“You are in New Orleans.”
And just like that, all choice was taken from me. Nathan was in control. I was just along for the ride.
THE NEXT DAY I WOKE WITH A RAGING HANGOVERand a lot of dislike for my friend. There was a reason I wasn’t a drinker—I never liked being out of control. Plus, hangovers were not my thing. Why would I possibly want to be hungover for the conference?
I popped aspirin, drank as much coffee as I could get my hands on, and ate a huge breakfast. That had me feeling a little better. The nerves I thought had abated came roaring back when Nathan and I walked the hallway to the conference center. The doors would open in twenty minutes. My day started with the panel—I was secretly glad I would get it over with early—and then I would be at my table by noon for when the readers wereunleashed to get in line for their favorite authors. The whole thing was daunting.
“How are you feeling?” Nathan didn’t look as if he was nursing a hangover at all.
“I hate you.”
He smirked. “You’re fine. Do you feel more relaxed?”
“No. I just feel as if I have anxietyandan upset stomach. Oh, and the headache isn’t helping.”
“You had like three drinks.”
“Four.”
“That’s still not enough for a hangover,” he said.
“Not all of us drink like we’re 1980’s frat boys.”
“How do you even know that reference?”
“I know things.” In other words, I’d seen movies. I rubbed my forehead. “This day is going to suck. I can feel it. It’s going to go off the rails.”
“It’s going to be fine. Take a breath.”
“You take a breath.” I detoured toward the coffee cart. Caffeine was not usually my friend, but I needed more. “I should have ordered room service last night.”
“You need to learn to unclench a little bit. Author life is going to be absolute torture for you unless you learn to take a breath.”
“I’m fine.” I didn’t feel fine. “I’m perfectly fine.”
I stepped up to the coffee cart, perused the offerings on the little chalkboard at the front of it, and opened my mouth to order. A small whirlwind in the form of a person knocked me out of the way with a well-timed hip, and I careened sideways before I could utter a single word.
“Sorry,” a singsong voice called out.
It was already too late. My equilibrium was off because of the hangover, and I lost my footing. I fell into a book display for a mystery writer, knocking all her hard work out of the way and sending books scattering in every direction.
“Holy crap!” Nathan tried to catch me but I was already down. I’d completely decimated Amy Ryan’s table.
“Oh my god!” she screeched as I scrambled to collect her books from the floor. “What did you do?”
My cheeks burned under her scrutiny—she was a formidable presence, which was why she’d been placed so close to the coffee cart—and I struggled to find a single word of apology.
“It was an accident,” Nathan interjected quickly. He grabbed my elbow to help me up. “He was knocked into your table.”
Amy didn’t look convinced. “Oh, really? Did a ghost knock you into my table?”
Frowning, I glanced back toward the whirlwind. What I found was a petite woman dressed in short shorts and a skintight shirt with a bedazzled shark on it. Her hair was long and black and her eyes a striking blue. The look on her face suggested she was about to offer up the biggest apology in the world.
I braced myself for the “I’m so sorry”—fully prepared to be gracious—but instead heard “You shouldn’t have been in my way.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?” I snapped.
The woman—her lanyard identifying her as a fellow author—lifted a shoulder. “You were blocking the coffee cart.” She wiped a hand over her face, which looked as if it was still boasting makeup from the night before, including the sort of eye shadow that made her look like a raccoon. “I need caffeine.”
