Writing Mr. Right (3 page)

The woman had to be in her seventies if she was a day, and she read with such fervor and passion that Georgia felt almost voyeuristic to watch her. Still, it was clear that Mary wanted to relish each word, letting everyone hear her recite her favorite part of
Woman in White
for all the other readers to agree.

“
The sting of his hand slapping across her backside drew such a cry, the men in the nearby tents roused in confusion.”

The crowd cheered for her rendition, fawning in agreement. A few of them even clapped as Mary finished her recitation and shot Georgia a wide, satisfied grin.

“If that doesn’t do it for ye, ye must be dead!”

Georgia chuckled, holding out her hand to receive the copies of her books.
The Seafarer
was crisp and brand new.
Woman In White
was dog-eared and clearly well loved.

“I’ve read that near to a dozen times, love. You’ve a wonderful gift.”

Georgia exhaled, smiling. “Thank you so much, Mary. You’re too kind.”

Mary snatched up both her newly signed copies and glanced inside the cover. Georgia signed it, ‘I should have you do the audiobooks.’

Mary fawned over the page a moment, then leaned in, putting a hand to her lips in conspiracy. “Tisn’t even my favorite part.”

Then she winked and was on her way. Georgia waved after her and took the book from the next reader in line, giving a wide smile and a quick chat.

“You’ve got yerself some wild fans, ye do.”

Georgia nodded at the middle aged woman with stick straight straw colored hair, bundled in the puffiest green coat she’d ever seen.

“Believe me, that was nothing compared to some of my American readers.”

The woman’s eyes went wide as Georgia signed this copy of
The Seafarer
to Martha.

It was true; a quick recitation was nothing compared to some of the awkward individuals who wanted to inform her of the various sex acts they’d performed, and of how perfectly it would fit in her next Douglas MacCready novel.

“How’d ye come up with such a lad, anyway?”

She flexed her fingers, trying to ease a writer’s cramp and mulled over this question a moment. “Honestly, he just appeared.”

Martha’s brow furrowed. “Really? How is that?”

Georgia shrugged. “I don’t know. I saw Deirdre wash up along the shoreline, saw her stumbling over the rocks, and when she looked up, he was just there. Like I’d looked up myself.”

“And he was just standing there in yer mind, like?”

“He was. Green-eyed monster of a man.”

Martha tittered at this, taking her newly signed book and pressing it to her poofy jacketed chest. “Thank you. I can’t wait to read this one!”

The day went as any other. She would sit at her table in the bookstore, smile and greet each person in line, ask their name, and sign away. Even in Scotland, there were patterns to the type of people she would encounter at such signings; the devoted reader, who would gush with appreciation; the disinterested ebayer, who would have her sign a dozen books; the critic, who would comment on writing style, content, character, or delve into the aforementioned examples from their own sex lives; and the writers, who would often attempt to offer her a copy of their own manuscript. In America, such people would be directed to her assistant, Cassie, but being on her own, such bundles would be collected by the bookstore manager.

Manager Craig assured her that such a thing would never happen in his Edinburgh shop. Only halfway through the day and he was now the proud guardian of two such bundles, and he didn’t seem too pleased with the job.

His displeasure was more than likely amplified by the signing running over by two hours.

That’s what you get for waiting until two to start,
she thought.

The shop shut its doors at five, Georgia continued to sign until seven thirty, and Craig was standing outside the bookshop door fumbling with the keys by eight.

“Never seen the likes of that in the shop. You’d think you were Rowling or somat.”

Georgia chuckled. “It just started happening a few weeks ago. Not sure what did it.”

Burgess assured her it was a magical potion of luck, sex, New York Times Lists, and word of mouth. Burgess was her editor, and though she wasn’t sure what to blame her sudden burgeoning success on, her
Woman in White
books were suddenly taking off with such fervor, she’d barely the time to catch her breath.

Georgia glanced around the street, catching the eye of a few nervous ladies from the signing all huddled in small groups on nearby sidewalks, still clutching their books. Georgia wriggled down into her jacket and made her way across the cobblestone street.

“Well ladies, I’d ask you all to show me to the best pub, but I’ve an early train in the morning. You do have a good night, alright?”

The women burst into happy chatter, offering her the same as she waved and made her way down a steep cobblestone street, heading toward New Town.

Edinburgh wasn’t a city she was wholly familiar with. She’d visited as a child with her family, clamoring through old castles with her sister Samantha constantly on her heels.

It wasn’t the best family trip.

Still, she had a pocket map and a good memory of the cab ride over. She passed a couple pubs, bustling with noise and banter, then came into view of the gardens. Prince’s Street Gardens? Princess Street Gardens? Which was it? No matter. She knew it had once been a cesspool, and that was enough for her. She’d add that historical detail to her next
Woman in White
novel.

Georgia’s pocket began to buzz.

“Hey Sam.”

“You’re all set. Locking up the storage unit now.”

Georgia stopped on the sidewalk, her bare legs cold against the Scottish winter. She paused. “Really?”

“You alright?”

Sam had a deep, almost husky voice – a voice that many men likened to Jessica Rabbit when she answered the phone. Georgia was once jealous of it. The message it carried now made it almost unnerving to hear.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. In one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I should be good.”

“Didn’t you hate Edinburgh when we were kids?”

Georgia shook her head. “No, I hated you. Edinburgh had nothing to do with it.”

“Truth. Just don’t get in trouble with the police this time, yeah?”

Georgia stopped, rolling her eyes. “Seriously? God, you sound like Dad.”

Sam chuckled. “Just sayin. Well, if you need anything, let me know. Cassie says she’ll come grab the key from me tomorrow.”

“Great. That sounds great.”

Samantha went quiet a moment. “Sure you’re alright, G?”

Georgia was walking so slowly, she barely moved down the curving slope. She was lost in the realization of what this phone call meant.

Her lease was up. Her one bedroom apartment was empty. All her things were in storage.

She was homeless.

“Yes. Just had a bit of an existential moment.”

“I’m sure. Well, look on the bright side – meet your Scottish soul mate and you don’t have to come home anytime soon.”

Georgia chuckled. “I think I’ve had enough of guys who wear kilts.”

“No. That asshole shouldn’t count. Was about as Scottish as my left ass cheek.”

“Which is actually French Canadian, if I remember correctly.”

“Mais oui,” Sam said without skipping a beat.

Georgia smiled, pulling her collar up around her jaw as she spotted the line of taxis down by the train station. Though her hotel was only another half mile away, the cold was creepy into her bones. Or perhaps that was this sudden overwhelming sense of doom.

“You’re alright, G. You’ve got money. You can find something in no time when you get back.”

Georgia quickened her pace, heading for the taxis. “Yeah, if my royalty check ever comes.”

“Hey, I said it, so it must be true.”

“That actually made me feel a little better.”

“Yeah? How bout this? I hereby command that Georgia Kilduff meet her Scottish soul mate, shag his ever lovin brains out, and live happily ever after.”

“Well shit.”

“Now go have a pint. Speak to some Scots. They always loved you.”

Georgia rushed past the last pub as though she might catch something if she hovered too long. “Will do. You have a good night.”

With that, Georgia pocketed her phone and rushed down to the first taxi in the line. Despite shutting herself into the warmth of the idling car, still she felt cold.

CHAPTER THREE

“Get tae fuck!” Garrett MacCauley grumbled as he rolled over in bed, slamming his hand on his nightstand in search of his wailing phone. He snatched it up, squinting into the light, then groaned and set it back on the table, silenced. It was the real estate contact calling about the shop.

At seven in the morning.

He would not be answering that phone call. Have some god damn manners, he thought.

Despite his best efforts to fall back to sleep, Garrett was awake, and he wasn’t pleased with the fact. By half nine he was up and on his way to Costa’s for a coffee.

“Mornin, twat.”

Garrett shot Barry a two finger salute as he shuffled into line behind a pantsuit wearing woman with frizzy black hair. Barry was settled in his usual corner, mulling the morning away with his laptop and some cappuccino, if Garrett knew him well – and he did.

“Ye look bright eyed this morning,” Barry said as Garrett sat down across from him.

“The bastard agent called at seven today.”

“That prick. Did ye tear a strip off?”

‘Nae, didnae answer the bloody thing. Couldnae be fucked,” Garrett said, sipping his coffee.

Barry made a face. “That’s not like ye.”

Garrett shrugged. “Maybe. Feelin a bit tired these days. And honestly, I was just glad it wasnae Nicola callin.”

Barry gave a low whistle. “Hen’s callin again? What’s she after now?”

“Same. Still lookin fae me to come get my things. Told her more than once to toss the lot. She won’t listen.”

“She just wants tae see ye, you know that, don’t ye?”

Garrett nodded. “Aye, which is idiotic. Didnae want no to do with me when we were together. Now, it’s like ‘let’s have a drink,’ let’s get coffee,’ ‘be nice to catch up.’ I say, nae. I bloody disagree.”

Barry sipped at his cappuccino as Garrett fought a yawn. “She wasnae like this before. I mean, after ye left.”

“Nae. She had a fella then. They’ve split. Now she wants tae ‘give me my CDs.’ Got a bloody iPhone now, woman. I don’t need any fuckin CDs. Pardon my language.”

Garrett directed his apology to the older woman at the table beside them. She looked him over and gave a mischievous smile.

“Have ye told her nae?”

“Multiple times. Finally just stopped answerin the phone.”

“Christ on a bike. She’s soundin a bit desperate like.” Barry said.

Garrett tested his coffee against his lips and found it cooled enough to sip. He took a taste, letting the warmth of it travel down his gullet. It was another cold morning. “S’pose. Dinnae care. Spent years treadin lightly for the lass. Nae more.”

“Aye, good for ye, then. Now what the hell ye doin here so early?”

Garrett slumped back into his seat and stared across the table at Barry. Barry was one of his oldest friends, a writer and graphic designer who spent much of his time tapping away at laptop keys, and spewing vitriol on the internet for several pence a word. Barry was older than Garrett by two years, and his dark hair had grown gray at the temples. Garrett’s own brown hair held its color well enough, but was growing a bit longer than he’d like.

He brushed it back from his forehead. “Got another signin in the mornin. Have to meet the delivery lad before we open today.”

“Really? Still doin signins when you’re tryin tae sell the place?”

“I am, damn it. Just because I’m leavin disnae mean I’m leavin it in ruin.”

“Is it someone I’d know?”

Garrett chuckled. “Isnae Irvine Welch, if that’s your question.”

“Damn it. What good is ownin a bookshop if ye can’t get any decent writers in it?”

“Hey, got a pretty decent one comin. It’s that Mason woman – the one writin the romance novels set in Scotland.”

Barry eyed him, skeptically. “That Victoria Mason woman?”

“Aye.”

“Comin here?”

“Aye?”

Barry gave an exaggerated frown, and an impressed nod. “That’ll explain the chairs outside the shop.”

Garrett leaned toward the window of Costas, craning to see his book shop just a block further down the way. “What’s that now?”

“Saw em on my way down. Six or seven of the bloody things. Thought we were havin a parade or somat.”

“Jesus, Bear. Ye couldnae said somethin!”

Garrett was up and out the door, rounding the corner to find Barry’s chairs, but there were near to a dozen now, and he recognized the rain-coated middle aged woman with short gray hair, setting her own chair at the end of the line.

“Can I help ye then, Margaret?”

She turned to meet him, smiling at being greeted. “Not til tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

Garrett’s eyebrows shot up. “Are ye no worried someone will steal these?”

“Och no. One of us will be here keepin an eye.”

Garrett passed the woman, pulling his keys from his pocket to open the shop door. “Are ye all really linin up for the signing, already?”

She gave him a bewildered look. “Well, don’t want to be waitin all day tomorrow, do we? The lines for Glasgow this mornin were all over the tele.”

Garrett opened the door to the shop as a bone chilling drizzle kicked up. He nodded toward the book shop door, and Margaret accepted his invitation, slipping into the dark shop to avoid the rain. He knew Margaret as a regular customer, and a rabid lover of Austen, Bronte, and E.L. James.

“The signin in Edinburgh, they say, ran four hours over. The other girls and I almost made the trip to Glasgow to meet her, but then she added this stop and we nearly died. Who comes this far north? Especially someone like that.”

Garrett shrugged. “Nobody.”

“Have ye read the
Woman in White
books, then?”