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July 1, Monday
“Josephine Vanguard?”
I turned to see a gray-haired man smiling through the open window of a shiny blue sedan.
“Yes.”
“I’m Bill, your driver.”
I doubled-checked the ride share app to make sure the model of the car matched up, then rolled my bulging suitcase toward the car. I was sweating profusely in a pungent humidity I hadn’t known existed and was coming to the conclusion I’d packed poorly for my journey. Overhead an airplane was taking off to parts unknown and I suddenly wished I was on it.
Because I was beginning to think I’d made a gigantic mistake.
Bill jumped out to wrestle my luggage into the trunk of his car that was crowded with an odd assortment of yard tools. Proof, I assumed, that in the new gig economy, people were cobbling together all kinds of jobs.
I climbed into the back seat, still pinging with apprehension. My flight had been delayed and I’d missed my connection in Atlanta, so it felt as if even the universe was doubting my decision. As dusk descended, my energy and confidence were sagging.
The driver slid behind the wheel, then adjusted the rear-view mirror until he could see me. “First time in Birmingham?”
I dabbed at my hairline. “Yes.”
“Where you from?”
Hadn’t I noted in my app profile that I preferred “limited conversation”? “Um… all over.”
“I don’t get many calls to drive to Irving. You got family there?”
“Um, no.”
“Vacation?”
“Not really.” I reached for my purse to rummage for ear buds, hoping to curb his string of questions, but I couldn’t find them.
“Vanguard… your name sure sounds familiar.”
I froze.
“Are you famous or something?”
I shifted in my seat. “How long will it take to get to Irving?”
“An hour, give or take. That’s a pretty rural area and you never know when you’re gonna get behind a tractor or someone on horseback. And it’ll be dark when we get there, so that’ll slow me down.”
I held up the notebook I managed to find. “Pardon me, but I need to work.”
His mouth morphed into a frown. “Got it.”
I ignored his wounded look and opened my blank notebook. It wasn’t a lie—I did need to work. I was months behind on delivering the next book in a historical romance series that had been unexpectedly popular. My writing had been interrupted by the romantic drama of my own life.
Anxiety squeezed my chest, and I closed my eyes to keep it at bay. Over the past few months I’d learned to box breathe, meditate to binaural beats, take warm baths, do cold plunges, and a host of other techniques to deal with the stress, all with limited success. I suspected because the events had been self-inflicted, my conscious wasn’t ready to let me off the hook.
A few minutes into the trip, I glanced up to see the driver staring at me. He quickly averted his gaze. From my vantage point I could see his phone mounted on the dash of his car. On the glowing screen was my author headshot and the covers of some of my racy books. He had Googled me, and no doubt had seen the salacious headlines.
Romance author falls for romance con man.
Romance novelist robbed of her happy ending.
Writer of bodice-rippers gets ripped off by fiancé.
