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Lydia
Good luck with the meeting today. Hopefully you’ll get the contract.
I purse my lips as I read the text from my fiancé, Mason, and then slide my phone into my bag. Usually, all my writing contracts are negotiated over email or messaging boards. It’s a rarity when a potential client wants to meet in person rather than over Zoom, and it’s got me on edge.
But I never turn down the chance to get out of my drabby office.
Taking a deep breath, I double check my lightly done makeup, pushing my hazel blonde hair from my face. I guess the downside to meeting in person is the lack of filters.
Yikes.
I slide out of my SUV and make my way into the hipster coffee shop. It was a solid forty-minute drive from my house to get here, but I didn’t argue when that’s where my potential client said they wanted to meet. I mentally center myself as I grab the aluminum handle, and as soon as the door swings open, I’m met with a blast of warm air and a strong scent of lattes.
I’m pretty sure this might be close to what heaven smells like.
My eyes scan the crowded place, searching for someone I’ve never met. My gaze stops on every single person sitting alone.
Henry Bayne…What do you look like?
And then my phone buzzes.
I reach into my bag and pull it out, seeing a message from Henry, himself.
Back left. Corner booth.
My eyes flicker up, my head whips to my left.
And my heart stutters.
That is not what I thought Henry Bayne was going to look like—not that I thought much about his looks, anyway. But still, for some reason, my head had conjured up a middle-aged man obsessed with true crime documentaries. This man looks like the freaking serial killer in the documentary—but the Ted Bundy kind of killer. The kind you leave with…willingly.
“Lydia,” a deep, smooth voice greets me as I numbingly make it to the booth. He stands to his feet, towering over my five-foot-three-inch frame at what must be at least six-foot- two or -three. I take in the black leather jacket, his white T- shirt, and faded jeans. His dark, nearly black hair has a natural wave to it and his gray eyes leave me feeling uneasy.
So naturally, like anyone who fails to get out much, I stare at him like an idiot.
“I got you the blonde latte.” He gestures to the drink steaming opposite of his seat. “That’s what you said you wanted.”
Right. In the text I sent earlier.
But those texts don’t even feel like they’re from the same person anymore.
“Thanks,” I choke out, ripping my eyes away from his tantalizing face. I focus on pulling out my chair and taking a seat in the half-booth table setup, but my hands are shaking.
This man flew all the way from New York City to meet with me…Why?
I had asked myself the question over and over again, but now, I’m really wondering what the heck this guy is doing in a place like Oklahoma City—all for a meager book contract.
“So,” I clear my throat like I’ve smoked for all thirty-three years of my life. “Let’s talk about your project.”
He eyes me as I reach for my latte, my fingers trembling still as they wrap around the ceramic glass. “Okay, let’s talk about it.” Henry leans back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. “You know, though, you’re not exactly what I pictured.”
Right back at ya, bud.
But instead of speaking my mind, I take a long sip of my drink, letting it burn the shit out of my tongue. “What were you expecting, Mr. Bayne?”
He chuckles, though his tone has an edge that serves to further unnerve me. “Don’t call me Mr. Bayne. Henry is preferred.”
