One More Chapter

This novel is fiction, except for the parts that aren't. ~ Michael Crichton

Prologue

Daddy? I tap my finger on the car window in rhythm with the music. Why is it called Hill Street when there aren’t any hills?

He laughs. It makes me giggle.

That is an excellent question. He turns back to look at me over his shoulder. I think we should ask Grandma when we get back to her house, what do you say? She ought to know, right? It’s her street.

Without hills, I remind him, still giggling at the thought of making him laugh. I like doing that. Sometimes, at bedtime, we just lay together on my bed and laugh for no reason at all. Those nights are my favorite.

We’re at the stop sign. I have to sit up extra straight to see out of the high windows of my dad’s truck. I watch as we take the turn into the parking lot. A big grey van is blocking my view. Then we pass it to park in the next row.

He’s here, I whisper, my nose pressed to the glass.

Who’s here? He’s teasing me. He knows.

Daddy! He also knows he’s embarrassed me.

You finally going to ask him his name this time?

I drop back into the safety of the seat, hidden from view there. No.

Come on, Gracey. Buck up. He stops the car and turns it off. His arm stretches over to the passenger side seat as he turns back again to face me. Now how’re you gonna marry this boy, if you never even ask him his name?

I shrug, looking down at my hands in my lap. I like calling him what I want.

He doesn’t laugh this time, but I can tell by the sound he made - like coughing - he was going to. And what’s that?

I smile, lifting my head again. Joey.

Joey? My dad shakes his head. Why Joey?

I move my hands like I don’t really have an answer. I don’t. At least not one that will make any sense to him. My daddy’s a smart guy, but he’s a grown-up. They don’t always understand. I dunno. I like him. And I like the name Joey. So, that’s what I like to call him.

He covers his face with his hands, the way he always does when he’s trying to be serious and doesn’t want me to see him smile.

I’m not sure it works that way, baby.

I’m sure.

He chuckles. Well, I guess that’s that then. Ready to get out and say hi - Then he purposely changes his voice to sound like a girl, To Joey?

I nod, even though he’s being silly. I’ve been ready to say ‘hi’ since we got in the truck. It’s the only reason I agreed to come.

I climb out of the backseat and stop to check my dress. I scrunch my nose, tugging at the jean jacket my mom made me put on. It doesn’t go with the dress’s white lace I like so much.

Before I can get too frustrated about it, my dad takes my hand and we start to walk toward the convenience mart. And him.

He’s not alone today. PJ is with him. I never asked his name either, but I’ve heard him called that, so I call him that too.

As soon as Joey sees me and my dad, he stops racing his Hot Wheels across the sidewalk and stands up, waving at me. His hand is dirty and he has a red Band-Aid on his thumb. I wonder what happened.

Hi!

Hi, I say shyly. It’s the same thing every time.

I got some new cars. Wanna see?

I glance up at my dad, who nods, releasing his grip on my hand at the same time.

Okay! And together we hurry over to where PJ is sitting on the ground, a racetrack drawn out in white chalk all around him.

I love cars. Especially the fast ones. I have a huge collection at home. Most of them I steal from my brother. People buy them for him all the time, even though he’s still too little to play with them. All they ever get me are dolls. And ponies. I like ponies. Just not as much as I like cars.

These are so cool. I hold up the 49’ Merc. Whoa. Purple Passion. I’ve been wanting this one.

Awesome, huh? He smiles. He has a nice smile. Almost as nice as his blue eyes. I like those best.

I’m still busy checking out the rest of his collection when my dad calls from the store’s main doors, waiting on me to go inside, Time to move, Gracey. Mom’s waiting for whipped cream to finish her Strawberry Shortcake.

Disappointed, I hand the car back to Joey. I like Strawberry Shortcake, just not as much as I like him. Our hands touch for a second as the car moves from my fingers to his, and I can feel my face get hot.

I better go.

He looks sad too. Then he remembers something. I almost forgot. He reaches into his pocket, pulls something out and places it into my palm. I got this for you.

I glance down automatically. I can’t believe it. You found it!

He grins.

I’m definitely going to marry him.

Chapter One

Karma

I’m late. This is not new to me, the girl my friends and family refer to as being on ‘fuck it’ time regardless of what’s on the agenda. Schedule? What’s that? I work for myself. Mostly, so I don’t have to have one of those. Except on days like today. Because I made a commitment to be here. Last year. I don’t know what I was thinking making plans so far in advance. As it stands, I don’t want to commit to the dinner invite I have for tomorrow night. And it’s from my brother. Because it’s his birthday.

I’ll let him know sometime before five o’clock. Tomorrow.

Right now, I don’t have time to think about that. I don’t have time for anything. Not even coffee. Which is criminal if you ask me. But no one is asking. Except maybe where the hell I am. My phone just went off for the fourth time. I’m not checking it though. I don’t need anyone to tell me I’m late.

I can tell time. Even if I can’t keep it.

Crossing the never-ending parking lot up to the convention center while my arms are overflowing with crap I’ll need once I get inside, I’m barely hanging on to my laptop bag which is desperately hooked to the pinky on my left hand, along with my key chain.

I scan the ten side-by-side double glass doors for the set of automatic ones.

They’re not there.

They don’t exist.

And I’m never getting inside.

Excuse me, I shout when I see a guy exit through a door four sets down from me.

Me? He looks scared. He’s definitely hoping I mean someone else. I shouldn’t yell at strangers.

Relax buddy, I’m not requesting any body parts. I just need to get inside, and I can’t physically grab hold of a handle and pull right now. 

He sort of smiles. Relief, that’s what he’s feeling. I check my reflection. I’m getting a bad feeling about things. Yep. The clip holding my hair on top of my head to ensure my curly, poofy volume for the day as my mousse sets is still there. Fantastic. I’m late, and I look like a lunatic.

Regardless of the very real possibility that I’m a crazy person, the guy holds the door for me, allowing me entry to a building filled with innocent people. I guess he can afford to take a chance on my sanity. He’s leaving.

As soon as I’m inside, I wish I was out in the parking lot again. This place is packed. Packed and loud. Two things my little introverted self does not care for. But I trudge onward toward the ‘you are here’ map up ahead, trying to zero in on it and not the chaotic mess I’m surrounded by. I suppose I could just search the place for my convention’s banner. I’ve certainly seen it often enough in my inbox. Romance Done Write Con has been emailing me almost daily for the last month, reminding me that I agreed to be on their first panel of the day. A lot of good it did them.

I scan the map several times, unable to really focus on where I am or where I need to go. My brain is too scrambled with everything else it’s trying to process. Like how my pinkie feels like it’s about to break off. And how that will result in my laptop falling to the ground, possibly leading to its ultimate destruction. Not to mention, the blur of people moving to and fro in a way that makes me feel as though I’m about to be swallowed up by it. Interesting really, turns out feeling claustrophobic doesn’t have anything to do with the size of a place but rather with how much is in it with you.

I take one last look at the board, find what I think is tower C and room 1107, the highlighted portion of every email I’ve opened recently, and start running. Well, running may be a stretch. But, I’m moving as fast as humanly possible given the circumstances.

Five minutes and a few hundred human obstacles later, a bright red and black banner catches my eye, and I waste no time in squeezing into the first open door I can find.

And hello to you too, a loud voice greets me over the speakers as soon as I stumble in, bags and piles of crap banging into the wall and each other, helping me create quite the entrance.

Yay.

First order of business is to make sure I’m still holding on to everything I fell into the conference room with. As soon as I know none of my possessions have spilled onto the floor, I glance up to meet the voice which so eagerly pointed out my tardiness to the entire room.

Funny. He doesn’t look like a romance writer. Neither do any of the other men seated along the panel beside him. Not that I believe in stereotyping, but I’ve been in this business long enough to know that your everyday erotica author is usually female. And either twice as pent up as her characters are sexually free, or so wild and unconventional, one has no choice but to assume she’s from another planet, which then explains the purple hair as well as the freaky sexual positions her characters achieve that no human could conjure up.

This guy falls into neither category. He’s a suit and tie guy, except his shirt’s undone where the uptight types would have a tie, and his handsome face is partially obstructed by a full beard too unkempt to be professional but not quite wild enough for mountain man.

Since you’re already standing, did you have a question for the panel? He smiles, it’s the kind of smile that would make me blush from head to toe if I wasn’t already crimson red.

Even though I’d be laughing at myself, he seems to be genuinely welcoming me to the party.

Uh, yeah. I bounce my left shoulder up and down in hopes the strap digging into my skin will adjust. "This isn’t Romance Done Write, is it?"

He laughs softly. The rest of the room joins him. Now they are all laughing at me. I’m afraid not. We’re here today to talk about growing local businesses with Eat, Shop, LIVE Local.

Generating my own whirlwind, I spin on my heel and clamber for the door handle with my elbow, hoping for a more graceful exit than I had an entry.

Don’t feel like you have to make a run for it. Stick around for a while. You might find our panel just as interesting. The guy at the podium is waving me back, his blue eyes piercing me despite the distance between us.

I don’t doubt that talking business is super fun, I say this like I totally doubt it. Thing is, I have my own panel to be on. And in case my generally frazzled demeanor hasn’t made it clear enough, I’m late.

That’s too bad. We would have loved for you to join us. He’s still smiling. I’m starting to think he’s hitting on me. Which is ludicrous. But then ludicrous seems to be the theme this morning.

Yeah, thanks, I mumble, pushing my backside into the door, anxious for it to open and swallow me whole. I’ve been at the center of everyone’s attention for far too long now.

Then, it catches my eye and I stop everything. Oh, hey, maybe there is one more thing you could answer for me?

Absolutely.

Is that coffee? And if so, where did you get it?

He peers down at the paper cup in his hand. The very paper cup he was sipping something from a moment ago. It is coffee. And I picked it up at the coffee shop in the hotel lobby.

On the opposite side of the parking lot.

Dammit.

And I’m finally out of there. Cursing the banner beside the door, which now quite clearly has Eat, Shop, LIVE Local written on it in a bold black and white font that looks nothing like the swirly shit the Romance people used for theirs, I take off at the fastest speed possible given my baggage, both physical and mental. A luggage trolley would come in so handy right now.

Then, at last, one long-ass hallway later, I arrive.

Where the hell have you been? It’s Layne, one of my clients, and most days, my best friend. Today is iffy, given that she’s jumping down my throat when I’m clearly already in distress.

Oh, you know, taking the scenic route and sampling all of the cons on the way here. I drop my load on the nearest set of empty chairs. I got lost. Where the hell else would I have been!?

Well, you’re lucky, because you’re not the only one who’s late. The keynote speaker is running behind schedule as well. Her flight was delayed. They’re rushing her here straight from the airport. Layne grins. She likes doing this to me. Freaking me out and then making it all better. She does the same thing to her characters. And in turn her readers. What is all this shit anyway?

She’s pointing at the cardboard box, large tote bag, purse, and my laptop, all piled on top of each other in a heap now as I stretch and try to regain feeling in my pinkie and shoulder.

This? Oh, I don’t know. Stuff. Had it lying around. Thought it might be fun to take it everywhere I go for a day. I scowl. It’s all the crap you insisted I needed for today.

As the writer of a bestselling firefighter series, Layne comes in on the freaky alien side of the author spectrum, her bright teal bangs are only reiterating my point. She’s also been to more of these conventions in the last five years than I ever plan to attend over the course of my career as an editor. If it hadn’t been for her insistence, I wouldn’t be at this one now.

I didn’t mean you needed them first thing at the panels. She slaps my arm playfully. Like I’m the silly one.  Like it was obvious. You won’t need most of that until this afternoon.

Listen, I didn’t get here last night. It took more than a leisurely stroll through the lobby for me to arrive here this morning. And when I did, I found myself in a parking lot the size of China. If you think I have any plans to go trekking back out there for anything until this day is over, you’ve let your hair dye seep into your brain for too long.

She drops her head sideways, eyeing me sympathetically. No coffee yet this morning?

None. Not a single, solitary drop, I say, remembering that I still haven’t fixed my hair and reaching up to release the tousled mess from its rooftop prison. Soft, bouncy curls of chocolate brown land on my shoulders and flow down my back in one fluid motion. Without a mirror handy, I just have to assume that my styling efforts resulted in the intended effect, and I now have the perfect amount of volume to go with my slightly wild but approachable hair. Although the approachable part may be misleading if I don’t get my hands on some coffee here soon.

Well, you’re not getting one now either, she says as if reading my mind, That’s the speaker for this morning. She points at the woman with glasses and a hairdo from the eighties who just came rushing through the doors. We’re about to get started.

For a woman who looks like a librarian stuck in a time warp, the keynote speaker delivers a speech filled with surprisingly current information regarding the publishing business. She also uses the word fuck a lot more than one might expect.

Then, before I know it, it’s over and the panelists are invited to come up front. Cue momentary panic, as once more, I make my way across the room with a few hundred eyes on me.

The topic is All the Bells and Whistles, which is their cute way of collecting several editors, cover designers, and book formatters in one place to bombard us with questions regarding everything an author needs to consider before publishing. From what I know, I’m one of two editors up here today. The other is a woman who up until recently was working for one of the Big Five out in New York, so she’s fairly new to the ins and outs of working with indies, or independently published authors. It’s different. I like it better, but it’s not for everyone.

I interned at a different major publishing house every summer in college. By the time I graduated, I knew I never wanted to go back. Too many limitations for my unruly self to truly thrive. The indies are where it’s at.

We’ve all had a chance for one go-around of questions pertaining to our field of expertise when I notice the door in the back of the room open and a young woman wearing a LIVE Local t-shirt attempting to sneak in.

With one ear on the cover artist answering a question about the benefits of using exclusive images versus stock, I watch as the woman bypasses the chairs, and swiftly moves toward the front of the room, back slightly hunched and on tiptoes, as if it will help her appear less intrusive that way.

I’m still fascinated by this scene when she zeroes in on me, a broad smile spreading across her face as she crouches beside me at the end of the table, her hand moving up to gift me a piping hot coffee cup.

Jenson said to tell you thanks for stopping by, she whispers. Then, just as casually as she wandered in here, she leaves again.

And I watch her. Speechless. It’s not until I take a sip from my cup that I realize the rest of the room has gone silent.

The panel host leans over her podium to get a clear shot at me. Okay, forget the importance of proper punctuation, I want to know how you get yourself a personal barista complete with delivery service.

I laugh, and for the first time this morning, it’s not because I’m uncomfortable. Trust me, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I’m not even sure I believe it yet. And I live in a fictional world most of the time where outlandish things like handsome strangers buying the klutzy girl coffee are pretty much standard behavior.  I do know, if I walk out into the parking lot later and find a brand-new car with a dating contract stuck in the windshield wiper, I’m making a run for it. That’s not my kinda story. I don’t care how attractive he is.

The remainder of my time sitting up on the panel goes by in a daze while I fight the urge to drift off into some wild daydream about him. Jensen. The name suits him. It doesn’t even matter that I literally know next to nothing about him. He bought me coffee. He had someone track me down to give it to me, which means he was listening to me. He was paying attention. Coffee and listening. Right there, that pretty much already makes him the best guy I’ve ever dated. Not that we’re dating. Although, if I stretch the coffee thing far enough...it’s almost a date.

Nah. Even I’m not that crazy. Or desperate.

Um, explain. Layne nods at the now empty coffee cup I’m still clutching in my hand. I just can’t seem to get myself to part with it.

You know how I got lost? Yeah, well, I accidentally stumbled into another conference.

And? She’s not following how this led to coffee.

And, the guy at the podium was sipping the great brown nectar of the gods, so I inquired where he got it. When he told me it was from the other side of China, I cursed out loud and left the room. Honestly, I may also have whimpered as the door shut behind me.

She grabs my arm to stop me just as I’m about to reach out and pick up all of the junk I dragged in here with me today, so I can haul it over to the hall next door where we’re having a friendly meet and greet of sorts according to the itinerary. Are you saying some random dude from another conference sent you coffee?

Yeah. How pathetic must I have looked, huh? I try to laugh it off. Part of me would still like to believe that it was flirty coffee, not pity coffee.

Layne looks thoughtful. I’m totally using that. Was he hot?

This time I laugh for real. Everything is potential writing material with Layne. Yep.

Working her way back into best friend status, she’s a pal and helps me carry my stuff next door.

Because we had such a late start this morning, the powers that be decided to make the schedule work by cutting the panel that was set to follow mine, which means we now have twenty minutes to kill before the meet and greet thing. Twenty minutes I would have used to go and track down coffee, but now that I’ve had some already, I have nothing to do with myself. Except mingle. Eh.

Maybe I should go back and thank him.

Layne smirks. That hot, huh?

I can feel myself grin like an idiot. You sound like you’re fourteen when you say it like that. My eyes roll back into my skull as I surrender. But he totally was.

I’ll watch your stuff. That’s the green light I was looking for.

Thank you. Then I run from the room. And I’m really running this time.

A million and one scenarios pop into my head while I maneuver my way around the people milling about in between the various conventions taking place here today. In several of the scenarios I say something extremely witty and come off looking like a rock star at male-female interactions. This is how I know I spend too much time with my brain stuck in some romance novel. Because I’m not smooth. Not in person anyway. I could probably write out some clever dialogue though and hand it to him. No typos or anything. Why aren’t men more impressed by this?

My thoughts have derailed some by the time I’m standing in front of the Eat. Shop. LIVE Local banner again. The doors are still closed which makes me somewhat hesitant to follow through with what I originally thought was a brilliant plan. Then