In that moment, she battled with the urge to either pull him closer or push him away.
Instead, she remained frozen. His thumb moved along her wrist. Could he feel her racing pulse?
“Stupid,” she muttered.
“Careful. You might be in danger of getting hurt and find yourself in need of rescuing.”
Her tummy twisted in reaction to her physical and social clumsiness. To her surprise, he laughed.
“I’m so sorry. I… I… The writing I enjoyed.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t take it back. Once words are airborne, they become stale, and you can’t breathe them in again. You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do. It was rude and insensitive.”
“It was honest.” He threw down some paper towels while she took the book and wiped it against her shirt, holding it as if it was a valuable work of art.
“Look Shyla, I know my work isn’t going to change the world, but Max Montero gives people an enjoyable escape for a few hours, and I’m happy to provide that outlet.”
She held up the book. “If I had known.”
“But you didn’t, and I’m glad you didn’t. Honesty is a rare and treasured trait for me. Trust me, I’ve gotten far worse reviews than yours.”
His reassurances did nothing to assure her. “The books say Keegan Moon is the author.”
“That’s my pseudonym.”
“Why do you write under an alias?”
He stood, holding his hand out to assist her. He opened a hall closet and retrieved a broom and dustpan. “For a few reasons. My first book was under my real name, and it’s very different from the fifteen Max Montero books. My agent figured it would be a good idea to use a penname. Once readers get to know an author, they have certain expectations of their work, and we didn’t want to disappoint them.” Nick scooped up the glass, walked back to the kitchen, and deposited it in the bin. He returned with fresh water for Shyla, but this time it was in a plastic bottle. “We shouldn’t chance it again,” he said with a wink.
“That’s probably wise.”
“Anyway, I decided I liked the other name, and it gives me a bit of anonymity.”
“What was your first book about?”
Shyla started clearing the table, but he took over, gesturing for her to sit. She flopped on the dining room chair, playing with her scarf, happy to have something to occupy her hands.
“My grandfather’s life.”
“Like a biography?”
“Sort of. He didn’t relay his whole life story, but he gave me some interesting snippets. I pasted enough together to write the book.”
“He must be very special.”
“He was,” he said in a low voice.
“I’m sorry.”
“He had a good life.” Nick glanced at a picture on the wall. “He was kind of a bastard….but a loveable one.” Nick’s blue eyes grew wistful. “He used to have all these grampisms or grumpisms, depending on how you looked at it. He would give me advice, but it always fell a little short of its mark. Like he’d say, ‘Nicky, it’s true you can be anything you want to be in this country…but for fuck’s sake, make sure whatever you choose, you aim for rich.’” Nick’s voice had turned gruffer when he quoted his grandfather.
“It sounds like you were close to him.”
“He raised me.” Nick took the seat across from her again. She forced herself not to stare at his ripped jeans or bare feet. Why was that appealing?
“What happened to your parents?” she asked, folding a paper napkin into a tight square.
“I don’t have any,” he said without emotion.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I don’t mean to lead you astray. My parents are very much alive, but their existence has no bearing on mine.”
“I understand,” she said, although she didn’t. She wondered if she should take her leave now that her constant curiosity had ruined the mood.
“You do?”
“Not really.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “I was four when my dad left. I’ve seen him maybe a dozen times since then. All of those visits involved monetary requests…on his part. Another reason I chose an alias.”
“That’s awful.”
A flicker of a frown eased into a dismissive shrug. “It could be worse.”
“Your mother?”
“She resented being saddled with a kid. She’d take off for weeks at a time, depositing me with Gramps. The last time was when I was eight. He told her not to come back again.” Nick laughed cynically. “The one time she listened to him.”
Shyla wanted to find some words of comfort, but nothing came to her. There didn’t seem to be much else to say, but Nick didn’t appear to need a response. “Wow, this turned into a therapy session, didn’t it? Would you believe I never talk about this stuff, or have you already categorized me as a wallowing prick?”
“I would believe you with no doubts. I shouldn’t have asked so many personal questions.”
“Inquiring about someone’s parents isn’t a personal question…not usually, but you can ask me anything.”
Her heart wrenched for him, but she was grateful for the warmth of his words. “Your grandfather must have been proud of you.”
“I finished the book right before he died. He was the first one who read it. He cried. He said it was like his life had a purpose. I’ve been lucky enough to receive many accolades in my career, but the statement from Gramps, by far, was my greatest moment as a writer.”
“I would love to read that book.”
Nick strode over to the bookcase. He jumped on the ladder, skipping several rungs, and then leaned his body until the whole structure slid effortlessly to the other side of the long shelf.
She tensed at the carefree, almost reckless way he carried himself. “Be careful.”
“I do this all the time.”
He reached for a book on the top without looking, and then jumped off. He walked over to her and deposited the small hardcover in her lap. “Here you go.”
“You’re lending it to me?” She traced the embossed cover that featured a black and white deck of playing cards. She cleared her throat and gripped her fingers on the novel with enough force to cause her knuckles to crack.
“You won’t find it in a bookstore anymore. It did well critically, but it was no commercial success. You can keep it.”
“I couldn’t.”
“I insist. I have other copies. Besides, you can’t hate my work if you haven’t been exposed to all of it.”
“Thank you. I can’t wait to read this.” She held up the small book with a surprisingly steady hand. “Irish Hold’em?”
“Yeah, it’s a play on Texas Hold’em, my grandfather’s favorite game. He was a gambler. He didn’t win much, and it’s probably the reason we were always broke, but he sure as hell loved