I picture him peering through the steam-clouded glass door, his puzzled expression when he realizes Vicky is not in my arms. “Is she asleep?” he’ll ask.