Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love #5) - Ali Parker Page 0,32

put in our order for the bottle and some appetizers.

“So these little stories you claim to write,” she said slowly, “they’re not little at all, are they?”

She’d caught me red handed. Usually, I wouldn’t tell a woman I was interested in who I was. However, there was something different about Briar. “No, they’re not little.”

“Would I know them?”

“Perhaps.”

“Tell me. Please?”

I studied her. Giving her my full name might change everything. It might ruin this thing between us in an instant. But I had to give her a chance to prove me wrong, didn’t I?

“I have a pen name that I use to keep my identity anonymous,” I explained. “I prefer to avoid the public eye by not letting my readers know my real name. Some people think it’s cowardly, but honestly, I’m just protecting my sanity.”

“I can understand that.”

Could she? Or was she just saying that to get the name out of me?

I sighed. “I write romance books.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Which ones?”

Just tell her the name.

Our bottle of wine arrived. I sat back in my chair while the server poured a splash into our glasses. We sipped at the same time and Briar commented that she liked it, so the server topped up both of our glasses and left the bottle in an ice bucket so it would remain chilled at our table.

Briar leaned forward conspiratorially. “Look, you don’t have to tell me, but I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t intensely curious.”

I rubbed my jaw. “My pen name is…”

Fuck. Why is this so hard to say?

Briar watched me contently and didn’t push me.

When was the last time you told someone who you were?

I couldn’t remember.

Just do it.

I gulped down three large mouthfuls of wine, set my glass down, and swallowed my nerves. “I publish under the name W. Parker.”

Briar stared at me completely expressionless.

For a moment, I assumed this meant she had no idea who that was and had never read any of my books. That would have been a good thing. We could carry on just like things were and my career would be what every normal person’s career was—just a part of them, not their entire identity. Then she looked around as the shock melted away, closed her eyes, and shook her head.

“Hold on,” she breathed. “You’re telling me that you’ve written over thirty-two romance books and that you’re a romance genius and best seller? I thought… I thought W. Parker was a woman!”

So much for that.

“A lot of people think so. It’s part of what makes it easy to hide, I suppose.”

Briar opened her eyes and stared at me. “I’m having dinner at the Tavern on the Green in Central Park with W. freaking Parker. Is this real life?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I chuckled.

Briar’s cheeks turned neon pink and she gripped the edges of the table. “I have read all of your books, Wes. And I mean all of them. And I’ve definitely done plenty of not-safe-for-work things while I was reading them. You—you—” She shook her head. “You have a way with words. Let’s leave it at that.”

The thought of Briar being intimate with herself while she read one of my books made my skin burn with lust. How had she done it?

In the bathtub perhaps? Had she surrounded herself with flickering candles, put on a romantic playlist in the background, sank down under the bubbles, and clutched the book in one hand while she touched herself with the other?

My pants were suddenly too tight.

Shit.

My mind continued to wander.

Had she done it in bed? Had she lain with her thighs open, knees resting against the mattress, a vibrating toy pressed to her clit?

Had she filled herself up with—

“This is so not what I expected,” Briar whispered. “One minute, I’m walking around in the pissing rain, feeling sorry for myself, and then I’m rescued by a man who lets me believe he’s a struggling artist, and lo and behold, you’re the guy whose books I’ve been reading when I need to, well, take care of things if you know what I mean.”

I cleared my throat and sipped water. “I know what you mean.”

Briar started giggling. “Sorry.”

I tugged at the collar of my shirt. “I’m glad there’s a napkin on my lap.”

She rested her elbows on the table and giggled into her hands until it morphed into full blown laughter that spilled over into me. Soon, we were both snorting and laughing our asses off with tears streaming down our faces while she proclaimed that