Page 69 of About that Fling
“No, ma’am. I’m not really taking on any new clients right now.”
Adam glanced up at the top shelf and realized for the first time that it held an assortment of sex lubes and prophylactics. What the hell had she been reaching for?
“I don’t necessarily need to hire you,” she said, brushing her snowy-white hair from her face. “Just ask you a few questions, that’s all. Do you know much about publishing law?”
“I actually specialized in literary contracts my first couple years out of law school, but like I said, I’m not really practicing anymore. My license isn’t even active right now. I’d be happy to refer you to someone who could help.”
“Oh, dear, I was hoping for something a little more informal. Like maybe a casual conversation over a homemade dinner. Pot roast and roasted root veggies and green salad and homemade apple pie?”
Adam’s mouth started to water, and he urged himself not to be tempted. Something seemed off here, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Something besides the fact that this little old lady was inviting a strange man back to her home.
“Ma’am, how do you know I’m not a serial killer?”
“How do you know I’m not one?”
“Good point.”
She touched his elbow. “It’s your T-shirt, dear. Cornell University Law. You seem like an educated man, and serial killers don’t buy things like fresh carrots and potatoes.”
“That is some of the oddest logic I’ve ever heard in my life.” He smiled so she wouldn’t take offense.
“Well, besides that, I’ve taken self-defense training, and I live with my niece, who’s an excellent shot. Please, dear—won’t you come to dinner?”
“You mean right now?”
She nodded, looking earnest. “I put the roast in the Crock-Pot earlier this morning.”
“But I don’t even know your name.”
“Gigi,” she said, smiling up at him. “Gigi Buckingham.”
“Adam Thomas,” he said, sticking his hand out for her to shake.
She beamed up at him with a look that told him he was still missing something here.
Even so, he turned and followed her out of the store.
“So let me get this straight,” Adam said, taking a sip of the chamomile tea Gigi had poured him in a delicate blue china cup. “You’re concerned about having your pseudonym compromised and you want to keep your identity from being exposed, or you’re looking for the smartest way to capitalize on the fact that those things are about to happen?”
Gigi smiled and set a small plate of cookies in front of him. They looked homemade, and she’d lined the plate with a lacy white doily. The smell of pot roast hung fragrant in the air, mingled with the scent of potpourri scattered in crystal bowls around the living room. A basket of yarn and needles completed the picture of domestic bliss, but it was a contrast to the laptop sitting beside it.
She’d opened the Amazon page for one of her novels, and a book cover emblazoned with two mostly nude figures twisted together in a pose that made Adam’s thighs ache.
He looked away, trying to focus on the woman who’d kicked off this whole conversation by offering him tips for cooking a moist pot roast. He felt a twinge of sadness as he thought about his grandmother. How long since he’d seen her? His sister had moved to Seattle six years ago, securing a spot for Nana at one of the nation’s top Alzheimer care units. Adam had visited plenty in the early years, but once Nana forgot who he was, the visits had become less frequent.
Three months or more, that’s how long it had been. He needed to get up there, especially now that he was here on the West Coast. He could make a weekend of it, drive up to see Beth and Nana and Gramps.
“The thing is, I’m not opposed to making the most of my career,” Gigi said, and Adam drew his attention back to the woman offering him a gingersnap. “This new book has been more successful than I ever imagined, and there are two more coming.”
“The Panty Dropper series, I’ve heard of it,” Adam said, not sure if it was okay to admit that. “So what I’m hearing you say is that you don’t really mind if your pseudonym is compromised. That you’re okay with people knowing who you are?”
“I don’t mind so much. It’s just that?—”
The front door burst open, and Adam turned to face the gust of wind blowing in from outside. The cookie he’d been nibbling dropped from his fingers, bouncing off his knee and onto Gigi’s spotless rug.
“Jenna?”
She stood there blinking as her purse fell to the ground with a thud. “Adam?” She blinked harder as though hoping he might vanish if she just waited long enough. “What the hell are you doing here?”
