She was a beautiful woman, maybe mid-forties, with smooth brown skin, long locs, and an aura of calm that said she knew she was exactly who she thought she was.
“Theory Sidorov,” she greeted, holding out her hands.
Theory’s elbow slammed into my stomach. Hard. Grunting, I bent forward.
“Damn.”
“Shut up,” she whispered, before taking Rielle’s hands.
“I ain’t say nothing,” I protested.
“You did this?”
“Yeah.”
She looked at Rielle, then back at me, then at Rielle again.
“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually— I mean, I am but not like— I love your work. Like, I really love your work. Your prose is so perfect, and the way you write desire and love? Baby! It’s just—” She stopped and pressed her lips together. “I’m talking too much.”
Rielle laughed softly. “You talking like a writer. There’s a difference.”
Theory looked touched by the compliment. I liked seeing it.
“She’s a writer, too,” I said.
Theory whipped toward me. “Targen.”
I shrugged. “What? You are.”
“I know what I am.”
“Then why can’t I say it?”
“This is her night, her time.”
“Girl, it's always the time for your man to brag on you. But I know you, Theory Miller. Contemporary romance with a lot of spice. Honey, thatWhere Angels Fear to Tread? Perfect.”
Theory clapped her hands over her mouth, failing to hold in a squeal.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God! You know me?”
“Of course, I know you. I know you've been hinting at getting into something else, too. Tell me about that.”
Theory hesitated then spoke almost shyly at first. “More romantic suspense.” She glanced at me. “Thinking about writing women trying to survive stubborn, arrogant, overbearing men who think a marriage license is permission to do anything.”
Rielle’s amused gaze slid to me. I shrugged again.
“Sounds like fiction.”
Theory sniffed as Rielle laughed again.
“I’m very glad you came tonight. Your husband sent me something beautiful for you.”
Theory’s smile wavered. “He sent you something?”
I touched her waist. “For later.”
Her eyes snapped up to mine. “Targen.”
