“Wow,” I finally manage to say. “That’s fast.”
“When you know, you know. Right? You used to write romance. You get it. Oh, that’s my first question.” He smiles from ear to ear like he’s enjoying this cruel, torturous game. “Are you an author?”
My phone buzzes before I can answer, and I practically dive into my purse to retrieve it. If there was ever a time that I needed the Smut Coven, it’s now. Actually, it was five minutes ago, before I turned into a sweaty ball of anxiety with a stomachache.
“Ugh,” I groan. “It’s a text from my mother.”
“Good to see the two of you getting along better,” Smith says.
“Yep, we’re basically besties.”
My mother isn’t much of a texter. She’s not the sort of woman who communicates in brief and succinct messages, and with her Southern drawl, talk to text is completely out of the question. I cautiously open the message, and to my surprise, it’s a photo. A photo of a very good-looking man to be exact.
Mom: This is Martin. He wanted to say hi.
I highly doubt this poor man wanted to say hello to me. Martin probably feels like he’s in a hostage situation at this point, and he’s not exactly wrong. My mother would set her own hair on fire before she’d let an eligible bachelor leave her home without meeting her spinster daughter.
I take a better look at the photo. Martin’s leaning against our stone fireplace, head tilted back slightly, with a kind grin spread across his face. I’m not sure if it’s the lighting or the questionable edibles, but he really does look like a Hemsworth.
Penny: Tell Martin I say hello too.
Mom: I’m going to tell him that you can’t wait to get to know him better.
I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to have a more awkward Thanksgiving experience than me, but my mother has just confirmed that with minimal effort, things can always get more cringey. I open the picture once more, just to double-check that it’s real.
“What does Silvia have to say?” Smith leans across the armrest before I have a chance to close out the photo. “Hey now. Your mom looks a hell of a lot different than I remember her.”
“Well, she finally started shaving.” I exit out of my phone and slide it back in my purse. “To answer your question, yes, I’m an author. Next question.”
“That’s weird.”
“What’s weird? My mother shaving?”
“I’ve just never seen your name attached to any books. I’d expect that to be the sort of thing good old Google would catch. Unless you’ve never been published.”
“You’ve googled me?” I raise my eyebrow. “Why?”
“Why does anyone google somebody? Because I was curious. I also googled my mailman, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Is he also your ex-wife?”
“Is that one of your questions?”
“No,” I grumble. “Yes, I’ve been published. I’m actually a USA Today bestseller. I just don’t publish under my own name. I use a pen name.”
“What’s your pen name?”
Nope. Not happening. My pen name is sacred like Peter Parker is to Spider-Man and Clark Kent is to Superman. The only people who know my pen name are the Smut Coven, my agent, and my publishing house.
“Veto.”
“What do you mean, veto?”
“A veto is a veto.” I shrug. “I didn’t say we were required to answer every question.”
“Can I ask why you’re vetoing that question? And don’t tell me it’s because you don’t want to answer it. That’s implied.”
“Is that an official question?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Because my writing is just for me.”
It’s the Reader’s Digest version of the truth, but it’s the truth nonetheless. When I’m writing, I’m my most authentic self. My books are like little windows into my soul that nobody can judge or discredit. Other than reviewer_1987 on Goodreads. That woman hates everything I write, but it doesn’t bother me. Writing is subjective, and I don’t take bad reviews personally. What I would take personally, what would destroy the joy that writing brings me, is for my writing to disappoint my family.
I’m no Virginia Woolf or Harper Lee. I haven’t penned the next great American novel, and I likely never will. I like to write about women falling in love and having great sex, even if I’m not experiencing either at the moment. Which I’m not. Not unless you count the stash of battery powered tools I keep next to my bed. The kind of books that I write aren’t good enough for my parents. They aren’t the sort of books they can brag about to their friends at the country club. They’d be embarrassed by them, and I’ve done enough on my own to give them a lifetime of embarrassment without adding to it.
“Who’s Martin?” Smith asks. “That’s my third question. I’m assuming he’s the guy Phoebe was talking about on the phone earlier. The one with the body and—”
“I thought we mutually agreed not to talk about anything that you may or may not have overheard.”
“I don’t remember making that agreement.”
“It’s the dog weed. It’s fried your brain just like all those ‘Say no to drugs’ commercials said it would.”
Aidan stirs in the back seat, mumbling something about beavers and ducks. Ozzie and Harriet abandon their post at his side, which is probably for the best, considering we have no idea how Aidan feels about beavers or ducks.
“We need wood,” he moans, his eyes still closed. “We need the beavers and the ducks to make a pact.”
“I should probably go check on him,” Smith says. “But don’t think I’m going to forget about that last question, genie.”
I fold my arms across my chest and nod in my best Barbara Eden impression.
While Smith attends to Aidan and his plan to unify the beaver and duck community, I summon the Smut Coven.
Penny: He’s not single.
Penny: His girlfriend is flying in tomorrow.
Penny: Then he’s going to make her his fiancée. After just 3 months of being together.
Jackie: 3 months? Who the hell gets married after 3 months?
Penny: EXACTLY!
Chelsey: How are you doing? Are you okay?
Penny: I don’t know how I feel about any of it.
Chelsey: Well, of course you don’t. He’s the only man you’ve ever loved.
Penny: Is he? Is that really possible?
Jackie: It is. You’ve lusted for plenty.
Jackie: An entire football team’s worth of lusting.
Penny: I get the point.
Chelsey: So he told you he’s planning on proposing tomorrow?
Penny: Not exactly.
Jackie: Wait. Why do you think he is?
Penny: He has a box from Tiffany’s in his bag.
Penny: It’s ring shaped.
Penny: Why else would he carry a ring-shaped box from Tiffany’s if he didn’t plan on proposing? Rings aren’t like condoms.
Chelsey: There’s a lot to unpack here.
Aidan thrashes back and forth in the back seat.
“I think he’s having a night terror or something. Any idea on how to snap him out of it?”
“Slap him?” I shrug.
“I’m not slapping our driver.”
“He hasn’t been our driver for the last thirty minutes that he’s been unconscious.”
“There’s a bottle of water in the driver’s side door. Hand that to me.”
“You’re going to waterboard the guy that’s terrified of the rain? The man is literally trying to build an army of beavers and ducks.”
Aidan throws a lazy haymaker in Smith’s direction.
“Water. Now.”
“Fine.” I climb into the driver’s seat and grab the bottle of water. I toss it to Smith. “If he ends up murdering you in his sleep, I promise to take good care of Harriet.”
Smith rolls his eyes before turning his attention back to Aidan.
I go to move back to my seat, but my foot catches on the strap of Smith’s bag, spilling half its contents onto the floorboard. “Shit. Sorry,” I say. “I’ll clean it up.”