Page 5 of Hidden With You

ChapterTwo

“Listen, Ms. Clayton, I know this isn’t a book signing, and I’m not supposed to be fawning, but I just have to say how much I loved—like really, really loved—Intercontinental.”

“Are you kidding?” I say, grinning at the cute blond guy. “You can toss praise at me any time. But you have to call me Zelda, okay?”

Jamie and I are standing in the middle of a semi-circle of guests—no press, thankfully, just friends and acquaintances and business associates, most of whom I’ve never met. Still, everyone is excited about the upcoming film, and Jamie and I are soaking up the praise and enthusiasm.

I glance sideways at her, flashing my best Party Girl smile. “See? I told you the book was popular. She thought she was signing on for a dud,” I add to the crowd, grinning when they all laugh on cue.

Right now, I’m in my element. Or, at least, it looks like I am. I can do the Perky Public Figure thing with the best of them.

“Yeah, because Jamie so often picks a dud,” the cute guy says with a chuckle.

I glance between the two of them, realizing that of course she knows this guy. She and Ryan organized the party, after all.

“This is Eric,” Jamie says, answering my unspoken question. “He works with Nikki.”

“I do,” Eric says. “And I read a lot of thrillers, and this series is one of my favorites. I’m looking forward to the next Martin King adventure.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. Thanks.” I flash him one of my best smiles, trying to discern if he’s doing the fanboy thing or the flirting thing. And trying to decide which one I’m hoping for. I mean, he’s cute enough, and I have no intention of going home alone, but all things being equal, I’m hoping the dark-haired guy I’d noticed earlier seeks me out. The one who filled out his jeans so perfectly and looked deadly hot in his white crew neck tee and casual black blazer.

He’d been standing on the lowest step leading down to the beach. The same place I’d been heading, needing a moment to ratchet down the joy. I play a good game in public—all bubbly and delightful in the role of the lighthearted heiress with the golden typewriter—but it’s an exhausting role to play. I’d wanted a few moments of watching the sunset. A few moments to be alone. To be me.

But there he was, filling my space.

At first, I’d been irritated. Then he’d moved, and I’d been intrigued. As I watched, he kicked off his Sperry boat shoes, then moved off the step and slipped his toes into the sand. He peeled off his jacket next, the movements as he draped it over the handrail accentuating the muscles in his arms and back. I sighed, relishing the way his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. His hair was cut short, so I could see the back of his neck, and despite myself, I imagined how it would feel to put my hand there and let the bristles from his close-cropped nape tease my palm.

I didn’t go to him, but I didn’t turn back either. Instead, I slipped off my shoes and held them by the straps as I slid under the handrail. Once my feet were in the warm sand of the dune, I crouched lower, knowing that if he turned around, I’d be hidden from his perspective by the support post.

I’m glad I took that precaution, because a few moments later, he glanced over his shoulder. As he looked toward the house—and me—I got a good look at his face, the visage eliciting a satisfied sigh. The guy was definitely something, with deep-set hazel eyes, a wide mouth, and the kind of sculpted jaw that only looked better with his hint of beard stubble.

The sun hadn’t yet dipped below the horizon, and I saw a hint of gray at his temples, which did nothing to reduce his hotness factor. On the contrary, it made him seem even sexier.

I guessed he was in his early forties, which made him almost twice my age. Not someone I’d normally be attracted to, but there was no denying the way my pulse had kicked up. It was as if he’d physically reached out and touched me, and I stood frozen in my hiding place, afraid he was going to see me, and equally afraid that he wouldn’t.

A heartbeat later, he turned away, once again facing the riot of colors Mother Nature was painting on the horizon. Then he took a seat on the step, moving with the kind of confident precision that most people drop when they think they’re alone.

I stood frozen for a moment, debating whether I should go talk to him. Did he know I was there, or was he the kind of guy who was always in control, never letting down his guard even when he was completely alone?

Foolish, maybe, but right then, I wanted nothing more than to go to him. And I’d just convinced myself that I should when I heard someone coming. Damn.

I ducked down further, only to see Ryan Hunter pass by, his feet inches from my nose. I waited until he reached the guy, then slipped back onto the stairs and darted barefoot up to the top level, hoping my sunset-watching stranger hadn’t noticed me, but still kind of hoping our paths would cross at the party.

The memory washes over me in a flash, and as I smile at the group and stand by Jamie, I let my eyes skim over everyone that I can see on this level of the patio. But I don’t see my stranger anywhere.

“When will filming begin?” The question comes from someone near Jamie, and she answers, but I’m not paying attention until she says, “Zelda loves it.”

“I’m sorry?” I say. “What do I love?”

Her brow furrows, and I realize she must be talking about writing. Because she’s right. It’s my life—what I love. Writing stories, sharing them with the world. Talking about them until the people around me are bored out of their mind, and then rejoicing when I find fans who are fascinated by my characters, my process, my made-up world. All the stuff that makes up the non-reality in which I live.

“I was just saying that you love the world that Martin King populates,” Jamie says, referring to the hero of the series.

“Oh, yes, I do. He’s got serious balls,” I say to laughter all around.

“When’s the next one come out?” someone asks.

“Knowing Zelda, it will be soon,” someone shouts in reply, and the crowd titters. “She’s a machine.”