He could pass for thirty-five, but I know for a fact he’s forty-seven, forty-eight in November.
For someone who’s never met the man, I know an awful lot about him. Height: six four. Weight: two hundred and thirty pounds. Eyes: Hazel. Hair: Brown with gray flecks.
But those are just stats, and they barely cover the angle of his chiseled jaw or the dimensions of his biceps.
He played college football before dropping out to pursue his writing career once his first novel was published. Since then he has become one of the best known and widely published authors of our time.
Single and deliberately aloof with the press as well as fans, he lives a solitary life and until recently has shunned all publicity.
It was only when his latest series of crime thrillers drew criticism for the lead character feeling lonely, looking for love that he publicly hit back at the press with an open letter on his website.
It hasn’t harmed his book sales either, in fact, it’s only now I actually read his books instead of just drooling over the photos of him on the back cover.
More people than ever it seems are reading and enjoying Nathan Cartwright’s books. But it begs the question: Is it just for sales, or is there an element of art imitating life in his latest works?
That’s one thing he’s requested the press not to ask him, but he’s hinted he might cover the topic in this weekend’s book convention where he’s a guest speaker.
I could stand and look at him all day, but the surge of people towards the entrance is nudging me naturally forward, his smoldering come hitcher look only adding to the effect of being drawn closer to him as I step inside.
There are a couple of friendly but serious-looking guys in suits looking ready to keep order should anyone get out of hand.
Not the flashiest hotel in the world, a quaint relic from days gone by when sweeping wooden staircases and domed ceiling ballrooms were the standard fare.
Today it’s conventions and events like this weekend that keep this one going, I’m assuming.
It’s certainly not the wallpaper or carpet bringing the clients in.
I figure Nathan Cartwright wouldn’t stay here either, just gonna drop in do his bit and leave, I guess.
There’s a huge notice board with a ton of events, most of which start tomorrow but there are loads of stuff happening already, with the author or event listed next to the location in the huge, ancient hotel.
I make my way to the reception, choosing the left side of the two available at the tall polished counter. There’s another guy already being seen to my right, murmuring in a strained but low voice to the clerk.
I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but there’s something about the tone of his voice that’s arresting, not to mention his cologne.
Glancing over at first, my heart skips, and then I find myself plain old staring at the man.
He’s tall, well-built but nondescript, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. His overcoat seems out of place on a warm day but it’s that cologne that has me.
Or is it something else?
There’s just something about the man.
A presence. An aura I guess some people would call it.
Whatever it is, I like it. A lot, and I chide myself for feeling this way about another older man on the same day.
What about Nathan Cartwright? I tease myself. He might get jealous.
Before I can form a second thought, the other clerk is facing me, forcing a smile as he glances over at the stranger and asks me if I’d like to move down the counter a little. “This computer is better,” he lies, motioning towards the screen in front of him.
I shrug and shimmy down, but damn if there isn’t something about that guy.
“I’m Lucy Scarborough,” I announce, not able to hide my excitement at being here now.
“I have a room booked. A double, with-” I start to tell him and he glances over at the stranger again before his face falls further.
“Uh, sorry. Did you say, Scarborough?” he asks swallowing, looking like he’s just pulled the short straw on a double-dare challenge.
“Yep, that’s me,” I chime, already sensing something is wrong. Horribly wrong too. Like ruining everything wrong.
“Ms. Baxter. Uh, Marie? She left this for you,” the clerk clips, sliding a plain envelope towards me, and without a second glance, he moves swiftly over to the next person.
It’s a dismissive move and one I sense has a tone of finality about it.
The stranger raises his voice as I feel my hands start to tremble as I tear open the envelope.
There’s thick paper, almost card-like inside, and a crisp pair of hundred dollar bills flutter out, resting between my feet on the floor.
But it’s the words written on the note, not the money that has my full attention, even as the man next to me grows louder.