Page 20 of Room for Us
A draft on my neck is her goodbye.
13
I might have erred in thinking this rent-an-inn thing was a good idea. I didn’t fully grasp how it would feel to have someone hanging around me. Living under the same roof. Feeding me, cleaning up after me, anxious to meet my every need. Less than twenty-four hours in, and I’m already disturbed. Especially since the someone is a woman with a frighteningly earnest smile and big doe eyes. A woman who, upon viewing in the daylight, I’m forced to admit is attractive.
Very fucking attractive.
And there’s the additional distraction of memory—that first phone conversation, the maelstrom of pain that floated briefly to the surface of her voice like a Kraken tasting the air for prey. I heard it. I felt it. And damn me, but it only makes her doubly interesting.
And to think I woke up feeling optimistic about the day, ready to have a hearty breakfast and sit down to write at least two thousand words. Now I’m hiding in my room with a muffin, twitchy with the need for caffeine. Walking into town was not on the agenda, but I stuck my foot down my throat by requesting espresso. And now I’m stuck venturing into one of the last places I want to go—a bookstore.
Zoey Kemper clearly has no idea who I am. I’m undecided on how I feel about it. Depending on the angle, I could be relieved or insulted. Possibly chagrined. Maybe impressed. Little does she know that between two airports, a layover, and two planes yesterday, I signed a dozen autographs. Wherever I go, it’s the same. Teens dragging their moms to me. Moms dragging their teens. Even a few grown men dragging their wives or kids.
When’s the next book coming out?
Have you written it yet?
Tell me you’re bringing back Whats-his-face.
This year? Next year?
Even though it’s happened for years—the questions, the praise, the angry tirades—it’s something I’ve never gotten used to. Why the hell anyone wants my signature is still a mystery to me. For that matter, that anyone reads my books at all is crazy. But they do. Over and over again, with new readers cropping up every day. As much as I’d love to throw grenades at my publishing company right now, they’re sickeningly good at making us money.
Granted, I did the hard part. Somehow, someway, eight years ago I gave life to a world and characters whose lives speak to readers of all ages.
And now I have to do it again.
Even if I don’t want to.
Even if I can’t.
My extended contract, signed two years ago, explicitly calls for an eighth book in the series. It was a calculated risk—calculated by my own gullibility and whispers of encouragement from my agent and Britt. But I can’t blame them. I signed on the dotted line. Full of bloated ego and false confidence, skipping and whistling my way toward predestined failure.
You’ll never amount to anything.
Always a disappointment.
Something’s wrong with you, boy.
Why did I think I could do this sober? There are only three things in the world that shut off my father’s voice. Being with my daughter, losing myself in writing, and booze. Since two are off the table, I seize the third.
The mini bottle of vodka feels like the Holy Grail when I fish it out of my duffel. And the snick crack of the aluminum cap unsealing? Bloody angels singing.
Knock. Knock.
“Mr. Hart? It’s Zoey.”
I freeze with the bottle halfway to my mouth, flooded with the singular shame of being caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Which is crazy. Who cares what this woman thinks of me? As a matter of fact, I think I heard her talking to herself after I left the dining room. She might be legitimately nuts. Oddball innkeeper and alcoholic author. Sounds like the setup for one of Hemingway’s shorts.
Drink the damn vodka.
But I don’t. I screw closed the bottle and shove it into my bag, then take a step toward the door. I pause a foot away, wary of opening it, irrationally afraid that the sight of her will cause my secrets to fall from my pockets to the floor.
What the fuck is happening to me?
“Uh, yes?”
She pauses, surely wondering what the hell took me so long to answer. Then: “I have to pop into town for a few things. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to stop by the coffee shop on my way back? Won’t take me but a few minutes.”
