Steady warmth rises in me like an incoming tide.
“I get it. You’d rather be at a keyboard than in front of a group of live people. But you are good with people, you’re charming, and you have a lot to say. Quit second-guessing yourself and just talk to them. It’s going to begreat.”
She thinks I’m charming? “You either have a lot of faith in me, or you’re an excellent liar.”
“Didn’t you hear me introduce you the other night? I love your books.” Her green eyes hold mine, her cheeks glowing faintly pink. “I meant every word.”
Heat pools within me, and I want to tug her close. No one can see into this little alcove, and judging by some of the dust on the shelves, it’s not visited very often either.
“Also,” she says, flashing me a broad smile and pulling her hand out of mine, “Hannah responded to my email. She’s out of town all month—and not super receptive to teaching anyway. So without you, I’d have to refund all these people, and then I’d really be in a pickle.”
I miss her hand already. But I can’t say I’m surprised about Hannah. She’s not the same person we knew back in college.Unlike Piper, who only seems to have become more amazing in every way. “Sorry you lost Hannah. It’s short notice, though.”
“Yeah.” Piper doesn’t sound convinced. “Anyway, are you ready to start? Store closed a few minutes ago.”
“Sure.”
“Chin up, McConkie.”
“James.”
“Right. D.M. James.”
I can hear her muttering my pen name under her breath repeatedly as we make our way back toward the classroom area. Piper heads straight for the front, and I follow her, pulling out my computer and setting it on the instructor’s table next to the projector. I almost trip when I notice that every seat is now full, but I power ahead.
“Welcome, everyone. We are so excited to have you at Piper’s Books’ inaugural writing class. This is where dreams will come to life, and as book lover extraordinaires, my employees and I are so pleased to ride along on this journey with you. Don’t forget that you get fifteen percent off in the store for the duration of the course.”
There’s a quiet murmur among the group, no doubt from friends chatting about which books they’re using their discount on.
“Just show your receipt for the class at the register, and we’ll apply your discount. Anyway, enough from me. I know you were all looking forward to learning from Philip Simmons, but he had a health emergency and is unable to join us. Fortunately for everyone here, D.M. James was willing to step in, and now we get to learn from one of the country’s leading thriller writers of our day. He’s humble, but don’t let that fool you. The man is brilliant. Please join me in welcoming Mr. James.”
Piper claps as she steps away from the central stage area in front of the students, and they join in, with a few hollers and hoots in the crowd too. We live in Nashville, after all.
“Thank you, Ms. Monroe.” I swallow each fear threatening to press up my throat and make me flee. What I really should have told her is that I’m not writingright now. I can’t write anythingcurrently. So maybe I’m not the best person for this gig. But Piper’s right, and I know story. I understand characters, dialogue, stakes…all the components that thread together to become a book. Each one needs close attention, so any topic I choose to focus on will benefit these new writers.
Which is overwhelmingly broad.
“Let’s start with the basics. How many of you are writers?”
A smattering of hands goes up in the air. Far fewer than I expected.
“Any authors in the group?” I ask.
No hands rise this time.
I find Piper sitting in a chair in the back beside Natalie, listening and nodding as her employee whispers in her ear. I’ll need to stop looking at her if I want to remain focused. This is the University of Tennessee all over again, and I’m in danger of thinking about nothing but Piper if I let myself.
My hands slide into my pockets. “First, you’re all here, so I suspect most of you are wrong. If you write, you’re a writer. You don’t need permission from anyone to give yourself the title. There is no threshold necessary to earn the badge. It’s quite simple, so I’ll repeat: if you write, you’re a writer. So I’ll ask again. How many of you are writers?”
Every hand in the room goes up, including Piper’s.
My hands stay safely tucked away in my pockets, but my smile grows. “Great. Now that we’ve got that covered, let’s start with some basics. Who here has heard of character-driven and plot-driven stories?”
The hour goesby so quickly that I only get through about half of what I planned to cover before Piper is shutting it down and reminding everyone to use their discounts in the store this week.
I cap my pen and slide it into my bag with my notebook. The projector Piper set up for my presentation is sitting on a slide with my author email address in case anyone has questions they want to discuss further. I promised to email everyone the slides we didn’t go over if they wanted them, and pens began to scribble furiously. I’m sure I’ve got twenty-five requests hitting my inbox right now.
“Mr. James,” a middle-aged man says, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose as he approaches. He’s wearing a jacket over a pearl-snap button-up and cowboy boots. “You are so inspiring. Thanks for taking the time to come to our class.”
