CK

To: CollinKell59@ztindustries.corp

From: tabtomcat@tthompsoninc.gm

Subject: Thinking of me the entire time?

Collin, dear God, please don’t—I don’t want you thinking of me AT ALL, let alone the entire time you’re reading my book. Alright. You’ve worn me down. Since the book is valuable to me, I agree to meet you Thursday. But just so you know, it’s under EXTREME duress. Tabitha

Collin: TE Thomas, I will see you Thursday.

If a glower could kill, I would be a dead man.

We’re sitting across from each other at a booth at Finches Tap, a slightly grimy sports bar in a rougher part of town, but what Finches lacks in cleanliness it makes up for in atmosphere.

Dimly lit leather booths line the walls, loud music masks chatter from surrounding patrons, and beer is served ice cold. The wait staff is experienced and knows when to disappear.

Like now.

Left alone to our own devices in the seclusion of our giant corner booth, Tabitha and I each have our arms crossed defensively, regarding each other across the marred tabletop like the worthiest adversaries, spoiling for a showdown. Under the hazy overhead light and flickering candle in front of us, Tabitha’s glossy lips gleam as her eyes do their best to spear me into silence.

Unsuccessfully, I might add.

I refuse to let her spoil my good mood.

“You know what my favorite part of your whole book was—besides the part where Rachel finally loses her virginity? This part here.” I poke the open page with my forefinger and slide the book nearer to Tabitha across the table. “This part here, where she asks Devon to be her love coach.” I lower my voice to a whisper, conspiratorially. “Did you know by love, Rachel actually means…” I look to my left, then to my right, acting covertly like I don’t want anyone to overhear me. “Sex?”

I do my best to sound appalled.

“I am well aware.” Tabitha glares at me from across the booth, holding her hand out, palm up. She’s not smiling, but her gorgeous eyes dance with mischief. “Are you done having fun at my expense?” She wiggles her fingers. “Please hand it over.”

“Whoa there, grabby hands.” I tsk and wriggle my index finger at her, hesitating to hand her book over. “Just hold your horses a minute. I’d like to read out loud from it first, if you don’t mind.”

“Actually, I do mind.”

“Yeah, but the part where he takes her to his family picnic, and they almost kiss behind the shed? Brilliant sexual tension. Now, drawing your attention to chapter ten—”

“I know what chapter ten says, you ass.” Her hand flies across the booth to deftly snatch her novel out of my evil clutches, and defensively she cradles the book to her chest like a newborn baby.

I watch as she relaxes and begins fanning out the pages, thoroughly examining them for damage. Her lithe fingers run over the cover, stroking it like the paperback is actually precious cargo.

What a weirdo.

“What the hell are you inspecting it for?”

“You dog-eared the pages!” She accuses me with another pissed-off scowl, her blue eyes squinting at me. Opening a black messenger bag, she carefully digs through it, clears a spot, and strategically places the book inside. “Why would you do that?”

“You wrote in it!” I pick up a menu that’s lying in the center of the table and give her a carefree shrug. “Besides, I didn’t have a bookmark.”

“You read it?” She gasps, horrified. “You read my romance novel?”

“Well, yeah. I like to read, so…” I shrug my broad shoulders again, defensively. “It’s not a big deal.”

“But it’s my proof copy! I mean, the author’s copy. For editing,” she screeches. The woman in the next booth shushes us. Frustrated, Tabitha lowers her voice. “You don’t just read a proof copy.”

“You were reading it,” I point out, grabbing a hunk of bread out of the communal bread basket, then peeling the tabs back on two tiny pats of butter. I spread them on before shoving the hunk in my mouth, chewing slowly.

“But it’s mine. I—” Tabitha clamps her mouth shut.

I swallow before responding. “Wrote it? Yeah, I know.” Her mouth falls open. “And you don’t trust me with it.”

“Look, we could sit here all night—”

“Excellent.” I lay down the butter knife and sit back, crossing my arms. Noticing with satisfaction, her eyes follow my movements, up the length of my ripped arms, landing on the hard muscles of my biceps.

I flex.

She rolls her eyes.

“Jeez, would you knock it off? I’m not falling for that.” Tabitha gives her head an agitated shake, her silky blonde hair floating around her shoulders in waves. “And stop trying to bait me into an argument.”

“Bait you? Bait you? What the…” Realization sets in. “Ahhhh, a slutty romance book word. I like it.”

Her forehead lands with a thud onto the tabletop. She lets out a loud, tortured groan. “Oh my god.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” I soothe. “It’s a really good book. Sort of.” I lift the menu, scanning the appetizers. “I mean, it’s not winning any Pulitzer Prizes for literature, but I did particularly like the part where Rachel finally loses her virginity. It took long enough though—more than halfway into the book? Come on, Rachel, show some hustle.”

“We are not having this conversation.”

She’s so cute.

“Look, all I’m saying is, Rachel could have shown more sense of urgency. Wasn’t the whole point of the book for her to get laid?”

Tabitha lifts her head and wrinkles her nose—her adorable, pert little nose. “No, that wasn’t the point of the book, and you do not get to give feedback on the plot. It’s bad enough that you know I wrote it. I don’t even know how you knew.”

“Seriously, Tab? I would think that was pretty obvious. I mean, your pen name is basically your name, so…”

“It is not!”

“Tabitha Elizabeth Thompson. TE Thomas? Really? What kind of a moron do you think I am?”

“No one is supposed to know.” She says it in such a small voice I have to strain to hear her across the noisy din of Finches.

“What do you mean no one is supposed to know? Does your family know?” I lay my palms flat on the table. “It’s awesome that you wrote a book. Tabitha—you wrote a book.”

She’s silent, so I continue. “Help me understand why someone beautiful, intelligent, and so obviously clever would hide the fact that she wrote a novel. Why won’t you tell people?”

She hides her face in her palms and mumbles, “Because. It’s embarrassing.”

As if that explains everything.

“What is?”

She sits up straighter then and blows out a frustrated little puff of air, causing delicate wisps of light blonde hair to float around her face. She tilts her head back, and it hits the red leather back of the booth. After staring at the ceiling for a few heartbeats, Tabitha raises her head and looks me directly in the eye. “If I hadn’t written a romance, I would probably tell people. Maybe if the book wasn’t as explicit as it is. But I don’t want my parents to know I wrote something so…”

Her hands come up and do this little lilty thing in the air that girls do when they can’t find the right words to finish a sentence.

I decide to help her out. “Porn-ish?”

“No! It’s not porn, it’s…” Again with the hand waves.