Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

"In any case, it turned out she wasn't my type." He shrugged, flicked at his fingernails with his thumb, and then ran his hand through his hair.

I was inexplicably tempted to fluff it the way his ex-girlfriend ha

d once. I refrained.

"So, in addition to your charming tale, I read your byline, too," he continued. "Unless you write under a pseudonym, your real name is not Lily."

"Hm, well, yeah--that's correct. The byline is accurate, not the character name," I admitted. "But, who are you? I mean, who even reads Midwest Fiction Forum?" I waited and tried to project nonchalance although, by now, I was far from indifferent.

He glared at me when I asked this, his eyes awash with a series of emotions--none of them positive. "How could you?" he exploded. "Seriously. How could you name me 'Neil,' of all names?" Then he crossed his arms with very believable indignation. "When I think of Neil, I think: Diamond. Sedaka. Young. I am not some ancient, semi-musical has-been who--"

"You don't like Neil Diamond?"

"That's beside the point. Listen, I have a chunky Uncle Neil, who's really annoying. And my parents go to another Neil, their bald accountant, every year for their taxes. I do not look like a Neil!" He underscored this statement by banging his fist against the armrest.

"Okay. You're right, you're right. It--it was a hasty, ill-considered choice." I gripped my pen and noticed a few people staring at us from across the aisle in Travel & Vacation Guides. At the moment, I wanted to get away, too.

He studied my face carefully, then exhaled--a stream of hot air, no doubt. A beat later he thrust his hand out at me. I debated whether or not to shake it, but curiosity won out. It was a warm hand with a good grip and enough roughness to remind me that he was a man. A pretty strong man, actually. How did he get those calluses on his fingers? Weight lifting? Carpentry? Playing guitar? I debated the possibilities.

"I'm Art Cavendish--Artie to my friends--originally from St. Paul, Minnesota. Never been to Ipswich, Massachusetts, in my life, by the way, and I'm not preppy." His eyes flicked up to the ceiling and down to my face. "And if you use me as the basis for a character again--and I mean ever--I do not want some lame-ass name. Rick isn't bad. Something solid sounding like Steve or Brad is okay, but definitely not Neil, and none of those English names like Ian or Graham either. Or names with a y in the middle of them like Kyle or Daryl. Got it?"

"Uh, yeah. No problem," I said. "I'll remember your preferences."

Then he flashed a grin at me, the intensity breaking its hold. For a second, he looked almost normal.

"So, okay," Artie said. "I've read a fair number of thrillers and some romantic suspense like your character, who shall remain nameless, but I'm revisiting the classics at the moment. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Sinclair Lewis. Some Oscar Wilde. And I've been watching Fellini flicks. 8 1/2 is my favorite."

He paused while I nodded my approval.

"I'm a set designer for a couple of small theaters in the city, and I've had an online subscription to Midwest Fiction Forum for about a year now. I do some scriptwriting, too." He gave me an arch look. "I'd gone to the bookstore that night trying to get ideas to flesh out a character--someone who might be one of those socialite, home-entertainment types--when I saw you. You sort of fit the profile, so I came closer. Thought I'd poke around, try to read what you were writing."

My jaw dropped open. Wide enough for a robin to fly in and nest awhile.

What?

He thought I was a Martha Stewart type? Me? The girl who lived in ratty jeans and old college sweatshirts? Whose idea of "holiday decorating" consisted of putting up a thin strip of icicle window clings? Who wouldn't know how to weave a dinner placemat or make a canape if her life and future family tree depended on it?

"Are you kidding?" I sputtered.

"Yes," he said, not bothering to disguise his amusement. "I'm just messing with you. You deserve it." Then he collapsed even deeper into his comfy armchair, scanned my entire body from top to bottom like an MRI, before finally refocusing on my face, his lips twitching. "You're pretty cute when you're flustered."

I couldn't help it. I laughed, genuinely surprised for the first time in a long time. I'd misread this guy. I'd gotten his real character wrong when I'd assessed him before--or, at least, it was grossly incomplete. He had an edginess to him that I liked but, right this second, he seemed almost relaxed and personable, with an offbeat sense of humor and a quick wit I hadn't attributed to him in my story. I couldn't deny that all of those qualities were as attractive to me as his hunky appearance. Possibly more so.

I picked up one of my blank white note cards and waved it like a flag. "Truce?"

"Maybe," he said, but he was grinning. "So, were you really working on an article last spring?"

"Yeah." I pointed to the books on the floor and to my notes. "I'm doing it again tonight. Halloween costumes this time." Despite our less than auspicious beginning, my radar registered something flattering: he might just be interested in me.

"Ah," Artie replied with a nod, running his fingers through his light, wavy hair--a signature tic, perhaps? I didn't know him well enough to be sure. "Perhaps I should let you get back to your work. You must have a lot more to do." He motioned toward the door but stayed seated, waiting. Waiting for me ... maybe?

"No, I'm done for tonight," I decided. "Wouldn't be able to work on more of this now anyway." I was conscious of eyeing him with interest, too, and of wanting to be utterly honest, even while I was flirting. "Having met you has put an end to my concentration for the day."

"Well, good. Glad I managed that at least." He laughed for a moment at my expense. "So, what are you gonna do instead?"

"I don't know." I looked toward the refreshment area. "Maybe get an espresso or a latte." Then, taking a chance--one that required more courage than I'd expected--I asked, "Want some?"

"Hell, no. Never touch that stuff." He brushed imaginary dust off the arm of the chair and granted me a dimply grin. "Caffeine makes me edgy."