I force a smile and shake my head. "No, thank you though."
I glance at the dainty antique watch on my wrist. Five minutes overdue. I tap my foot on the floor of the empty coffee shop. Clasping the glass with both hands, I go over the possible questions he may ask me. What are your goals as a writer? To be you. What made you decide to write? You. Who is your favorite author? You. You. You!
I clear my throat and remind myself to not answer "you" to everything or else I may scare him. After all, I can't have him thinking I'm some crazy, obsessed fan. I'm not. I'm a reader—no, I’m a writer. A writer, not a stalker.
I swallow around that lump once more, and as I do, a shadow falls over the table—a shadow that sends chill bumps scattering over my skin. Slowly, I glance up, my pulse steadily picking up as my gaze scans up a pair of jeans to a freshly pressed dark gray shirt, to the face of the man who changed my whole world. This man's mind is beautifully mad, and the worst part about this meeting is that I now realize he may be just as beautiful physically as he is mentally. Tanned skin. Dark, impossibly bottomless eyes. Thick, messy brown hair. It's enough to make even me—a girl who cares nothing at all for men—swoon.
And swoon I fucking do. My mouth is suddenly dry, my mind a jumbled mess. Sweat slicks my skin, and my head spins. For a brief moment, I fear the sheer delight from being so damn close to him may make me faint. I manage a polite smile, fighting to keep it from spreading all the way across my face.
"Mr. Mercer," I say, holding out my hand.
Everything seems to move in slow motion, and my pulse goes crazy at the thought that I am actually about to touch him.
He stops several feet in front of the table, glaring at me, but he doesn't take my outstretched hand. His eyes narrow slightly, and I break out into a sweat. The smile quickly fades from my face. Without a word, he pulls out the chair across from me. The second he sits, he snaps his fingers at the barista then redirects his attention to me. He's not actually looking at me—no, he's studying me like an opponent sizing up the rival they know they'll too easily knock to the ground. I anxiously drum my fingers over the table and clear my throat as I wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.
"Ms. Cross, I must say I appreciate your timeliness. There's nothing that pisses me off more than someone who's late for a meeting. So for that, I thank you." His eyes never leave mine, and it's both intimidating and unnervingly sexy.
Never in my life did I think I'd be sitting across from EA Mercer. I try my best to stifle the sweat beginning to creep down my forehead.
"Thank you, Mr. Mercer. I…" I take a breath. I remind myself to remain collected even though every muscle in my body is ready to give out. "It's such an honor to even be considered for this opportunity. I—"
The barista stops at the end of the table and stares at us.
Edwin looks at me, annoyance etched on his face. "Coffee. Black. Ms. Cross, have you ordered already?"
"Miranda, please." I shoot a smile at Edwin before I glance at the barista. "I'll just stick with my water."
A nervous smile forms on the barista’s face as he nods and scurries off. I don’t blame him. Mr. Mercer is intimidating.
"So how much do you know about what I'm looking for here? I realize I didn’t give much guidance, but you do understand whomever I choose will be co-writing my next novel—potentially ghostwriting," he says with a sliver of arrogance to his tone.
"Uh, yes." My heart rate accelerates. "I knew about the co-writing bit, of course, the contest and all. I think that was clear in the email, but I, uh, I wasn't aware it may be ghostwriting…" I ramble, telling myself to shut the hell up.
Edwin straightens, narrowing his eyes on me. "And is that a problem? You do understand the opportunity I'm presenting, correct?"
My mouth has suddenly gone dry. "Yes, I absolutely do, and I didn't mean for that to sound, um, I didn't mean for it to sound…" Shit. Get it together, Miranda. "I didn't mean for it to sound unappreciative. I'd love any opportunity to write with you, Mr. Mercer."
"Good." His dark eyes lock with mine in the most intense stare I've possibly ever witnessed. "Very good… because I liked your story, Miranda. I don’t like many other people's work, and after the thousands of shit stories from your peers my assistant sent over the past month, yours certainly stood out."
Edwin’s stare remains glued to mine.
A smile tears at my lips. "Thank you very much for—"