World famous author who also just happens to be quite possibly, the sexiest man alive.
Trying to distract my nerves with the menu, I see the prices more than makeup for the price of the rooms, I’m guessing. But Nathan doesn’t flinch and sensing my apprehension he orders for us both.
There’s the promise of dessert, but I’m not sure what to say.
Something in his eyes tells me he could mean dessert or that he could be dessert. It’s up to me somehow, and I’m not sure I know how to process that right now.
Like I said, I’m still in shock. Nathan Cartwright is someone I look up to for a lot of reasons.
And not just because he’s well over six feet, but because he’s a writer I respect.
And from what I’ve seen so far today, he’s a person I respect too.
“What brings you to the conference?” he asks me out of the blue, bringing me back to the here and now.
I could gush about how much of a fan of his work I am, but truth is, I’ve only read his last two books.
The one’s where his main character is looking for and eventually finds love.
I hesitate to answer, but he has more than just one question for me.
“Do you write or are you more a reader? Maybe both?” he asks, looking thoughtful as he surveys me again, humming to himself as he tries to decide.
“I’m studying Modern Literature and philosophy in college,” I hear myself say with as little pretense as possible. “But I’m no writer,” I confess.
He laughs to himself quietly. “That doesn’t answer my question,” he says, teasing me on purpose.
I look down again, then feel his hand over mine as he reaches across, making me jump a little but I don’t pull it back.
“Reader or writer?” he asks me again, giving my hand a little squeeze before taking it back, looking a little like he regrets reaching out for me like that.
I shouldn’t have flinched, but his hand is just so huge, not to mention that zap of energy I get just from being near him.
When he physically touches me? It’s like a direct current running through my whole body, short circuiting in a very special place inside me.
I feel my breath shudder as I try to speak, my hands trembling too now.
“I’ve tried writing a few times but it just never seems to come out the way I feel it should,” I finally tell him.
Hoping it takes the focus away from me looking like I rejected his hand.
If you give me that hand back, I promise I’ll never let go of it.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I hear myself stammer. “Writing I mean…”
And maybe how you just make me melt into a puddle every few minutes just by looking at me.
“There’s a lot going on behind the scenes,” he says, smiling. “A finished book is a team effort. A lot of eyes and red pen over everything before any of it gets printed,” he confides in me with a little wink. But I kinda knew that.
“Do you ever feel like your work is ever...” I start to ask, but he cuts me short.
“Never!” he laughs loudly, slapping his huge thigh.
“I fired my agent and my minions, but I’d be dead in the water without my publishers and editors. They do all the heavy lifting,” he says humbly.
“Is that what you’d tell anyone who asks the same at the convention?” I ask, remembering how some authors like to talk about anything but the publishing process.
Nathan’s thoughtful for a moment, cradling his chiseled jaw in his between his thumb and forefinger.
“I might,” he says a little ruefully before breaking out into a huge smile again. “Of course I would, it’s the truth isn’t it?” he asks me.
“Plus. There’s more to writing than publishing, and so much more to publishing than just writing,” he adds with another grin and a wink.
“You make it sound so easy though,” I protest, recalling the last few books of his I actually have read, knowing they were straight from his heart.
Even his publisher went on the record to say it was like working with a different writer.
The writer who might be looking for love in his own world, finally.
“Your last few books,” I tell him, a topic close to my own heart and the reason for his newfound success. “They focus your main character looking for love. Real love. I think that’s the sort of thing that can only come from the heart and soul of a real writer,” I venture.
“Or a hopeless romantic,” he counters dismissively with a wave of his hand. Until he notices my reaction.
Almost hurt he’d just brush it off.
“The characters in my stories, Lucy. They’re not real. This is real though.” He encourages me, his hand moving over towards mine again, and I’m determined not to let it go a second time.