Stopping in front of her, he paused to catch his breath, his gaze fixed on that elaborate red bow.
An uneasy feeling grew in the pit of her stomach. She could be wrong, but she was picking up an emotion she’d never associated with Rance McLintock. Was he anxious?
He glanced up, a crease between his dark brows. “I realize these days manuscripts are submitted digitally, but you’ve said the publisher you work for still takes hard copy.” He swallowed.
Oh, no. He reallyhadwritten a book. And he was giving it to her. In Christmas wrapping paper with a horse and sleigh motif, no less.
Gone was his jaunty self-confidence. She’d worked with enough first-time authors to appreciate the courage he’d summoned to get through this moment. She’d have to be made of stone not to empathize.
The warm squishy feeling in her chest was just that — empathy. Nothing more. “What kind of book is it?” Maybe it would be non-fiction and she could pass it on to a colleague.
“Fiction.” He cleared his throat. “A contemporary Western.”
“Oh.” Right up her alley. Considering his mom wrote historical Westerns, which he’d been reading all his life, his similar-but-different choice made sense.
“This is the first in a series. There will be a mystery in each book.” His voice steadied. “The hero’s a former deputy who left law enforcement and bought a bar. He has an Irish granny.”
“I see.” No wonder he’d wanted Granny to stay with him. Research.
“The heroine’s family is Italian and she’s the elected sheriff of this small town where the bar’s located. She discovers that the bar owner makes a good undercover agent.” He was into it, now, a glow of excitement chasing away the last of his anxiety. “Their relationship is something like that old TV show with Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd.”
“Moonlighting?”
“That’s the one. Just substitute a small Western town for LA.”
“SoMoonlighting, only with cowboys.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dammit, he’d come up with a viable story concept. She was already writing the blurb in her head, imagining the marketing campaign, seeing potential cover treatments.
But this was Rance, the guy she’d vowed to stay away from. Far, far away. Anyway, she still didn’t know if he could write. He was the son of anNYTbestseller, but so were all the McLintock kids and nobody else in that bunch had written a book. Oksana, Lucky’s wife, was the only other author in the family.
Meeting his gaze, she pretended the sizzle in her veins was professional enthusiasm. “Does your mom know about this?”
“Not yet. Nobody does except Granny. And now you.”
“You’ve written an entire book while living in the midst of this close-knit family andnobodyknows? Or even suspects?”
“Why would they? When I told you, you didn’t believe me.”
“Yes, but I’m only a casual visitor. I don’t know you as well as they do.”
“I can play my cards close to the vest.”
“Maybe. To a point, but still.”
“It’s not as tough as you think. I live alone and have a fair amount of unobserved free time. I give the impression that I spend most of it playing pool.”
“That’s logical since you’re so good at it.”
“And shooting pool is also great for working through a tricky plot problem.”
Every word out of his mouth strengthened the possibility that he was the real deal. He talked like a writer, a serious writer with a goal and a plan.
But handing the manuscript to her was ridiculous. He was the son of a bestseller. “I appreciate your gesture in offering itto me, but I work for a very small publisher. You need to follow Oksana’s lead and get your mom involved. You could end up in a bidding war like she did.”
“How do you know? You haven’t read the book.”
