Page 156 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

“What’s the problem?” Orton protested when I roasted him about it. “I can try out a legit business sideline. It’s called diversification. You should look into it.”

Edie and I sometimes suspect it’s about more than simple diversification. We’ve had dinner parties where Orton and Mary seem to get lost in their own little world of conversation. They excitedly agree on the most random subjects, too. Who knows what will happen, but with Orton as an investor, they definitely won’t be selling any ring-shaped cookies.

Edie is finishing up work on her degree, and she’s writing a proposal for her young adult nonfiction book on Anastasia Laskarina. She wakes up some mornings bursting with new ideas for it. Sometimes, we’ll be in the middle of a meal or sitting in the jacuzzi or walking somewhere, and she’ll get an idea and start scribbling furiously in the little notebook she carries around.

She stands back. “So far so good.”

I hand her a drink. “So good.”

We continue on, debating how the arrangement would work best. In the end, we decide to make distinctions between classicand contemporary works, genre fiction and literary fiction, business nonfiction and general nonfiction, and historical books.

It’s nice. It’s not about just looking better, though it does, but this place is mine. This life is mine. Edie is mine. I pull her into my arms for a kiss.

“What?” She’s laughing.

“You.”

She wriggles away, still laughing. “I was thinking about adding an ‘up next’ section where we identify books we might want to read next. For convenience. For grab and go.”

“When I’m in the mood to grab and go, I’m not thinking about books.”

“You are the worst,” she says. “They’re your shelves. You want a grab-and-go section right here?”

“Nearest to the door. I like that.”

There is a twinkle in her eye. She goes over and picks up the fake book shells. “And these? Where should we put these? I know they’re your favorite.”

I go to her and take them from her hand, tossing them aside. “You’re not going to let me ever forget about these, are you?”

“How could I? Of all your many horrible crimes—” She picks up her glass and takes a sip. “Mmm.”

“All my many horrible crimes.” I go to her. “Tell me again what you think about criminals.”

She gives me her mischievous smile.

“Tell me.”

She slams back her raki drink and hands me the glass. “I love one of them very much.”

Some months later….

The setting sun paints the horizon in stripes of amber and rose, casting a golden glow across our weathered porch. I curl my legs beneath me in the Adirondack chair, listening to the rhythm of waves against the shore. The breeze carries the scent of salt and late summer flowers from my garden. Perfect evening doesn’t begin to describe it.

Luka hands me a glass of wine, his fingers lingering against mine. He settles into the chair beside me, propping his feet on the railing. The champagne bottle chills in a bucket between us.

“To my favorite historian,” he says, clinking his glass against mine. “Columbia University Press. Not bad.”

“I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “I still can’t believe they accepted my proposal. A whole series about Anastasia Laskarina.”

“I can,” Luka says with that quiet confidence that still makes my heart skip. “They’d be idiots not to.”

The letter arrived this morning – my book proposal accepted, with a contract for two more volumes if the first performs well. I’ve been floating all day, caught between disbelief and elation.

“They loved the angle about female historians being erasedfrom history,” I tell him, still processing it myself. “And the teen audience focus.”

Luka stretches, that predatory grace never leaving him even in repose. “I may have been wrong about your princess,” he admits grudgingly.

I gasp in mock shock. “The great Luka Zogaj, admitting he was wrong? Should I call the papers?”

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