As tempted as I am to tell her every detail of my exchange on the subway with Nicholas Wolf, I don't. Den would recognize his name immediately. A copy of one of his books has been sitting on the coffee table in her living room for the past few months. It was a birthday gift from her mom. She hasn't read the book yet. The only time it's moved is when the table is dusted.
If I confess that he's the man I'm meeting, she'll make it into a bigger deal than it is. I know that from experience.
A picture of me talking to the very available star pitcher of the New York Yankees went viral six months ago. A gossip blog picked it up from a photographer who happened to be trailing him. There was nothing between us other than a brief exchange on a corner in Midtown when he asked me if I knew where a certain two-star hotel was. I pointed him in the right direction and then he kissed my hand in a token of gratitude before he darted across the street. I turned to watch him go and the photographer zeroed in on my face.
That brief encounter made me picture the trending topic on social media for an entire twelve hours. I wore the hashtag of #halesbabe for less than a day until someone from work recognized me and tagged me in one of the posts. I tweeted that I didn't know Trey Hale and that I'd never been to a baseball game.
Cadence thought it was fate, so she bought two tickets to a game and a Hale jersey for me. I fought her on it but we ended up at the ballpark bored out of our minds.
Any mention of Nicholas Wolf's name now and I'll stir up the matchmaker in her again. I don't need that. I'm more thancapable of finding a man to date on my own when I'm ready. Preferably it'll be one who doesn't have a fan club.
"I asked what his name is." She picks up my bowl of ice cream and finishes the last scoop. "The guy you're meeting for lunch. Tell me his name."
"Nick," I say clearly. "It's Nicholas."
"Nick," she repeats back. "I like it. Where did you meet him?"
"On the subway."
"That's either romantic or creepy."
"It's neither. I sat next to him, we talked and tomorrow I’ll meet him for a quick lunch."
"You don't seem excited." She narrows her eyes. "What's wrong with him?"
His ego is the size of Long Island and he blackmailed me into meeting him. Other than that he's perfect.
"I don't know him so I can't say what's wrong with him." I manage to plaster a fake grin on my face. "Ask me again tomorrow afternoon and I'll tell you."
CHAPTER THREE
Nicholas
If I pridemyself on anything, it's my ability to focus. Give me a chair and my laptop, and I can churn out a chapter or two in the middle of Grand Central Station on a Saturday afternoon. My brothers call me the King of Compartmentalization.
It serves me well. I get my job done and I keep my publisher happy. I haven't missed my self-directed, daily word count in over a year.
The last time I fell off pace I was nursing a massive hangover brought on by the equally impressive advance check I'd cashed the afternoon before. I drank myself into a fog and ended up in the bed of a woman who didn't have an ounce to drink.
The frequent text messages she sent me for weeks following that night didn't impact my writing at all. It did serve as a reminder that I'm apt to say just about anything if I've had too many beers.
I told a stranger I loved her and wanted to marry her. She took it to heart, yet I couldn't remember a thing. For that reason, and that reason alone, I limit myself to one drink at a time.
Yet, today, I'm on my second scotch and it's just past one o'clock in the afternoon.
I blame Sophia, the petite brunette with the beautiful blue eyes I met on the subway.
I didn't bother to get her surname or her number last night before I took off for the book signing. I thought I wouldn't need it. I assumed she'd be at this restaurant at least fifteen minutes before I showed up at noon sharp.
Women tend to be punctual when you've got something they want. That might be a reservation at the trendiest bistro in the city. It could be the chance to spend a few hours with one of the most successful novelists in the world. More often than not it's the unspoken promise of what will follow the meal.
I don't ask women to meet me here because I want to spend an afternoon describing my creative process. I meet them here because it's less than a block from the apartment I occasionally use as an office. I write there and when the mood strikes, I fuck there.
I follow the same routine each and every time.
It begins with lunch at my regular table in the corner of this bistro at noon sharp.
If my date is receptive, we take a walk to my office.
