Page 55 of Without a Clue

Even in times of being distraught, one must keep one’s composure.

She flaps the napkin at her seat to prove her point and resets it in her lap.

“Not at all, this is a fine time,” Nash says. “Although I do think”—he flips over his wrist, which also happens to be part of the arm holding on to me, and my whole body is jerked sideways. He checks his watch. “No, I’ve got another thirty minutes until my first session. Plenty of time.”

Fine. I’ll work around him.

“I’m going to go now,” I say politely, my words aimed at Melody this time.

“No, you’re not,” Nash says to me chipperly, eyes on Melody.

“Yes, I am.”

“You’ll rip your cardigan.”

“You’ll rip my cardigan.”

“And we don’t want us ripping your cardigan,” he continues, as if we both absolutely agree.

Something is happening.

The shame of the moment is receding as my confidence starts to build.

I make one more move for the door, and this time his arm lassos me and pulls me in, all the way in, the scent of burnt coffee on rough Carhartt jacket scraping all up one side of my face. His arm is heavy as it wraps around the whole of my body, round the shoulders, and huddles me close. We look like we’re posing for an awkward prom picture. Or perhaps like a cat who’s caught a mouse.

At this new situation, Melody purses her lips with uncertainty. Her eyes jet over toward the other authors, catch Jackie, who parallels her expression, and flash back.

She looks entirely out of her realm.

“Is everything o . . . kay here? You know . . . I didn’t know if I should say something . . . but it seems like everyone is just a little . . . off.”

Her eyes flicker, and ours too, to Ricky, who is seated at the end of the breakfast table, suspiciously watching a waiter serve him more coffee while visibly gripping a champagne glass in his hand cocked and ready to blow.

“Of course,” she says quickly with a laugh, “I know authors are known to be . . . well, uniquely them . . . but it just seems that everyone here is a little edgy. And we haven’t even had an appearance from Hugh Griffin. At all.”

“We are fine,” Nash says breezily, putting on full charm. “Have you ever been to Writer-Con? That’s the place to go to see all the authors in full character.”

She pointedly looks at his arm python-wrapped around my body.

“So you’ve caught me. I’m a codependent author,” Nash says. “Pip here is just my lucky star. And once you find your lucky star, you aim to always keep it in your sights. If you know what I mean.”

“Oh.” Melody’s eyes soften a little, the creases at her temples deepening as she looks at me with fresh interest. “Oh,” she says with more meaning.

I give a forced smile.

Mostly because of Jackie’s stares.

And a little, I realize, because . . . of what’s happening in this moment.

“Well. I think I have enough to go off of for the session. Very nice meeting you . . . two. I’ll see you soon!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nash smiles with that winsome smile of his as he tips his hat at her with his free hand (sending her hand fluttering to her cheek).

Amazing.

Women quake at Nash Eyre’s charms even when he’s currently holding a woman captive in his arms.

“Phff,” I blow out.