Page 55 of Trip Me Up
The waiter came to get our drink order, recited the specials, and left.
Jackson set down his menu. “I have a piece of fan mail for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a regular business-sized envelope with my name scrawled across it.
Taking it from him, I lifted the flap and unfolded the piece of paper inside. It was a colored-pencil drawing of The Magician. The stiff-looking white robe gave it away. The figure had my blue eyes and dark hair, even my scattering of freckles. In sloppy print across the bottom, it read,Dear Sam, All my friends think The Magician is sick. I think you’re awesome. Love, Noah.
I swallowed. I was the exact opposite of awesome. I’d lied to my nephew. To my brother. To everyone at that table. I set the drawing next to my empty charger.
“So, Sam, tell me about this book.” Jackson’s gaze was so pointed it could’ve plucked the truth out of my brain like a pair of tweezers.
“Um.” I held up a finger and grabbed my glass of water. I guzzled it down in a way that would’ve shocked Mother.
“Wait.” Gabi straightened. “You didn’t know about your sister’s book?”
“No, seems she forgot to mention it at our last family brunch.”
Ice rattled against my lips, and I set the glass down. Did he remember Noah reading it at brunch last month? That even Nat had said she’d read it, and I’d said nothing?
The glitter in his eyes told me he did.
“I, ah—”
The waiter arrived with our drinks. For a wild moment, I considered knocking over Qiana’s glass of red wine. Maybe I could run for it during the resulting chaos.
Before I could make a move toward her glass, she put her hand over the base. “You should read it. It’s amazing. We’re calling it a genre-twisting blend of literary fiction and sci-fi with urban fantasy elements. It’s got edge-of-your-seat action with prose that bends language as we know it.”
“To Sam, then.” Jackson raised his glass of tequila. “And her literary career.” He drank, and so did the others. I raised my empty water glass, and a busboy scurried over to refill it.
Relieved, I sipped my water and slumped back in my chair. He was going to let it go. I’d spill the whole secret to him—NDA or no—as soon as I got back to San Francisco. And I’d do it while he was holding his baby so he couldn’t throttle me.
“Yet—” Jackson set down his glass. “I can’t recall your ever having written anything before. Other than code.”
That was all he had to say. That one word,code.He knew. He understood what I’d been working on with CASE, and he’d connected the dots. Now he was about to lift his hand from the page and show us all the whole picture.
I glanced toward Qiana’s wine glass, but she’d pushed it out of my reach.
“It’s the best debut novel I’ve ever read,” Niall said, a challenge in his tone. “Pure, raw talent. I can’t wait to see how her style evolves.”
Jackson swung his gaze from me to Niall. “Niall Flynn.”Challenge accepted.“I’m more of a gamer than a reader, but even I’ve heard of you. Didn’t I see you were dating Lulu Bridges last summer? Stunning woman. Makes the cutest little squeak when she—”
I stomped his foot. My brother knew a lot of gross facts about B-list actresses.
“—laughs, I was going to say.” But Jackson didn’t look at me. He stared across the table at Niall, whose hands were curled into fists on either side of his charger.
The waiter, who had to have the world’s worst timing—or the best—came to take our order. After she handed the menu to him, Qiana gave me a wide-eyed stare. “So much better thanReal Housewives,”she whispered.
When the waiter left, Jackson leaned back in his chair and continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “So, Niall, since Lulu didn’t hold your interest, can I assume you’re”—swirling his glass of dark tequila, he flicked his eyes to Gabi and then to me—“single?”
Niall gazed at me, uncertainty in his candlelight-darkened eyes.
“Jackson—” I had to stop him now before he launched into the what-are-your-intentions interrogation.
“I think Niall’s capable of explaining those doe-eyed looks he keeps sending your way. He’s a writer, after all. A master of language.”
“We’re colleagues.” I curled my fingers around my napkin. “Friendly. That’s it. You know I don’t do anything more.” Jackson knew why, too.
His eyes were full of that knowledge when he turned them back to me. “Sam, I—” He frowned and pulled his phone out of his back pocket. “Excuse me.” Shoving away from the table, he put his phone to his ear. “Sweetheart,” he murmured in the softest tone I’d ever heard him use.
Niall’s face was expressionless stone. That word I’d used again—colleagues—lay like a dead bird in the center of the table.
