1
the meeting
Arden Evans had the kind of sweetness heralded by theologists and poets alike as divine. Like that first crunch of a fresh apple or the pop of a ripened grape as it spreads across the tongue, Arden’s sweetness had the potential to move me toward ecstasy or madness.
I met Arden at a book signing in my honor, hosted by my father’s literary agency. I’d just made the New York Times Best Seller List for my latest release, the fourth in a series of mystery novels set in the Adirondacks and popular among the aging Grisham demographic. The previous three had been building steam over the past few years, and this achievement was a first for me. Proof that my success wasn’t only the result of my father’s connections but that my talent and work ethic might also be to blame.
I was at the bar, hovering near my agent and good friend Elizabeth “Bitzy” Lane. We’d met at Columbia where we both studied English and Comparative Literature. Bitzy wanted to be an editor for one of the Big Five publishing houses but interned at my father’s agency where I was destined to wind up as well. When I, with trembling hands, presented my father with my first manuscript, what would one day become the beginning ofCold Lake Chronicles, he told me I’d need an agent, and naturally, I chose Bitzy.
My father thought my first book would be a flop. And he didn’t expect me to be able to reproduce the second in the series to that caliber, which was why he’d insisted the first book be sold as a standalone. When my second book did just as well, he begrudgingly acknowledged that I might have some writerly talent after all.
How much of my success can be credited to my compulsion to impress my father?
Bitzy was working the crowd on my behalf, my wing woman at these types of events. Her Boston accent became more pronounced when she’d been drinking. Or when she was angry. She was at about a five right now, but I’d known her to get full-on townie, especially when defending one of her own.
I only half-listened to her exchange with an older gentleman, a reviewer forReader’s Digest. I was stressed about the reading I was supposed to deliver in less than a half hour and debating as to whether another glass of wine might help or hurt my performance. What I really wanted was a cigarette. Even though I’d given up smoking a few years back, times like these really tested my willpower. I went for the wine instead.
“Michael, have you thought about what your next project will be?” Bitzy asked with an amused tilt to her head, which clued me in to the fact that she was repeating the question for my benefit.
I struggled for an answer. I’d just sent the final installment ofCold Lake Chroniclesto my editor for proofing, which meant I should already be well on my way to drafting my next book, but I’d been sorely lacking in inspiration. I’d even considered penning something outside the mystery genre, which had caused such a kerfuffle with my father that he’d scheduled a lunch with my publisher. They all but gave me an ultimatum. They wanted another mystery. Something the same, only a little different.
Since then, I’d been paralyzed by doubt.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I told the man whose bright, inquisitive eyes were still focused on me. He said he’d read all of my books and was looking forward to what had been billed as the final installment, due to come out that summer.
“It’s going to be hard to topVanishing Point,” he said. “I was at the edge of my seat in that one.”
“It certainly will,” I told him with an affable nod.Thank you, kind sir, for voicing my exact insecurity.“If you’ll excuse me.” I ignored Bitzy’s raised brow. I needed some fresh air before I disassociated altogether.
I turned away with the intent of escaping to the reception hall’s outdoor balcony where I could go over my notecards one more time (and see about bumming a cigarette). I shouldn’t need either, but I’d been painfully shy as a child, and my fear of public speaking hadn’t lessened over the years. If it weren’t for Bitzy’s and my father’s insistence, this event wouldn’t even be taking place.
My head was down sipping my wine, oblivious, when I barreled into a young man and spilled the entire contents on my shirtfront. We stood there for a moment, gawking at each other. His eyes were striking—green at the outer edges and brown around the pupil—and I would later learn that from a distance, they appeared as a warm butterscotch color. In the moment, I was struck by their dichotomy. And his beauty. He had the kind of bone structure and facial symmetry that was rare for us regular humans—high cheekbones, angular jaw, wide mouth, and a shave that I envied. (Being of Italian descent, mine only lasted until mid-afternoon.) The man’s eyebrows settled into something that hinted at mischief.
“I’m so sorry,” he exclaimed with a smile, revealing a slight gap-tooth that only added to his appeal. Too much perfection was only so palatable.
“It’s my fault,” I told him. Luckily, I’d taken the brunt of it. I grabbed a nearby bar napkin and tried, unsuccessfully, to mop it up. My shirtfront looked like a crime scene. The man continued to apologize, and I waved off his concern while wondering if it might help if I turned my shirt inside out.
“You’re the author.” His expression was horrified but still with that impish grin as he placed one hand over his open mouth. He grabbed my arm tightly. “Come with me.”
He dragged me past the who’s who of the New York literary scene—editors, publishing house executives, agents, and several veteran authors, many who’d known my father for decades. Sprinkled in were the critics, reporters, reviewers, and more than a few of my contemporaries, some of them bitter that my pulp fiction had surpassed their literary masterpieces in the horse race that was the New York Times Best Seller List.
“Are you kidnapping me?” I finally asked him as we traveled through a doorway, above which was a sign markedEXIT.
“Maybe,” he said with a conspiratorial lift to his voice. We ended up in the stairwell. How he knew where it was located, I had no idea. The door closed behind us with a soft snick, and I debated whether a setting such as this might work well for a murder scene or if a badly lit stairwell was justtootropey.
“You didn’t have to go to such lengths to get my autograph,” I said. Murder was still a possibility, but there was an equal chance that he’d brought me here for an illicit tryst. Those chances increased exponentially as the handsome stranger began unbuttoning his shirt.
“This is better than being murdered,” I mused aloud. Even in the dull fluorescent lighting, I could see that my companion had abs for days.
“Murdered?” he said with a bemused grin. “I’m giving you my shirt.” He shrugged and the soft, blue material fell away like a robe from a lover’s shoulder. He caught the fabric in one hand and held it out to me. “Here. Take it.”
“Your shirt?” No one had ever given me the literal shirt off their back.
“Don’t you have to give a reading? You don’t want to do it with a stained shirt, do you?”
“I guess not.” He seemed more concerned with my presentation than I was, which was flattering, in a way. I gripped the soft, blue fabric in one hand. The material felt as though it were spun from clouds. “I can’t take your shirt. It looks—” I’d meant to say “expensive,” but instead of coming up with an appropriate descriptor, this wordsmithsmelled his shirt.
“That’s nice,” I said.
