“No, I did not. Mick did not indicate one would be necessary,” I reply firmly.
Jeffrey sniffs derisively. “Then there will be no photographs.”
“But your fans,” I sputter, and he interrupts me with a wave of his hand.
“My fans would never dream of accepting a less than flawless product. That includes photographs. If you hope to ever have an author of my calibre grace your store with their presence in the future, Miss Miller, I suggest you think of something as basic as a photographer.”
I am left utterly speechless. Not only has he paid no attention to my correction on my last name, but to have been spoken to in such a condescending way is a new experience for me, and not one I care to ever repeat. Rubbing salt into the wound, Jeffrey Morgan turns his back to me, facing Wyatt and Mick.
“Have we met?” he asks Wyatt, and I’m slightly mollified to still hear an extremely condescending tone to his voice. At least he isn’t a misogynist, just wildly disrespectful and arrogant.
“No.”
Wyatt’s abrupt dismissal of both Jeffrey and Mick goes even further to soothe my injured pride.
“Humph.”
Jeffrey pivots away from Wyatt and returns to the table we set up for him. Never have I met someone with such exacting demands and such a complete disregard for basic manners and respect. How this man has amassed such a legion of dedicated fans is beyond me, but the number of pre-orders I received for his book was the highest I had ever acquired for any book. Obviously, they’ve never met him in real life.
“These stacks are too tall.” Jeffrey’s pompous voice rings out and my eyes flutter closed momentarily. I am not often one to use common colloquialisms, but I do believe the phrase is this guy for real is appropriate in this moment.
“The instructions I was given were stacks of six.” I pride myself on how calm I manage to modulate my voice.
“No more than six. Appropriate ergonomics are important, and if the stack is too high or too low, the angle can be damaging to my wrist. This book is thicker than my previous works, therefore, six is too high. One could construe your choice as a breach of contract, Miss Miller.”
My mouth falls open in shock. But before I can start to formulate a response, Wyatt’s voice penetrates my shock.
“Paige, do you have a copy of the contract you signed with Mr. Morgan easily available?”
The cold, firm tone of his voice startles me. In our brief interactions, I have never heard him sound this way. I nod, and quickly go to my back office to find the document. My eyes scan it as I walk back, although to be frank, I’m uncertain what I should look for. When I reach Wyatt, the look he gives me speaks volumes. Will you let me help you? is the message I receive, and when I hand him the contract, I’m graced with a warm smile full of appreciation and respect. Then Wyatt’s focus turns to the document. A moment later, that firm, in control voice is back.
“Mr. Morgan, as you can see, your agent signed this contract with Miss Millstone. Nowhere does it state a height specification for the stack, a request for a photographer, or requirements for positioning of the table. The expectations that are laid out here go well above and beyond any reasonable requests of a bookstore owner. You are the product in this situation, Mr. Morgan, and a product is replaceable. You would do well to remember the stores that invite you for signings are doing you a favour with all of their marketing efforts. Not the other way around.”
The silence when Wyatt stops speaking is deafening. But the thundering of my heart feels so loud, I cannot comprehend how they aren’t all hearing it. Having him stand up for me and my store like that is awakening in me the part of my heart I have kept hidden. The part that longs for a partner in life. Someone to stand by my side and walk with me so I’m not alone. I had accepted years ago that this was not ever going to happen. That good friends and my parents were the only connections I would ever have.
But Wyatt James is unraveling that belief with everything he says and does.
He’s bringing to life parts of my being that I thought didn’t exist.
He's making me want things I never imagined wanting.
Arousal. Passion. Love.
Just as the second wave of a tsunami is often more forceful than the first, the second wave of realization hits me harder.
Wyatt may be awakening many dormant aspects of my heart and my personality, but he won’t be around long enough to do anything about that. Not to mention, aside from the kiss to my forehead last night, I have no verifiable evidence that he would be open to engaging in some sort of an intimate relationship with me.
For all I know, the flirtatious nature he sometimes displays in my presence is par for the course for him. I am unlikely to be anything special, regardless of what he said when he left me last night.
Then again, I have no way of determining his thoughts or intentions without outright asking, or simply acting on my own thoughts and desires. That is a thought-provoking observation, but not one I can act on at this present moment. Right now, my priority must be on the situation in front of me. Raising my hands in a placating gesture, I look from one pompous ass to the other.
“Mr. Morgan, Mick, I assure you that I feel confident tomorrow will be a success. I have, as you can see from the contract, done everything that was requested of me. Now if we are done here, I would like to finish cleaning, so that I can go home for the evening. We’ll reconvene tomorrow for the signing.”
I can see out of the corner of my eye that Wyatt’s face is filled with what I can only describe as admiration when I finish talking. Mick obviously has some modicum of decency given the chastised expression he bears; Jeffrey Morgan is a lost cause, I suspect, as he continues to look around the store with contempt.
Thankfully, they take my pointed suggestion and leave.
“Thank you for your support with them. I must admit, I am glad you were here.”
