Page 51 of A Bookish Story

It’s as if he’s reading my mind and his gaze softens a bit. “Luci. You’re so kind. You are a lifesaver and I don’t deserve you at all.”

It’s my chance to make light and I chuckle, shimmying my shoulders. “Well, who really does?”

“Only a great man. The best man alive.” He holds his glass as if to salute this imaginary creature.

“When you meet him give him my number.” I wink and give him a little shoulder check.

There’s a slight quirk of his lips and then he downs the rest of his Scotch.

“Do you know how many times in my life I dreamed I’d have a book do this well? I lost count. And now that it’s happened, I can’t celebrate it.”

“Of course you can! They are your words.”

“They’re not words I wanted to write. Ironically, in a way neither one of us can.” He stares at the empty contents of his glass.

I see his point. For me, it’s a half-hearted celebration because it’s not my book. Not even my name, but the name of a fictitious person I’m pretending to be. It might be difficult to celebrate without feeling like a total impostor, but I’m up to the task. The face of Elizabeth Brogan, after all, is mine.

“You’re wrong and I’ll prove it. We can both celebrate.” I stand. “We’re going out to dinner, my treat.”

CHAPTER 18

By the time I return hours later to pick him up for our celebratory dinner, Ryan has sobered up. More to the point, he’s dressed sharply, like this is a real date. He’s freshly shaven, wearing dark slacks and a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He smells like the divine cologne scent I found in his bathroom while snooping.

This feels like a date! But I tell myself, of course, it’s far more like a meeting between two colleagues.

“I’m driving,” he says, heading to his rented sedan. “And you’re not paying. Not until I get you that check.”

Even more like a date.

“Uh…”

At my quirked brow, he says, “That was hours ago. Don’t worry, I’m good to drive.”

He’s no longer smiling hugely so I believe him. He won’t be too adorable for my comfort with his lowered inhibitions. Now I won’t be tempted to inappropriately flirt, or vault over those temporarily low walls. The walls are back up where they belong. We can keep it professional. I would hate anyone to think Ryan hired me for this position because he found me attractive.

I decided to take Ryan to Osteria, the Italian restaurant that serves the best crunchy bread in the county of Santa Clara. It’s always warm and delicious and the butter melts into the cracks. Tasting it is like an out-of-body experience.

“I’m what you might call a bread afficionado,” I tell Ryan once we’ve been seated. “I thought I could visit the bakery where they buy their bread. Do you know they actually bake it here, on the premises? There’s no way I can get this bread unless I come here. And of course, they have a lot more than good bread, which is the point.”

Unfortunately I’m talking too much, which is something I always do when I’m trying to impress someone.

Ryan peruses the menu, removes his glasses, then slips them back on. “Is there anything other than bread you recommend?”

“The lasagna is fantastic, but you can’t go wrong with any dish here. My ex used to love the linguini and clam sauce.”

The moment I say it, I regret it. I don’t want to think about Chris, much less mention him in casual dinner conversation.

Ryan meets my gaze and there’s nothing but curiosity in them. “Is this a place you two came to often?”

I figure what the hell, tell him the truth. Why not. The memory of Chris isn’t going to ruin this place for me anymore. I haven’t been back since our breakup, the memories too fresh and raw. This is where he should have proposed, my favorite restaurant. I pictured him hiding the ring in my salad because he knows I tend to poke around and rearrange my food on the plate before I take a bite.

And there would be a shiny ring, Chris smiling as he went on bended knee. This was the way my father had proposed to my mother, but hiding the ring in a cupcake, a story I heard many times over the years. Instead, Chris proposed by taking the ring box out of his gym bag next to his dirty sweaty socks. At the gym.

“Because this is where we met,” Chris had said proudly. “And now you’ll have a good memory of this place because you need to come here more often.”

When I gaped at him, he backpedaled: “For your health!”

“We didn’t come here often,” I admit now, checking the wine list. “But I want to wash him away with a new memory. This is perfect. Nothing will ever compare to this. You, sir, are a New York Times bestselling author. And so is Elizabeth Brogan, who happens to have my face.”