Page 4 of Courtney
Max's brow furrows when he looks at me like I've got some impossible complex calculus equation floating by my head.
“What do you mean?”
What does he mean? What do I mean? I thought my question was pretty obvious.
“Your names are so close together. I just assumed that it could be confusing to some people.”
“Oh.” He visibly relaxes, and his shoulders loosen like he’s relieved.
I'm about to ask him what he thought I meant when the back door of the store flies open. In walks a woman in her mid-forties dressed in a designer suit and walking in a tipsy way that says she's already had a few cocktails. When we question her on it, she explains to us, "it's five o'clock somewhere.”
Max and I share an uneasy glance. He seems just as surprised as I am by this behavior.
“I think we might need that coffee,” he says, stepping forward and catching Maxine before she does a face plant in the carpet when her heel snags on the edge of the area rug.
“Whoa,” she laughs and then hiccups. “I did not see that there.”
Max gives me a pleading look to get the coffee, so I tell him I'll be back in five with something strong.
The crowd perks up when I walk out, only to all deflate in unison when they realize I'm not Maxine Devore, but the woman's whose job it is to get a drunk romance author some coffee to sober up a bit.
“Don’t worry,” I assure the crowd. “Maxine will be out here any moment. But she thanks you for your patience.”
A few people in the crowd mumble their annoyance, but for the most part, most of the people seem okay about having to wait a little bit longer. I can’t blame them. I’ve been on the other side of this scenario a few times, waiting for hours to get twenty seconds with my favorite author and maybe a picture if I’m lucky.
I don't work in a book store because I like working for minimum wage. It's the chance to be surrounded by books and their endless possibilities. I used to spend hours and hours as a kid with my nose in a book. Mostly to keep myself distracted from all the yelling happening downstairs by my parents. If fighting between spouses were an Olympic sport, my parents would have both been gold medal winners. They practically made it into an art form. Books were my only way of escaping the stresses and the noise that came with it.
I make my way through the crowd and head towards The Story Brew for a large black coffee for Maxine. I'm worried if I don't pump it into her arm intravenously, she may never sober up in time, and I'll have romance reader riot on my hands.
MAX
She’s drunk. The woman, hired locally by my publisher, just walked in the door nearly three sheets to the wind and is in no shape to do this signing.
I pull my phone from my back pocket and dial Daphne’s number. She picks up on the first ring.
“How’s everything going?” she asks without saying hello.
"Terrible." I glance over at the woman hired to play me, or rather Maxine. "The woman hired to play Maxine just showed up drunk."
There's silence on the other end of the line, and I think for a moment that the call must have dropped. I glance down at the screen but see the little timer still running.
“Daph?”
“I’m still here,” she says. “I’m thinking.”’
I’ve never known Daphne not to know what to do. She’s never without some idea to fix almost every situation, but apparently, I’ve stumped her today.
“Can we cancel?” I ask.
“No, it’s too late for that.”
We go back and forth, suggesting ideas on how to handle this situation, but we can't agree on the best way to resolve it.
“Here’s a crazy suggestion—”
“Don’t say it.”
“You could always walk out there and introduce yourself to your fans.”
