“Thatsounds suspicious,” I teased, breaking the silence after his words had become apart of me. “So, what areyouhiding, then?”
“I'mnotgonnasay.”
“So,you're a serial killer.”
Hislaugh was a light slicing through the moody darkness. “What does it say about methat you automatically assumed that?”
“I'mnot saying I really believe it,” I assured him, pulling my computer out of thebag. “But when you say something so vague and shady like that, you have to knowthat people are automatically going to jump to the worst-case scenario. Peopleare paranoid, man; they can't help it.”
Hechuckled, bobbing his head as he dropped fruit and ice into the blender. “Askyour question.”
Ireturned the laugh, almost forgetting how this conversation had started. “Oh,right. I just wanted to ask, what is your real name?”
Hiseyes lifted to mine. “You know, you're the first person to actually ask methat.”
“Getout of here,” I muttered incredulously, opening the laptop. “Do you have anoutlet I can use?”
Heopened his hand, silently asking for the AC adapter's wire, and I handed itover. Then, as he bent to plug my computer in, he said, “You'd be surprised howmany people just assume my parents were cruel enough to name me after a bird.”
Typingin my password, I asked, “What parent would name their kid Goose?”
“Notmine, thank Christ,” he laughed. “And it's Eric, by the way.”
Themoment his name was dropped into the air, it seemed so clear. Like my mindalready knew but had somehow forgotten along the way.
“Eric,”I repeated quietly.
“Yep.EricNevard, at your service.”
Ihummed contemplatively, nodding. “I've always liked that name.”
“Well,if the baby's a boy, you have my permission to use it.”
“Howdid you know that's why I asked?”
“You'reforgetting I have a kid,” he said, winking and sliding my drink over. “Now, I'maskingyoua question. What's with the computer?”
Opening upmy manuscript, I said,“I'm working.”
“Working?”He grabbed a rag and began wiping away droplets of condensation from the bar.
“Itold you, remember? I'm an author.”
Drapingthe rag over his shoulder, he looked to me with intrigue and I laugheduneasily, knowing I had his full attention. He folded his arms on the counterbeside me and studied me with too much interest. Eyes as interested as hiscould get a girl in trouble, and that observation probably should've been moreof a red flag to me than it was.
“Youknow, I've never known an author before,” he said. “What kind of books do youwrite?”
“Romance.”
Hiscontagious grin broadened. “Wow. So, you write the dirty stuff, huh?”
“Well,”I wobbled my head from side to side, “I guess some of my sex scenes get alittle raunchy. But I really focus more on the characters and story than on thesex.”
Goosenodded thoughtfully. “So, if it was a story about a sex addict ...”
Myeyes flicked quickly toward his. “Then, it would be dirty as hell,” I laughed,before looking back at the computer screen. “But if I write a verycharacter-driven story that sex doesn't fit into, then it is what it is. I mostlyjust listen to the characters and what they need to come alive.”
“Yougonnaput me into a book?”
