Boyfriend by the Book: A feel good romantic comedy Read online

  “But it doesn't matter to them,” I answered. “They want to thank you for a meaningful reading experience, whether you think you deserve it or not. That’s not so bad, is it?”

  “In your eyes," he said. "But in mine, I have to spend a minute or two with each reader when I sign their book. That means hundreds of conversations with people I don’t know, talking about books that they perceive as far greater works than I can believe them to be myself. So forgive me if I handle it awkwardly. And if I am sometimes difficult to handle as a result.”

  His words reminded me of Austen’s hero once again. The shy, misunderstood side of Mr. Darcy’s personality, that is. Maybe I had been closer to the truth than I knew with that comparison.

  “If it helps,” I began, carefully, “I think most of them are probably nervous about meeting you. More nervous than you are about saying something you'll regret. They’re probably focused on the impression they’re making, instead of the one you’re making on them when you talk about your work.”

  He sighed. “I’m not sure that helps very much.”

  “Then maybe you should try a different approach,” I suggested, racking my brain for helpful things to say in the face of his gloom. “Ask them about themselves. If they have an interesting name or a message they want you to inscribe, talk about that. Or ask them what they like about your books. They’ll be flattered you’re interested, and you want feel as much pressure to carry the conversation about the book itself.”

  He actually looked interested in this suggestion. “A good idea,” he said. “I never thought of it that way before. I think I’ll try that for the next event.”

  “You should,” I told him. “Because practicing something is the only way to get better at it.” I smiled at him — a warm and friendly one that was in no way like the 'cup-of-tea' smile from earlier.

  Wait a moment. I froze. Wasn't my reply actually from Pride and Prejudice? A similar piece of advice from Lizzie to Mr. Darcy on his people skills? What was I thinking? I had experienced nothing but trouble from thinking like a literary heroine, and I definitely shouldn’t fall back on it now, in the face of a proud-but-shy author who fit the 'brooding hero' bill perfectly.

  Not because I felt left out at my friend’s engagement party, anyway. Or a little jealous at the sight of Levi’s attractive female friend. Those were awful reasons for me to turn back to that book's disastrous advice. But the sight of Levi with an admirer—it brought a flash of regret to my thoughts, even days afterward.

  “Are you all right, Ms. Nichols?”

  My emotions were showing on my face, apparently. I snapped out of it, smiling again at the man across from me, who seemed concerned.

  “Fine," I answered. "I was just lost in thought for a moment."

  "I noticed," he said. "It happens to me sometimes, too."

  I shivered. Having anything in common with Mr. Hart — who was still attractive, despite his earlier rudeness — was the last thing I needed to hear, even if it was something as meaningless as absentmindedness.

  "I wish I had more advice for you," I said. "But I’m afraid that celebrity PR is a little out of my depth. People generally need a restaurant recommendation from me more than advice on how to talk about their work.”

  “You’ve already been more help than my publisher,” he said. “They feel it’s enough that promotional appearances are part of a contract that I have to fulfill.”

  “The curse of fame,” I said, teasing him a little. This time, he didn’t seem to mind.

  “In my case, yes. Fortunately for me, most people don’t recognize authors the way they do movie stars or singers. So I don’t have to travel incognito at least.”

  His gaze found mine again, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. As I watched, it curved into a full-fledged smile. An attractive one that gave his features a more boyish quality than before. My heart skipped a beat despite my best efforts to be professional.

  He certainly had the tall, dark, and handsome part down. And he wasn’t as rude as he seemed at first. Just reserved.

  Like Mr. Darcy, came the inevitable follow-up thought. That book was really messing with my mind at this point, if I was drawing parallels between a modern-day writer and a fictional nineteenth-century hero just because of a few tiny details.

  Was I really interested in finding a Mr. Darcy in real life? Or just hoping for a distraction from my disappointment over Levi? I decided not to overanalyze it right now. Instead, I offered Gareth Hart a smile and said, “Perhaps I will have that coffee after all.”

  ~10~

  Gareth asked me to the symphony Monday night, one for which he had an extra ticket, apparently. It was a performance of Franz Schubert’s compositions and a nice change of pace from my usual evening out these days. We had a drink in the performance hall’s salon afterward, people in formal wear milling about the grand room, with its chandelier and ornate crown molding.

  “Did you enjoy the music?” Gareth asked. “I know Beethoven and Mozart are the mainstream choices, but I’ve always preferred Schubert’s works.”

  “It was beautiful,” I told him. It surprised me how many of the songs I had recognized, unaware the famous composer was behind them. I enjoyed classical music, though I seldom listened to it. Maybe this was another way of broadening my horizons, I thought. I took a sip from my glass. “Thank you for inviting me by the way," I added.

  He gave me a thoughtful look. “I hope this improves your opinion of me after Saturday’s luncheon. I’ve been told I don’t make a very good first impression. Not to the hotel staff where I stay, or the events where I speak. I'm usually forgettable more than rude, however.”

  “First impressions can be important,” I said. “We regret them the most, I think, since some people base everything on that first glimpse. It can determine the whole course of a relationship for them.”

  This remark seemed to startle him. “Is that how you feel?” he asked. "About first impressions."

  I shook my head. “I like to give people a fair chance. Everyone makes mistakes. In my work, you have to allow people to have bad days as well as good ones.”

  “That’s good of you, Ms. Nichols.”

  “You don’t have to be formal,” I told him, laughing softly at the stiff manner of address — one which reminded me eerily of Robert, disaster date number one in my experience. “‘Ms. Nichols’ is something my employers call me.”

  “What do humbly apologetic new acquaintances call you?”

  That was a little too Mr. Darcy even for my imagination to create. I looked at my drink, afraid he’d see the color rising in my face. “They call me Jodi.”

  “Jodi.” His deep, serious voice saying my name was strangely effective. “That’s not very common is it? I’ve never met anyone with that name before.”

  “It’s not the current taste in names,” I admitted. “Neither is Gareth, I imagine. That is your real name, not a pen one?”

  “It is,” he answered, “and I’m not sure it was ever part of a trend. It’s a family name, in my case. Passed down from English ancestors in Dartmoor.”

  So there were strong English ties in his background. This was more and more surreal. I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up any moment now to find I had dreamed all of this, napping on my sofa with the self-help book toppled to the floor. Or a copy of Pride and Prejudice, though I hadn’t read it in years and wasn’t even sure where my paperback was.

  Gareth Hart was real, though, and so was his interest in keeping up our acquaintance. He offered to meet again, saying, “There’s a café I go to almost weekly. I can meet there any day that suits your schedule. Mine is flexible, as a writer.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, I agreed. Gareth wasn’t the gothic type, after all. If something about our time together went wrong, he wouldn’t barge into my workplace and cause a scene. As if confirming my image of him as a gentleman, he paid my half of the tab and saw me to my car. He was a perfect contrast to my last two dates.

 
So why didn’t I feel more elated at the thought of a future date with him?

  "You're dating who?"

  My friends were over the moon when they found out about the symphony, and the person I attended it with. Especially Kristen, who was a swooning fan of his work.

  "It's practically Mr. Darcy. You are dating Mr. Darcy combined with a poet, practically," said Kristen.

  "Slow down," I said. "It's just one date. Maybe two." I wasn't sure the coffee date counted. It was a casual invitation, not a make-or-break meeting between two people of mutual attraction, not in my book anyway.

  Kristen had zoned in on his Darcy-esque qualities right away, of course. She had seen him before at a signing for the bookstore, and my story only confirmed what she had been imagining since reading his first book, apparently.

  “I noticed he was really quiet around the customers,” she said. “Really hesitant and uncomfortable whenever people asked him about his characters or his stories, so this makes total sense. I mean, Darcy was just reserved, not rude. Just uncomfortable with people making too much of him and so on. Gareth Hart's the same way.”

  “He is nicer than he seemed at first,” I admitted. “And we have interesting conversations. I like him ... but I’m not sure it’s more than that. Right now, we're just going to see what happens, probably.”

  I fiddled with the plastic spoon in my yogurt, not wanting to hear my name paired with that of a stranger so quickly. One nice evening does not a relationship make, after all, and nothing about Gareth's attitude suggested he planned to sweep me off my feet with romance in the future.

  Monique snorted. “You’re kidding, right? The Gareth Hart wants to spend time with you and it’s not a big deal?”

  “I don’t know. I’m flattered that he wants to see me, but we’ve only met a couple times," I said. "It’s not a magic connection or anything. It's just two people having a conversation.” A spirited one at times, I thought. Maybe that would make the difference if we saw more of each other.

  I ate my frozen yogurt while she stared at me as if I had grown another head. None of my friends understood why I hadn't fallen head over heels for someone this fantastic. Fallen in love overnight with a handsome man who wrote love stories for a living, and seemed the physical embodiment of the classic romance hero.

  “What are you waiting for?” Monique demanded. “This guy is practically Mr. Darcy incarnate. Even you have to admit that’s pretty hard to pass up.”

  “I can't just fall in love because other people think I should," I answered.

  I couldn’t explain it any better than that. Since Lizzie and Darcy were hardly a case of love at first sight I didn't think my friends' complaints were all that fair. But it was definitely not the scene of passionate romance they were hoping for when I met Gareth for coffee again later that week. Or rather, I had some coffee, while Gareth ordered tea, the same kind he requested at the Regent.

  We sat in a corner booth, where Gareth told me about the café’s history with the artist community. Apparently, decades of local authors had spent their days scribbling in notebooks at the surrounding tables and booths.

  “Does that include the famous Gareth Hart?” I teased, noticing the notebook and pen at his elbow. Somehow, a laptop hadn’t seemed quite fitting for the man some critics referred to as a modern F. Scott Fitzgerald, according to a website I read. This fit his image better, I thought.

  Gareth shook his head. “These are just for making notes. I require total silence when I write. Concentrating in an atmosphere like this would be impossible. Other people are distractions at best and damaging at worst.”

  That seemed harsh. He must’ve realized how bad it sounded, his next words softening the impression a little.

  “The quality of my work depends on creating a certain environment," he explained. "Anything can change the tone of a manuscript, so I have to be careful when I’m writing. It may sound strange, but it’s true.”

  “I guess that makes sense.” Who was I to judge? The longest work I had ever written was a ten-page essay back in college days. The same one Connor Mills, my classmate and secret crush, asked me to help him with for Composition 101.

  Classes hadn’t been Connor’s strong point, unlike his social skills and moves on the basketball court. My date, on the other hand, seemed more like the honors student type, or maybe even class valedictorian. This was a shift in my type, maybe.

  What kind of student was Levi, I wondered. Had he been athletic or a book geek? Slacking off or dreaming of college? He seemed like the type who would have been a good student — maybe not at the top, but still hardworking.

  Why are you thinking about him? My mind snapped back to the present. I knew better than to still be dwelling on the idea of Levi and me, and knew that I had to let it go. But here I was on a date with a gorgeous guy and still thinking of the chance I had lost.

  I shook it off. I smiled at Gareth, who hadn't noticed my mind wandering away for a moment. He was making a note on one of his pages.

  “Have you been busy?” I asked him, curious about how he spent his time. He wrote of course, but what else? Did he spend time with friends and fellow writers? What about family? I knew next to nothing about him, I realized. But that was natural, since we were practically strangers still.

  “I’ve been writing,” he said. “Mid-week, I took a break and flew to London.”

  “Do you know someone there?” I asked. After all, he was a famous writer. He must have friends in every country he visited, maybe even foreign authors.

  He nodded. “A fellow author was giving a reading of her new book. Her name is Cynthia Yard.”

  “I don’t think I’ve heard of her. Is she a fiction writer?” I stirred my coffee. Maybe I should add her name to my list of authors to read — one I would never finish wading through, I suspected.

  “She is. Her novels aren’t the kind that make the best seller list. She’s well-known in literary circles, though.”

  “Oh.” Did he mean that to sound condescending? I thought of myself as a serious reader, after all. I followed The New York Times Bestsellers List, but I read my fair share of obscure authors as well. “Maybe I’ll look her up,” I told him. “I like a good literary novel now and then.”

  He merely raised his brows. It struck me he was a little bit snobbish, despite being much kinder than before. He probably imagined I read the kind of books he referred to as airport literature—and sometimes I did. But clearly, he didn’t.

  Turning the tables, I asked him, “So who are your favorite authors? I’m always curious what writers like to read, and I've never gotten to ask one before now."

  "I'm the first author you've ever met?" he asked.

  "In case you failed to notice, I'm pretty busy during most of the hotel's events," I answered him. "I don't usually have time to exchange more than a few polite words with famous guests. In your case, I was especially assigned to be helpful by the hotel's manager."

  "That was thoughtful," he said. "I'll write them a note." He smiled, proving this was a joke.

  "Anyway, answer my question. Who do you read? How do you view your competition in the field? Do you love their books?"

  “My favorite authors aren’t really my competition,” he answered. “Most of them have been dead for years.”

  “Like who?”

  “Virginia Woolf. Hemingway, Fitzgerald…” He trailed off, smiling as he watched my expression. “You see, I’m not in danger of competing with any of those people.”

  “Maybe you are,” I said. “Maybe people will be reading your novels in classrooms years from now. Writing essays on them right alongside The Great Gatsby and To the Lighthouse.”

  “I doubt it. My books are shelved in Contemporary Romance, whatever the critics might say.” With a bitter smile for the thought. "Where they belong, truthfully."

  “Why should that matter? Jane Austen was a romance novelist in her time. Look how revered she is now," I pointed out.

  “Mm.” A noncommi
ttal sound. So he didn’t like Austen’s works either. The irony struck me as funny somehow. I didn’t hide my smile in time.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said. “I was just thinking how much truth there is in fiction. Minus the happy endings, of course.” With a pointed look, as I referenced his Q&A session from the luncheon.

  He flushed a deep shade of red in response. “You disagreed with my answer, I take it?”

  “Maybe a little, yes. I mean, happy endings might be cliché, but they’re also what most people prefer. Especially romance readers. There are enough unhappy endings without all of literature being filled with them, too, aren't there?”

  “So I should include one in my next manuscript, I suppose?”

  “Maybe,” I told him. “After all, if you keep ending your novels with the hero and heroine apart, won’t that become equally predictable? A happy ending here and there would keep your readers on their toes.”

  He frowned, playing with the pen beside his notebook. “I might consider it. If the meaning of the story wasn’t compromised in some way.”

  “By a happy ending? I wouldn’t think so. The most beloved stories of all time have ended on a positive note.”

  “What about Gone With the Wind?” he challenged. “Romeo and Juliet? Wuthering Heights, A Farewell to Arms…”

  I laughed, shaking my head. “All right, all right. You might have a point there. A small one, but I’ll concede it.”

  “Good,” he said. “I would hate for happy endings to drive us apart.”

  I smiled at the way he said it. He could be playful when he chose, his dark eyes taking on a spark of humor. I could imagine other emotions swirling in those eyes and felt a tiny shiver for the thought. He really was handsome — and he could be charming, in a scholarly way, if you gave him the chance.

  I could picture liking him as more than a friend at times. It just hadn’t happened yet.