Cassidy Lane (7 page)

“I’m guessing that’s
about all you can say about it?”

He smiled. “Exactly.
Sorry to be so secretive. Sort of comes with the territory.”

The bartender set
their margaritas in front of them, and Brandon handed Cassidy’s drink to her. Again, she was impressed by his manners.

“Welcome to New
York. I hope your secret mission was a success.” She held up her margarita for a toast.

“It’s nice to
be here.” He clinked his glass against hers. “To old friends who never actually knew each other.”

She sipped her
drink. “High school’s strange that way, isn’t it? I knew who you were, of course, but I don’t think we ever met.”

He nodded. “We
met.”

“We did? When?”

“Senior year I
went to a party at Krista Nelson’s house. You were there.”

“You did? I
was?”

He nodded again.
“We talked for a minute or two, but then you took off.”

She raised her
eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. You
bolted like your hair was on fire. I may not have been the best student, but I have a really good memory.”

“Then you’re the
exact opposite of me. We’d probably crush it on a game show.”

He laughed. “Talking
to you is a refreshing change from the deadly serious types I deal with at work all day long. One of the attorneys at my firm has been there for four years and I’ve never seen him crack a smile, much less a joke.”

“Well, even though
it was twenty years ago, I’m sorry I ditched you at that party. Will you accept an extremely belated apology?” She certainly hoped she hadn’t been rude. Knowing her, she’d probably bailed on their conversation because she got flustered, fretted briefly about how awkward and nervous she got around boys in social situations, then blocked out the entire experience and gone about her business getting straight As at school.

But still, how
could she have done that to a boy who would one day grow up to look like the man sitting across from her now? She silently kicked her teenage self.

He winked at
her. “It took a few therapy sessions, but I think I’m over it now.”

She felt her
cheeks flush. “I know I was on the timid side back then, but sometimes I also wonder if people thought I was a bit of a snob because I didn’t know I needed glasses.”

“What do you
mean?”

“Krista once told
me she thought I was rude because I never waved back at her from afar on campus, but then we realized that it was because I couldn’t even see her. I got contact lenses soon after that.”

“I wouldn’t worry
about it. You’re clearly not rude. Famous, maybe, but definitely not rude.”

“I’m hardly famous.”

“You’re a little
famous.” He half smiled, and it was all she could do to keep herself from staring at his lips.

“What about you?
What were you like in high school?” She tried to maintain her focus on the conversation.

“Me? I was
clueless
. That pretty much sums it up.”

She smiled. “I
doubt that.”

“I wasn’t a
jackass or anything, just a typical teenage guy. Too much gel in my hair, too little time spent on my homework, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds like my
brother. He put way more effort into his after-school activities than school itself. Total social butterfly, even joined the prom committee. My mom used to joke that she’d felt him fluttering in the womb.”

“Who did you
go to our prom with?” Brandon asked.

The question caught
her off guard, and she froze. “I, uh, I didn’t go to the prom.”

He looked surprised.
“Why not?”

She took a
sip of her margarita and forced a smile. “If you think about it, you can probably figure it out. But just as well—this way I’m assured no embarrassing photos of me in an awful taffeta dress with crimped hair will pop up on the Internet.” She cringed slightly. She was trying to act nonchalant about it, but she was mortified that her single biggest disappointment from high school had just been revealed.

Just then she
heard a beeping coming from her purse.
Oh frick
. She reached inside and pulled out her phone to silence the alarm. She was grateful for the interruption but not thrilled that another of her shortcomings was on display so soon into the evening.

“Important call?” Brandon
asked.

“Reminder alarm. I
told you my memory sucks.” She glanced at the display and saw
Send Dad birthday card!!
“I’m sorry about that.”

He gave her
a curious look, and she was afraid to know what he was thinking. She wracked her brain for something interesting to say, but before she could come up with anything he broke the silence.

“Do you like
being a writer?” he asked.

She raised her
eyebrows. “Honest answer?”

“Of course.”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes
no. I’m not sure how it is for other authors, but when I’m working on a book, I tend to suffer from low-grade anxiety throughout the entire process.”

“What do you
mean?”

She shifted on
her stool. “I mean that until I get some positive feedback from my editor, I’m usually secretly afraid that what I’ve spent months writing might in fact be terrible.”

He laughed. “Well,
for what it’s worth, I think you’re a very good writer. I enjoyed your books, and I’m not just saying that.”

“Thanks.” She briefly
cast her eyes downward before looking up and adding, “It’s actually worth a lot to hear that—when I’m huddled in front of a computer screen by myself, it’s easy for me to lose sight of the fact that I’m creating something I hope real people out there will enjoy.”

“I know I’m
not the target audience, but I found them quite entertaining. I mostly read nonfiction, so it’s fun to get lost in a novel once in a while, especially ones with characters worth rooting for. It’s nice to see good people win, especially when it comes to romance.”

When he said
the word
romance
, she flinched. She wanted to be honest with him about her writing, but the truth was that the romance in her books helped fill a void in her own love life, and that wasn’t information she felt like sharing. After revealing the dating desert that had been high school, she hardly wanted to draw more attention to her personal life by confessing her pattern of literary wish fulfillment—much less the reasons behind it.

Perhaps sensing he’d
struck a nerve, Brandon changed the subject. “You worked in advertising before you became a writer?”

She gave him
a curious look.

He smiled. “It
was on your website.”

She felt her
neck get warm. He’d read the bio on her website. He’d read all her books. He knew way more about her than she knew about him. All she knew about him was that he was a lawyer, and that he was divorced.

And that he
was nice.

And funny.

And interesting.

And gorgeous.

He’s so gorgeous.

She sipped her
margarita and prayed he couldn’t read her mind. “I wrote my first two novels while I was still working, but eventually I quit my job to focus full-time on writing.”

“And it wasn’t
easy. Took a few years to get published, right?”

She smiled, the
tequila beginning to calm her nerves. “
Also
in my bio. I see you did your homework.”

“I always do
my homework, at least now I do. As I mentioned, high school was another story. But back to you: I can’t imagine writing an entire book; that’s so impressive.”

She shrugged. “Impressive
is relative. I can’t sing, and I draw stick people. I can barely keep myself alive in the deep end of a swimming pool, and I rarely remember what I ate for breakfast. The thought of arguing in court makes me want to throw up, and don’t even get me started on the being a surgeon thing because I
have
fainted at the sight of blood. Should I go on?”

He laughed. “I’m
serious. Writing an entire book is a huge accomplishment. How do you do it?”

“You mean how
do I come up with the ideas? Or how do I make myself sit down to write that many pages?”

“Both.”

She felt herself
relax more as the conversation moved into territory she was comfortable discussing. “Well, to be honest, coming up with the initial idea is the hardest part, and I’m still not sure how that happens. It just…does. But before I get to that point, I always go through a bit of a freak-out period when I think I’ll never come up with anything ever again and that I’m going to end up on the street, starving to death.”

He raised an
eyebrow. “Starving to death?”

“OK, it probably
won’t come to that, but you get the picture. Anyhow, I always worry for a while, but then eventually something occurs to me, and I think,
I could write a book about that
. And after that it’s just a matter of sitting down at the computer every day and seeing what happens.”

“You make it
sound so easy.”

“I’m serious. That’s
how it works. Although this time
around…
” Her voice trailed off.

“This time around
what?”

She wondered how
much to share, then decided to be forthright. “Well, this time around, as usual, the plot is unfolding in my head, but…it’s not exactly unfolding the way I expected it to.”
Or wanted it to.

“Is that a
bad thing?”

She took a
sip of her margarita. “Well, I thought it would have a happy ending, because as you know, all my books have happy endings, but now I’m not so sure. Now I’m thinking maybe this one should end with something a bit more…realistic.”

“And you’re afraid
your readers won’t like that?”

“Yes…
and…”

“And what?”

She considered just
telling him the truth, that she wanted to write a happy ending for
herself
. There was something about the way he was looking at her that told her he wouldn’t think any less of her for the admission. But then a completely separate thought came to her, a detail for a scene she’d been struggling with earlier that day. She held up a finger and reached for her purse. “I’m sorry, something just occurred to me for the chapter I’m working on right now.” She fumbled around inside her bag and pulled out a small pack of sticky notes. “If I don’t write it down, I’ll never remember it.”

He laughed. “You
weren’t kidding about that memory.”

“It’s really quite
tragic. Hang on a sec.” She jotted down a quick sentence, then tossed the sticky notes back into her purse. “I need to use every trick in the book, no pun intended.”

He picked up
his glass. “Give yourself some credit. Memory tricks are one thing, but there’s also something to be said for a little thing called talent. I know a lot of people who talk about writing a book, but you’re the only person I know who’s ever actually
done
it.”

“Thanks.” She couldn’t
help but think how different Brandon was from buttoned-up Dean, an ambitious banker who had always made her feel a little irresponsible for having abandoned the security of her advertising job to pursue a living as an author. On the list of risky career choices,
novelist
had to be close to the top.

“What’s the hardest
part of the writing process?” Brandon asked.

She pushed a
few strands of hair out of her eyes. “Again, I’m not sure how it is for other writers, but I always find that getting started is the hardest. Developing the characters, making them believable and sympathetic—or not—is challenging. But once I have that down, the characters begin to tell
me
the story, and then I sort of just listen to what they have to say.”

“How do you
get the ideas for the characters? Are they all based on people you know?”

“Some are, but
some are completely made up. I’ve actually come up with a fun game to create them, or at least a way to generate some ideas for them.”

He raised his
eyebrows. “A game?”

She explained how
the character game worked, then glanced over his shoulder and lowered her voice to a near whisper. “See that woman sitting alone over there?”

“Can I look
without totally busting us?”

“Yes.” She laughed
and noted his discretion—more points in his favor.

He stole a
quick peek at the woman, then turned back to Cassidy and smiled. “OK, now what?” His gray eyes were poking holes in her resolve not to get nervous around him, but she did her best to stay composed.

“What’s her name?”
Cassidy asked him.

He pointed to
himself. “You want me to name her?”

“Yep. What’s her
name?”

“OK…
Amanda. No, Audrey.”

“Audrey what?”

“Audrey…
Winston.”

Cassidy nodded. “Audrey
Winston, got it. Where’s she from?”

“Um…
Alabama.”

“Nice. What does
she do?”

“I say…
lead dancer in a Broadway musical.”

Cassidy smiled. “You’re
already good at this. OK, what makes her angry?”