Page 65 of Finding Amanda

After a slight grin, his eyes turned serious. "I didn't think flowers would be appropriate after . . . you know."

She swallowed. "Right. I appreciate that." He offered the wine as well, and she thanked him. "I know it's early,but I didn't want to be cooking while you were here, so dinner's almost ready."

"Excellent. I'm starving."

"Good. I made chicken saltimbocca."

He inhaled a deep breath. “I have no idea what that is, but it smells delicious."

From the top drawer, Amanda removed the corkscrew and handed it to Alan. "Would you do the honors?"

He took the small tool from her, their hands touching for a brief moment in the exchange. "My pleasure."

Amanda smiled to herself as she assembled their dinners. Chicken saltimbocca, a side of fettuccini Alfredo, and salad. Something was missing. Bread! Right. She pulled the foil-covered loaf from the lower oven, placed it in her favorite basket, and headed to the table. "Ready?"

Alan had been watching her prepare their meal, an amused look on his face. "It looks delicious."

As they ate, they kept the conversation light. Alan told her about the meeting he'd had that afternoon with his client, a writer of non-fiction motivational books aimed at sales and business people. "Nice guy," he said at one point. "But hanging out with him is like trying to look directly into the sun. All that optimism frayed my nerves."

Alan helped her clear the dishes. "Wow," he said, checking his watch. "Has an hour gone by already?"

She followed his gaze. Quarter past six. "Time flies and all that."

"Indeed."

Once the table was cleared, Amanda insisted they leave the dishes. She didn't have much time to spend with him, and she didn't want to waste another minute of it in the kitchen. "Let's sit in the living room."

"Would you give me a tour first? I'd love to see where you work."

"Sure." Amanda led the way down the hall to her office, flipped on the light, and stepped inside.

Alan whistled when he entered the room. "Nice place."

"Thanks."

"You know, whenever I visit an author's home, I always ask to see where they work. You've got it good here. I can't tell you how many people are writing at their kitchen tables. I have one client who sits on her bed with her laptop, hunched over, because she has a houseful of kids, and it's the only place she can get any peace and quiet."

"Yeah, I'm lucky." Mark had been very generous with her, building her the room and allowing her the time she needed to write.

Alan surveyed the bookshelves, ran his hand along the spines of a few of her favorites, pulling out a couple that had been pushed back a bit, so they were flush. His fingers trembled like they had at dinner the week before. Was he nervous around her?

Her desk was tidy, her laptop closed and sitting in the center. "You ever write by hand?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Nobody does anymore. I can't blame you, though. Handwritten pages are too easy to lose." He scanned the space. "Do you have a good backup system?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, the number of manuscripts that have been lost to power failures and flash drive glitches. How do you back up your work?"

Amanda walked around the front of her desk, shaking her head. "I guess you can take an editor out of an office?—"

"OCD," he said. "Just one of my many quirks."

Amanda found her external hard drive in the desk drawer and lifted it. "I backup everything onto this. And when I travel, I always take a thumb drive, just in case something happens to the computer."

Alan smiled. "Very good system. Do you keep hardcopies of your work?"

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