He sighed and stuck out his hand. They were so close he had to keep his elbow tucked into his side to do it. “Hi. My name is Nick. Nick Sullivan. I’m a narrator of Romance. Nice to meet you. And you are?”
She looked at his hand, that hand that had been places. She swallowed and took the bait. “Sewanee Chester.”
He gently shook her hand. He didn’t let go. “I’m sure the answer’s no, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t at least offer to make good on our date tonight. Would you like some food? A Last Word?”
She chuckled softly. “As wonderful as that sounds . . .”
He patted her hand with his other one. “I get it. It’s been . . . a night.”
She nodded. “I need some time.”
Nick let go and held his hand up. “Absolutely. Text me when you’re ready to talk.”
There was no if in his statement. As far as Nick was concerned, this was a humorous bump in the road.
So what was her problem? Yes, she was hollow and spent and completely flummoxed, but why did she feel like she was missing something key? She had the feeling of being confused without knowing the source of her confusion. Like trying to find her car in a parking garage and cycling through the possible scenarios: Was it stolen? Was it towed? Was she on the wrong floor? Did she even drive that night?
She tentatively smiled and stepped back. She gave him a little wave, which he reciprocated, and she turned around, walking back into Seasons.
“WHY WERE YOU in Las Vegas?”
She hadn’t been gone as long this time, so she caught Nick as he was leaving the garden, scrolling the phone in his hand.
He startled and then laughed. “Is this a bit? Are you doing a bit?” But he must have seen the suspicion on her face because he sobered. “For the convention.”
“Why?”
“June had been scheduled to be there and when she . . . when she died, her publisher–of her backlist–they wanted to turn it into a memorial, of sorts. It seemed like the right thing to do for her fans. They could stop by, pay their respects, get a limited-edition postcard of her original covers.” He added, “She was like a mum to me.”
“But out of all the hotels, why were you staying at the Venetian?”
“June had booked the room. Because of Casanova. A poor man’s research trip.”
It was almost too plausible. Why didn’t she trust this? Any of this?
“Were you at the convention as Brock McNight?”
He looked horrified. “Christ, no! I don’t do anything as Brock McNight.”
“So, you didn’t know I was there?”
He blinked at her. “I didn’t know who you were, how could I know you were there?”
“I mean,” Sewanee said, starting to gather a full head of steam, but not understanding precisely why, “you didn’t see me hosting a panel on audiobooks, manning an audiobook booth?”
He looked more bewildered. “No! Emphatically no. I couldn’t care less about audiobooks! Sewanee . . . I don’t know you. I don’t even know how to spell your gorgeous name.”
“You’ve never heard of the narrator with the eye patch?”
“For feck’s sake, no!” She could see he was trying to figure her out. Like maybe if he looked at her hard enough her head might crack open and he could take a peek inside. “Why are you doubting that I didn’t know who you were?”
She shook her head. “You expect me to believe, you honestly, that you randomly . . .” She took a ragged sigh. She didn’t want to start crying again.
“What?” He reached for her, but she decisively pulled away from him.
She found her voice. Steeled it. “Why’d you come up to me in that bar?”
“Why that bar?”
“No. Why me?”
She watched his face change. It went slack. For the first time tonight, he finally looked as gutted as she felt. “Oh. Yes, okay. It’s not . . . it’s so daft.”
“You thought I’d be easy?”
“What? No–”
“That the girl with the eye patch would be grateful?”
Nick’s eyes shuddered closed and his hand clutched his chest. “No. You’re breaking my heart right now. How can you think that about yourself?”
Sewanee answered, simply, “Because I’ve had pity pickups before.”
“That is not what it was. Not at all. My God.”
“Then what?” He didn’t have a quick comeback. “Nick?”