Okay, that went well. I mean, I got English words out of my mouth, and I did it without projectile puking. I’m taking the win. But I’m not going to risk it by eating the chicken and potatoes a server set down in front of me.

  After introductions finish, J.A. Fox takes the microphone again. “Please, feel free to eat. A bit of dinner is the least I can offer so you’ll let an old lady blabber on.”

  With that encouragement, I try to at least appear to be enjoying the food, picking up my fork along with everyone else. I nibble at my salad, pretending to enjoy lettuce, tomato, and ranch dressing while the Grand Dame gives a speech.

  It’s actually interesting as she gives lots of insight on how she found inspiration for her latest book in the famous painting at her side. Listening to her warm up and bring us into the swirling galaxy of disconnected thoughts that coalesced into an entire story that captured the hearts of many is nothing short of amazing.

  “And of course, I’m obligated to tell you that having a good editor is essential,” J.A. says, earning laughs. “If not, my book would go on and on and make absolutely no sense.”

  It gets laughs around the room, and she continues on, delving into some of the technical aspects of writing that only fellow authors could embrace. As fascinating as it is, I keep finding my eyes drifting off to the right side of the stage . . . to him. The sexy man in black who looks like he’d make a lead character in anyone’s book and easily turn it into a best seller just in describing his incredibly good looks. Chapter One–his eyes, with Chapter Ten (inches) being . . .

  I get away with my stolen looks twice, but when the hairs along the back of my neck tickle, I glance over to find him staring openly at me. He winks, and I blush, forcing my eyes back to center stage but all the while considering that maybe he’s the inspiration I need just like J.A. Fox is talking about. A sexy guy, with just the right amount of cocky to be a bad boy and enough kindness to catch me when I fall. I reframe my hero, Ryker, adding a bit of ruggedness to his hair and seeing if there’s a place I could have him catch my heroine when she falls.

  Reality inspiring fiction, and why the hell not? They say even Romeo & Juliet was inspired by reality.

  Too soon, the Grand Dame wraps up her speech and dismisses us to the workstation tables. I understand that we should mingle and mix to talk to everyone, but my nerves ratchet back up when I see one of the sneering women from earlier sitting at the table where my name card awaits.

  Thankfully, the other two women smile warmly as we each pull out our laptops. One’s a regency romance writer, while the other’s strictly LGBTQ+ fiction.

  “Open a new document, please,” J.A. Fox instructs. “Sprint write the basic premise of your current work. No complete sentences or literary greatness needed. Just plot, character names, dark moments, and resolution. I’ll give you five minutes.”

  Panic wars with excitement. I’m doing this, here in this room of greatness, and I want to watch the magic unfold. But when I see every pair of eyes click to their screen, mine do the same as I quickly tap out the basics of Trouble in Great Falls. Here, in fresh form, it actually makes sense.

  The hard part’s in turning two hundred words into three hundred pages.

  “And time,” J.A. says. “Now, please move a few lines down and write a single sentence about what your main concern is with your story. If there’s nothing” —she pauses dramatically— “then you’re a better writer than I am.”

  We laugh and get to work. I write about my struggle, not with my story but with expectations from myself, from Hilda, and from the publisher and how they’ve led to a near-complete mental blockage. It feels good to purge that onto the page, and my hopes that someone of the Grand Dame’s caliber might be able to help me rise.

  “Excellent. Feel free to work or discuss among yourselves. Find inspiration in each other, help guide each other through your concerns if you’re willing to share. Meanwhile, I’ll invite you up one at a time.”

  My inner fangirl squeals, and I have to press my feet to the floor to keep from kicking them in excitement. I’m going to meet the J.A. Fox one on one. My life might be complete after that. Put a fork in me because I’m done, bucket list complete, and I’m able to die a happy woman.

  There’s a little conversation around our table as I chat with the two nice authors. “You know, I had the same thing the first time I had to do a guy-guy scene,” Yasmina says. “I mean, it’s hot and all, but I didn’t know it, you know?”

  “So what did you do?” Winnie, the regency author, asks.

  “Went to a gay bar in my town and told the bartender my problem. He told me to take a table, and for the next six hours, I bought drinks for men who happily told me all I ever needed to know,” Yasmina says with a laugh. “Trust me, those recordings more than broke up my writer’s block.”

  “Yeah, but I kinda know how Tab P goes in Slot V,” I point out.

  Winnie giggles. “Maybe that’s your problem? There are other slots, you know. Slot A, slot M, slot H.”

  The mean girl author, Elizabeth, raises a brow at Winnie’s list and speaks for the first time since we sat down at the worktables. “H?”

  “Hand jobs, dear,” Winnie explains. “Shall I define the others too?”

  Ooh, seems I’m not the only one picking up on the ‘it’s bitch o’clock somewhere’ vibes from Elizabeth, our fellow author. And Winnie is playing too with sharp, quick wit.

  We try to keep writing a bit, but as I do, I can’t help but watch as each author is escorted up to the stage. They get a good amount of time to chat, maybe five minutes or so. They then take a photo, receive an autographed copy of The Art Thief, and talk about their stories.

  I can’t wait for my turn.

  Not soon enough, the assistant taps me on the shoulder, and I get up to follow her, sliding my laptop into my bag for the trip to the front of the room. This baby’s my life.

  “So nice to meet you,” I say, holding my hand out and fighting to keep my voice on an even keel. “I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I started writing because of you.”

  She shakes my hand and smiles warmly. “Poppy, lovely to meet you as well. I really enjoyed Love in Great Falls.” My jaw falls open, and her eyes dance. “Of course, I read it. I think probably everyone here has.” She laughs at her own words, and I’m still gaping like a fish out of water. “There’s a new name in town, and she’s bloody good.”

  Belatedly, my brain clicks on, and I find words, though not the ones I mean to say out loud. “I think I just peed myself in excitement!”

  Even the assistant laughs at that, and I hear a deep-voiced chuckle morph into a clearing throat behind me. I turn to see who it is and find the sexy security guard. Of course, he heard that.

  “Unless there’s something you’re having trouble with, could I ask that we not discuss what happens in Trouble in Great Falls? I’m anxious to read it myself and don’t want to be spoiled by knowing the plot.”

  Blinking, I try not to be disappointed. I was hoping that she’d have some great insight to help me, but now, I can’t say ‘My characters are cold fish with no connection.’ That’d surely ruin her reading of it. Oh, my God, she’s going to read it!

  “Of course. Can I just ask what you do when you have writer’s block?” I ask carefully. “I’m having a brick wall of a time right now.” I bang my head on an invisible wall in front of me to illustrate my point because words are hard, even for authors, when confronted with a greatness like the Grand Dame.

  She purses her lips as she thinks. Finally, she chuckles. “You’ve got the sophomore slump, dear. That’s all.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about, though,” I admit. “I’ve got so many people expecting me to hit a grand slam, and I’m scared I’ll strike out. Oh, wait . . . do you know baseball?”

  J.A. smiles softly. “Close enough to cricket that I understand. You remind me of myself when I was starting out. Just find yourself and ignore the others. You’re going to be fine. Just listen to your heart.”

  “Time’s up,” the assistant says politely. “We need to do the photo and autograph, Ms. Fox.”

  I’m disappointed, but I understand. This is a dinner and workshop, not an all day gathering. Following instructions, I set my bag down on the table and move to J.A. Fox’s side. The assistant holds up the tablet, counting down for the photo. “In three, two, one . . .”

  For some reason, the sexy security guard behind her catches my eye. He barely moves, but I see him glance up at the ceiling for a split second and then . . .

  The room goes dark.

  There’s an instant of utter stillness and silence before all hell breaks loose. High-pitched voices scream in shock, and movement shuffles all around me. I feel hands grab my shoulders and instantly think I’m going to be kidnapped but instead find myself pushed out of the way unceremoniously.

  Of course, they’re here to protect the celebrity. I’m just a body in the way.

  “Ugh,” I huff out as I fall to the ground. This time, nothing stops me, and I sprawl out on the hard floor, my dress definitely riding up my thighs now, but the darkness at least means no one sees.

  “Everyone stay calm and be quiet,” a deep voice orders, and the room goes silent again. Someone’s taking charge, at least. When a deep-voiced man tells us to be quiet . . . we do.

  A moment later, the lights come back on. Security guards have surrounded J.A. Fox, a tall blonde on one side and a bald one on the other side, and they’re both glaring at me like I did something. Yeah, little ole me . . . I flipped off the lights, ruined my photo op with my idol, and dropped myself to the floor so I could flash everyone my goodie bits.

  Everyone begins talking at once again as I start to pick myself up, saying they were so scared, but everything seems to be okay. The security guards have decided there’s no threat—though the blonde guy is still looking at me suspiciously like I might dive at J.A. Fox if given the chance. The Black Rose is still atop its stand, and the lights seem to be fine now. After checking that I’m uninjured, the assistant directs me to head back to my workstation.

  It’s not until a moment later when I sit down that I realize something vital. Not only is the sexy security guard gone, but so is . . . my bag! With my laptop inside!

  No!

  Chapter 5

  Connor

  I hustle through the back hallway, sweat prickling at the back of my neck.

  That was almost a total fuck-up. The lights went out as planned, but that’s when the shit hit the fan. With my mental timer clicking down to zero, the bag from JP turned out to be junk.

  First off, it wasn’t silk. Instead, it was some silk-like artificial fabric, and as I reached in to take out the replacement painting, the damn thing literally split in half. I was able to get the replacement up without a problem, but I then had to think on my feet.

  Not able to carry the piece out in plain sight, I grabbed the nearest bag, shoved The Black Rose inside as carefully as I could, and melted into the blackness backstage. My path was clear, and I was able to move unobstructed as everyone else went fumbling for the circuit breakers. Two minutes later, I was out the back of the ballroom area, my black shirt jammed into the bag to reveal the fashionable T-shirt underneath, moving down the hallway looking like any unconcerned hotel patron.

  Two minutes after that, I strolled out the side entrance, past the pool, and one quick hop over a bush later, I melted into the foot traffic a block away from the ballroom. About as clean as you could ask.

  But I hate when things don’t go to plan. I research and plan for everything, but this was one I hadn’t considered. That is a failure on my part, despite the success. Now, as I drive toward the drop off, I slam my hand on the steering wheel, disappointed in myself and knowing that this will be a hard-learned lesson I won’t repeat.

  Seriously, what kind of bag was that? Who plans to steal a painting and then gives the thief a case that falls apart?

  And how stupid was I to not even check it? Now I’ve got a complication, I think as I glare at the black leather bag in the seat next to me. Shit. Whose bag is it?

  I replay the scene in my mind, looking for details. The assistant had a black bag, but it was smaller, more a purse than a bag. This is like a satchel or a bike messenger bag. And then it hits me . . . the clumsy but hot redhead. I shake my head, laughing to myself.

  Guess today was not her day.

  JP’s waiting for me in the dark when I pull up to the same warehouse as before. I’m ultra-careful, making sure that my case failing was the only ‘surprise’ tonight. Once everything’s clear, I put my truck in park. Leaning out, I whistle, and JP steps out from behind a stack of crates. “Hey. You alone?”

  My hackles rise in warning. That’s not a good question to ask someone in my line of work. It means there’s no trust. “No, I’ve got my friends Smith and Wesson with me,” I tell him darkly.

  I actually don’t have a gun. It’s too big a risk. I get picked up with stolen artwork? I can plead that I’m an unwitting courier and will likely get off with minimal aggravation. But add in a possession charge and shit gets serious.

  But JP doesn’t know that, and instead he laughs easily. “Relax, man. I just can’t see in the windows of that pickup of yours.”

  I don’t bother looking behind me at the truck’s windows. I know exactly how dark the tint is because I chose it, so I just shrug. “You alone? I’m supposed to be handing this one over to Mr. Big himself.”

  JP rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and I’d like to hand something over to Selena Gomez in person too, but you know how paranoid he gets. Always thinking the Feds are on to him . . . like they give a fuck about art.”

  JP might not think anyone cares, but I happen to agree with Mr. Big. Feds definitely care about art and art thieves. But trust isn’t a one-way street, and I’m not okay with not meeting who I’m working for after this amount of time and risk. I like to know exactly who is calling the shots and paying me, and so far, this boss remains elusive.

  “So we’re rescheduling?” I ask, giving the warehouse another scan. If Mr. Big is nervous, I’m not comfortable either. I even give JP a suspicious look.

  JP scoffs. “You must be crazy, man. I’ll take the piece and hand it off. We can do a meet and greet another time. Next job.”

  “Or I can do the hand off,” I suggest firmly. “I’ve got some . . . customer service issues to discuss with him.”

  “No. You know how this goes. You do the job, I get the product, and then it goes from there. Bitches, gripes, and complaints go to me.”

  I want more information about JP’s process, but if I ask now, he’s going to get even more heated. And working for Mr. Big is the big time, hence the alias. He’s the leader of the entire art black market and not a contact I can risk.

  JP’s got me by the short hairs, and he knows it. Reluctantly, I open the truck door and pull out the leather bag. JP’s brows furrow. “Where’s the other bag?”

  “Like I said, I’ve got customer service issues,” I tell him, reaching in to pull the two halves of the junk case out. “I had to go with what was available.”

  “Dammit,” JP mutters, seeing the case. “I’ll deal with that.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve bought better bags at the grocery store. So here you go, I did what I could with what I had. You’re welcome.” The sarcasm is lost on JP, who stays all business.

  JP nods and takes the bag from me. Opening the flap, he slides out The Black Rose and whistles. “Looks the same as the other, yes?”

  I grunt in response. If he can’t tell the difference, it’s not my damn business. JP pauses and looks in the bag again. “What’s this?”

  He pulls a laptop out of the leather bag and my heart stops. “Shit. I didn’t realize that was in there.”

  I reach for it, but JP holds up a hand. “Relax, I’ll trash it.”

  “No,” I tell him quickly for some reason. “I’ll take it.”

  “What are you thinking? You can’t go back there. Clean getaway and stay gone. Speaking of, with whatever heat Mr. Big has going on, you probably want to lie low for a while too. I’ll hang on to this,” he says, looking at the laptop. It’s not a question. Instead, he flips it over, looking at the stickers on the bottom and whistling softly. “My kid could use one of these. This thing looks nice. He’ll love it.”

  Kid? I didn’t know JP had a kid. I store the info away in case I ever need it. I’d like to get the laptop back to Red, but JP’s right. That’s a rookie mistake, one I’m way too experienced to make.

  I shrug, wishing I could do more but knowing at least someone will appreciate the laptop. “Then we’re good?” I ask, checking off the art handoff and the unexpected laptop issue. JP nods, but I add, “I expect to meet the boss man soon. I’ve proven myself, my skills, and loyalty. I should know who I’m working for.”

  JP rolls his eyes again, waving a dismissive hand. “He’ll see something in the stars that tells him he’s safe, and then he’ll probably invite you over for dinner and scotch. He’s just paranoid. You understand?”

  No, I still don’t, but I nod anyway and climb back into my truck. “See ya for the next one.”

  I pull away, going to make my other meeting of the night. Everyone who lives in the shadows and who plans on maybe seeing the next few years outside of prison needs people they can trust to make it work. For me, my ‘fixer’ is Hunter. I’ve known him for a few years now, and he’s one of the best there is.

  “You got a place for me?” I ask as I pull into the garage and get out. Hunter’s already moving, going around to the back of my truck to swap out the plates. I know they’re clean because he’s trustworthy and even more careful than I am.

  “Yeah, here’s the keys,” he says, reaching into his pocket and tossing them to me. “It’s not your usual speed, but it’ll be good for you. You can play house in a nice place like an actual human being, not some hole in the wall.”

  He’s talking about my actual home, a place I haven’t been to in way too long. After a job, I always spend a while decompressing and making sure the coast is clear before I go back home. Plus, it lets me keep touch on what’s happening on the market, who’s looking, who’s buying, and who’s stealing what. I like to stay caught up, know who the players are.