Always & Forever: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (ABCs of Love Collection, Books 1 - 4) Read online

  The cocky assumption turned up the dial on Emma’s temper again, off-setting the surprising fact that he’d read up on his fellow panelists enough to know that she was a professor.

  “Um, well.” Beverly looked down at the index cards in her hands and shuffled them quickly. “Given how different all of your genres are, I’m wondering if we’d be surprised by the number of similarities in your author process. If it’s not too presumptuous, I’d love to hear about your writing spaces. Let’s start with you, Emerson.”

  “There’s a little coffee shop near my place. I love to write there,” Emma said.

  “Of course you do,” Aidan interjected before she could explain why. “Are you even allowed to write literary fiction if you’re not in a café?”

  His tone was light, and his groupies awarded him with another laugh, but Emma sensed a bite in the words. What was his problem? He’d started this by assuming she was a coat girl, and then doubling down even when he’d realized she was a fellow author.

  Well, not a fellow author, exactly. He was in a totally different class. A low one.

  When Beverly began another nervous shuffle of her index cards, Emma decided to ignore his sarcasm. She didn’t want to add to the librarian’s stress. Emma smiled at Aidan Maxwell as if she found the café joke funny. “I sit at the most isolated table and drink pretentious coffee, black, because it’s good for staring into the existential void. It’s a sugar- and cream-free kind of void.”

  “That’s exactly how I pictured it.” Humor colored Aidan Maxwell’s voice.

  A hand in the audience shot up, a young woman who looked college-aged. “Why coffee shops? Or anywhere busy like that? You don’t find it distracting?”

  “My problem is that I’m in my head too much. Being in a coffee shop—or anywhere with some life to it—it’s good for me. It keeps me connected to the rest of the world, and I love to people watch, figure out why they’re doing what they’re doing, imagine their stories. The more ordinary a person seems, the harder I tend to look, and the deeper the back story I give them.”

  “That sounds about right for a literary novelist,” Aidan said. “In your work, I’m sure all the characters are living lives of quiet desperation.”

  It was true. Or at least it was for the one novel she’d managed to finish. But she didn’t like the way he was painting her with broad strokes, so she dished it back. “It’s more because the big personalities and bold details are usually the easiest people to figure out. Like macho guys who swagger around in leather jackets or fussy old ladies covered in rhinestones with little dogs in their purses. Those kinds of characters are clichés.” Beverly darted a glance at the leather jacket hanging from the back of Aidan’s chair, whose boyish smile turned slightly brittle. “I guess I like looking for the stuff beneath the surface,” Emma finished, pleased she’d finally gotten to him.

  “I understand what you mean about clichés,” Aidan interjected. “Like college professors being stuffy tweed jacket and beret-wearing blowhards.”

  Had he seen her beret? She wanted to reach for it, make sure it was out of sight, but caught herself in time. He was acting like her cat when it got cornered, and Emma calmed as she sensed she was getting beneath his skin. “I don’t know any professors like that, but to your broader point, I find walking clichés so . . . boring.”

  She expected him to snap back, but instead he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes as if he’d figured out something important. “Emerson Lindsor? Wait, is your mother Arianna Lindsor, the memoirist?”

  Emma felt the same complicated wash of emotion every time someone made that connection. Her mother was a brilliant writer, and she was proud of her for that. But it was hard for Emma to always have her work judged against someone the notoriously picky New York Book Review had labeled “the most searing voice of her generation.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “No wonder you like your fiction tortured.”

  Emma didn’t even know what to say to that because she wasn’t exactly sure whether she’d been insulted. Or had he just made a sly “your mama” crack? Or maybe there had been no judgment in his statement at all. Her mother’s memoirs were definitely heavy reading.

  Even more than not knowing whether she’d been insulted, Emma didn’t like the tiny flicker of satisfaction she felt that someone had dared to do less than rave about Arianna Lindsor.

  “So Aidan, why don’t you tell us about your writing space?” Beverly asked. She sounded stressed, and guilt flooded Emma. She had to quit engaging with Aidan. She had nothing to prove to him, and landing blows wasn’t worth making Beverly anxious.

  “I like being outside on my deck with my view of the Sound. If it’s raining—” and he paused to let the islanders laugh since rain was a fact of life on Whidbey Island “—I’ll still work in my sunroom so I can at least look out at nature even when I can’t sit in it with my laptop.”

  Beverly moved on to a question about how they came up with their ideas, and Emma stuck with her resolve not to upset Beverly again. It seemed like Aidan Maxwell went out of his way to goad her a couple of times, but she smiled and answered diplomatically, or deferred to the other two panelists.

  She wouldn’t say the next forty-five minutes flew by, exactly. The sparring with Aidan had distracted her from her own nerves, but now they flared again. Anytime she had the spotlight, it made time stretch and drag, but just as she was drifting toward the emotional exhaustion that always accompanied pretending to be an extrovert, Beverly opened it up for more audience questions.

  Twenty hands shot into the air, and Emma fervently hoped Beverly didn’t plan to take all of them. By the time eight in a row had gone to Aidan, Beverly asked if anyone had questions for the other panelists. After a pause, Jamal caught Emma’s eye and mouthed, “Not our crowd.” Emma answered with a tight smile of agreement.

  They were almost free . . .

  A book signing would follow, but there would be no need for her to stay for that. Outside of her students who bought her book from the college bookstore, she didn’t even sell enough books in a year to get a royalty check. Not that sales were everything, she thought, eyeing Aidan Maxwell.

  Finally, Beverly announced there would be no more questions, but that there would be a limited number of books by the authors for sale and the audience should form a line while she got them ready for purchase. That caused an earthquake level of chair rumbling as ladies jockeyed for position at the front of the line.

  Emma chatted with Jamal as she watched Beverly ring up the books. Just as she’d expected, the first ten customers all bought Aidan’s books, although Jamal also got a sale. Her small stack sat untouched. She was so used to this by now that it didn’t even disappoint her. In fact, it meant she was off the hook and could head home.

  She caught Beverly’s eye and waved a small goodbye, thanked Jamal for being a pleasant co-panelist, and rose to leave. She’d just slung her satchel strap over her shoulder when she felt it collide with something followed by the sound of a masculine “Oof.”

  She turned in horror to apologize to Jamal for nearly braining him but found Aidan Maxwell standing there instead. His hand holding his side, a startled look on his face.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, not feeling quite as sorry as if it had been Jamal. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. You’re leaving? I came over to say s—”

  “Yeah, I’m leaving. I don’t have any books to sign since you made it clear that your crowd isn’t going to like the kind of stuff I write.” It was an unfair thing to say since that was in no way his fault. She never had to worry much about signing books, but she was out of Beverly’s earshot and didn’t feel like faking anymore niceness toward him.

  If the dig bothered him, he didn’t show it. He glanced at the women queued to get his autograph. “Yeah, they’re not much of a beret literature set.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake. I’m not either.” That was it. She was well and truly done with him and ready to be on her way
to her tiny little house. “See you around some time.” She stepped around him, but the strap of her bag slipped from her shoulder and hit the ground before she could grab it. The beret fell out and landed on the floor.

  It lay there between them, staring up at her. It was black, but it may as well have been a red flag.

  Aidan started laughing.

  She scooped it up, set it on her head without breaking his gaze, gave it a jaunty tilt, and strode out without a backward glance, but it felt like that laugh followed her all the way to her car.

  Chapter Two

  Aidan watched Emerson Lindsor’s beret disappear through the library doors before he made his way back to take his seat to continue signing. It looked as if every single person who’d been in the audience had stayed to buy a book and chat with him. That meant another couple of hours of small talk and selfies still to go.

  He glanced at the dwindling pile on Beverly’s table. He hoped he’d ordered enough from his publisher. Beverly had apologized when she’d asked him a few days before to appear on the panel, saying she knew it was a long shot.

  It wasn’t a long shot. Beverly was his favorite librarian, always happy to help him with research, and he’d assured her that he was glad to help her out. When she followed that up by fretting that they wouldn’t have time to order in books of his to sell, he’d told her not to worry about it, made a call to his publicist to send a large order overnight, and then told his editor that all profits were going to Friends of the Library, not back to the publisher.

  They never grumbled about stuff like that. He made them too much money for them to balk when he wanted favors done.

  Ah, well. He’d done what he could, he thought, as Beverly made change for another patron. Next time he’d insist that the publisher bring in more.

  Jamal rose after another half hour passed and it became clear that he wouldn’t need to sign any more books.

  As he gathered up his belongings, Aidan smiled at the next woman in line. “Excuse me a minute. I need to take care of something. I’ll be right back, and I’ll write an extra note to make up for making you wait.”

  The now-flustered woman smiled and nodded, and he went over to crouch beside Beverly.

  “I’d like to buy the remaining copies of Jamal’s books. I’m going to get these all signed right now.”

  “Of course,” Beverly said. “What about Emerson’s copies? She’s a beautiful writer.”

  “I guess if she’s your type.” She had an understated elegance to her with her dark brown hair and porcelain skin. “I tend to go for blondes.”

  Beverly tsked and looked at him disapprovingly. “I meant her work is beautiful.”

  He winked to show that he’d understood. “I like dropping off signed copies to places with avid readers. She didn’t stick around to sign hers, so I guess I’ll pass.”

  Beverly nodded. “Fair enough.”

  He scooped up the stack of Jamal’s novel and turned to bring them to the other writer to sign but paused. “You know what, Beverly? Go ahead and throw one of Lindsor’s into the mix for me.”

  He continued on to Jamal, not sure why he’d asked Beverly to ring up Emerson Lindsor’s book. The woman was condescending and irritating the way most literary fiction writers were toward him and his “lowbrow genre fiction.” Maybe he wanted the satisfaction of proving that her writing was as pretentious as the author herself.

  “Hey, Jamal. Do you mind signing yours? I spend some time at the Urban Renaissance Project, and I think those young men would really connect to your work.”

  Jamal’s eyebrows rose. “I hear URP does some good work, man.”

  “Best I’ve seen,” Aidan agreed. “In fact, would you be willing to come in and talk to them some time? There are about twenty-five boys from eighth grade to high school seniors. Some of them are readers but don’t like to admit it. I think you could convince them that it’s cool to express yourself in writing. They don’t believe me when I tell them I’m cool for doing it.”

  Jamal laughed. “You got it, man.”

  “Great. Just shoot me a text and we’ll set it up.” Aidan dug a card from his wallet and handed it to the younger man before returning to his signing line where he sat for another two hours, posing with fans and autographing books.

  He was exhausted by the time Beverly closed the door after the last patron, but her face was wreathed in smiles. “We sold every copy you ordered! That’s a wonderful boost for our library fund. Thank you for being so generous.”

  He glanced at the sales table. Only the stack of Emerson Lindsor’s books remained. “Glad I could help. Check with me next time you do a panel, and if I’m in town, I’ll stop by.”

  Beverly’s expression dimmed. “About that. . .”

  He gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about Emerson Lindsor. I’ve dealt with short-tempered types before. Former prosecutor, remember? It didn’t rattle me.”

  “Emerson Lindsor is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. Needling her was uncalled for. I’m sorry to have to say it, especially after your generosity, but that wasn’t well done, Aidan.” She peered over her glasses at him like it was the fifth time she’d had to shush him in the comic book section.

  Aidan wasn’t even sure how to describe the feeling he had as the recipient of Beverly’s disapproving look. Ladies always loved him, from the librarians to the little old blue-haired grandmas. The only ones who didn’t were the uptight Emerson types, the elegant and cold ones, just like his ex.

  He didn’t like Beverly not liking him. He offered his most “aw, shucks” smile. “I’m sorry, Beverly. She was just so rude. She took one look at my leather jacket and thought she knew who I was.”

  “Aidan,” Beverly said, sounding unappeased, “you treated her like a coat check girl, not a peer.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that,” he conceded, “but she went lemon-faced the second I walked in. It’s a trigger for me.”

  “Because you’re used to women of all ages swooning at your feet?” Beverly asked with an amused smile.

  “Maybe.” He grinned back at her. “Or maybe because I get tired of the prejudices literary novelists have against my work. I took one look at her expression and it wore me out before the panel even got started. I bet she’s never even read one of my books.”

  “Probably not, but have you read hers?”

  “I read all the author bios you emailed me.”

  “That’s not the same as reading her book. Both of you need to suspend judgment until each of you has done that.”

  Beverly certainly had a way of reminding him that he was a mere mortal like everyone else, never mind that she’d just watched an endless line of women adore him as a celebrity. “Fair enough,” he said. “But is Emerson Lindsor going to get this same lecture? She wasn’t nice, either.”

  It was Beverly’s turn to grin. “She most certainly will.”

  Aidan left with a laugh and a hug from the librarian, then headed out to his Jeep and drove home to do more writing.

  He hoped. Normally the words came to him easily. He could sit down and bang out ten pages a day without breaking a sweat. But lately it took sweat plus blood and tears to get half that.

  Sure enough, when he got home and opened his laptop, the words didn’t come as easily as they usually did. Nor did they the next day, or the day after that. It wasn’t writer’s block, exactly. The story was moving forward, but now it felt like inches instead of yards. He tried moving from the small sun porch on the side of his modest house where he normally wrote to the kitchen table. That gave him a better view of Puget Sound, but the words didn’t come any more easily. Neither did moving to his overstuffed leather sofa in his front room, or upstairs to the easy chair in his bedroom.

  Friday morning, he found himself back on the sun porch staring at the trees outside without really seeing them. Frowning at the lack of new sentences on his screen, he shut the laptop with a growl and pushed away from his
desk. He’d tried something new each day to jog his writer brain, advice he’d heard from other writers: taking a walk to clear his head, re-reading from the beginning, watching shows in his genre. None of it was kickstarting his stalled story.

  It was a different story than his usual, that was for sure. He’d gotten into storytelling as a way to right some of the wrongs he witnessed in real life, but this story . . . he was having trouble finding his way through it.

  He ran back through the mental list of techniques for breaking through writer’s block. He’d tried all of it except meditation. He heard that one all the time, but he wasn’t interested. He spent time alone with his thoughts all day. The last thing he needed was more time with them.

  The thought nudged a memory. Coffee shops. Who had—oh, yeah. Emerson. She’d said during the panel that she went to coffee shops to be surrounded and inspired by humanity or something equally grating.

  But it was the opposite of being alone with his very loud, totally unhelpful thoughts.

  Hmm.

  He slid his laptop into his backpack before he could think too hard about it and headed over to Mugsy, the least pretentious coffee shop he could imagine. He stopped in from time to time because the drink boards didn’t use words like “arabica” or “venti.” It was definitely not the kind of place fancy-pants literary writers went for inspiration.

  He’d no sooner ordered a large coffee and opened his laptop when in walked none other than Emerson Lindsor herself. He was almost embarrassed to be caught in a place he’d mocked her for going, but . . . he wasn’t here for pretentious reasons, so he decided not to feel stupid.

  She didn’t notice him at first, and he used the moments before discovery to study her openly. She was an attractive woman in an understated way. She didn’t wear much makeup, and today she wore gray yoga pants and a weathered-looking hoodie that hung past her fingertips. It wasn’t the kind of sweatshirt that girlfriends past had paid a hundred dollars for a designer to “distress” and then slap their logo on.