one
piper
The poster is almost garish—ariot of brightly colored letters shouting PLEASE ATTEND THIS BOOK SIGNING. If I had more to do with the marketing for Piper’s Books, I would’ve taken the color scheme in a completely different direction. But I passed most of that responsibility to my right-hand lady, and she hadvision.Giving a thriller-mystery writer bright colors and happy font wasn’t what I considered proper marketing, but judging by our overstuffed store, it worked.
It’s a good thing I have Natalie around to take risks.
The line snaking from the table, through the store, and outside is four times longer than any we’ve had before. I choose to blame that on the author’s popularity, not the neon orange words heralding his book signing.
“Looks like a success.” Natalie folds her arms across her chest as she surveys the long line. “Guess my flyers aren’t too bold after all.”
I swallow a nervous laugh. “This man is one of the most popular authors of our day, and he’s doing only four book signings in the entire country. I think being lucky enough to hostone of them is the reason that line is snaking halfway down the street.”
Natalie rolls her eyes, but she’s fighting a smile. “You don’t want to admit that sometimes taking a chance pays off.” She gives my outfit a sweeping glance, dragging her gaze from my violet-colored shirt tucked into black wide-legged trousers down to my dark gray shoes.
“Muted is professional,” I say defensively.
“It’s boring.” She glances over her shoulder. “Do you think D.M. is here yet? That line looks liable to storm the back door and hunt him down if we don’t begin on time.”
My watch shows five minutes to seven. “Technically, he still has time. I promised we’d start on the dot.” I pause, considering his pen name. “What should we call him? D? D.M.? Or go for the entire D.M. James?”
“Delicious D.M.”
“If I want him to file a harassment suit, maybe.”
“Delectable D.M.”
“How do you know he’s either of those things?” I’d been a fan of D.M.’s books since they hit theNew York TimesBestseller list a few years ago and fell onto my radar. I immediately devoured his backlist and can probably be considered among the top two percent of his biggest fans. His way of crafting not just a story but the writing itself is old soul-esque, with a modern twist. He must be mid-forties at theyoungest.I’d put money on the fact that his hair is at least half gray and that he’s been honing his writing chops for a few decades. To write the way he does isn’t easy.
I should know.
“I found a picture from his signing in Dallas last week.” Natalie whips out her phone and starts scrolling. “If you were imagining a basement-dwelling dragon-feeder, you’re way off. He looksgood.”
I wasn’t, but okay.
“It’s here somewhere,” she mutters.
“Maybehe’shere somewhere. Like in the actual building. We should check in with?—”
“He just arrived.” Ravi sidles up to us, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow. He has an old-fashioned Frankenstein on his faded black shirt, with dark jeans and Hey Dudes. I don’t know anyone more obsessed with the horror genre, and I don’t have another employee with such great recall for inventory or back-cover blurbs. A customer can come in vaguely saying what they’re in the mood for, and Ravi immediately knows what to give them.
“Speak of the devil.” Natalie’s stance becomes aggressive, her feet planted and arms crossed. Professional body language readers would be able to look at our trifecta and know I’m standing in the middle of a recently bitterly broken-up couple.
“Me or the author?” he asks.
“Devil,” Natalie emphasizes. She flicks her blonde hair so it falls in waves over her shoulder.
“Is D.M. in the back?” I ask, then shake my head. Nope, using initials sounds weird. It’s amazing that D.M. James has been able to keep his real name a secret, but he’s done a great job of it. Or maybe the internet doesn’t care as much as I do about knowing how to address the guy and just hasn’t put in the effort to figure it out.
Probably the latter.
They simply enjoy his books. I see D.M. James printed on a cover and contemplate how weird it would be to slide into his DMs and beg him to share the secrets of his writing prowess.
Creepy? I hope not. I just want to talk shop with the guy. Pick his overly intelligent brain. Glean some of his wisdom. Become his mentee.
Ravi scowls at Natalie, his black brows pulling together. “He needed a quiet place to collect himself. I gave him the storeroom, but he should be out any moment.”
“Tell Piper he’s hot,” Natalie says, tugging her gold necklace out from beneath her striped turtleneck.
