Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love #5) - Ali Parker Page 0,56

made me smile. I pursed my lips, scratched my chin, and considered where they might be. “I don’t know, guys. Venice? Peru? New Zealand?”

“Nope,” they said in unison.

“Just tell me!”

My mother’s laughter filled the line and she cried, “We’re in Dubai!”

“Dubai?” I exclaimed. “What? Seriously? Why haven’t you sent me pictures?”

My parents chuckled and assured me pictures were on the way. They just hadn’t had time to sit down at a computer, plug their camera in, and transfer the files. My parents had an old school Kodak camera that they took on every single trip with them. The amount of memory cards they owned was almost as appalling as the amount of photo albums that filled the bookshelves in their basement suite. Most were family albums, but as of late, they’d been adding all their travel albums to the collection. The physical copy still won out against the digital one for them.

I checked the time and sighed. “I’m sorry, guys. I have to go back to work. I’m so glad you called. It’s good to hear your voice. I miss you both so much.”

“We miss you too, kiddo,” my dad said.

“We’re thinking of coming back home soon,” my mother said. “When we fly back, we’re going to try to make a pit stop in New York so we can come see you. Then we’ll make our way home after that.”

“Really?” I asked hopefully.

“Really,” she said. “It’s been too long. We’ll keep you posted, all right?”

“Okay,” I said, cheeks hurting from smiling so big. “Love you guys.”

“Love you too.”

We ended the call and I returned to my place with Callie behind the bar. She took over the espresso machine while I worked the register. I was thankful for it because I needed the practice. Despite how messy and clumsy I was, making the drinks came easier to me than managing the register. Computers had never really been my forte and this sales system wasn’t all that straightforward.

About an hour passed before a woman in a matching skirt and blazer strolled in wearing a pair of sleek and expensive looking sunglasses. She had long black hair pulled back in a straight pony tail, and her lips were painted a magnificent fuchsia shade. She scanned the room until her green eyes fell on me. A smile curled those pink lips of hers and her hips swayed from side to side as she approached the register. Her heels stopped clicking on the floor when she leaned against the counter in front of me.

She tapped a fingernail that was the same shade as her lips on the bar top. “Hi, my name is Kelly Green. I’m a journalist from Wallflower Literary Magazine. I was wondering if you had a minute to chat.”

I frowned. Wallflower? That was a huge literary magazine that published dozens of short stories monthly and had led to the discovery of many brilliant authors who wrote in various genres.

What would a journalist from an online magazine want with me?

Kelly set her designer purse down on the counter, popped it open, and pulled out her wallet. “I’ll take a non fat, sugar free, no whip caramel latte, please.”

Chapter 24

Wes

Harriet stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows in my publisher’s office in Manhattan. Today she wore a pair of ruby red pants, black high heels with red soles, and a black turtleneck. A long gold necklace hung around her neck that matched the gold earrings in her ears and I was struck by how meticulous she was with her clothing and appearance.

I suspected Harriet had always cared a great deal about what other people thought of her. Clothing and makeup seemed to be her way of trying to control an uncontrollable narrative.

My publisher, Wilson Gaines, sat on the opposite side of his desk from me. His office was a sprawling room full of books, modern and somewhat cold looking furniture, and strange artwork. To my right on the edge of his desk was a statue of a pair of broken scissors. Behind him on the shelves boasting books he’d published were more strange figurines, most of which he’d told me he collected from various countries he’d visited.

Every time I sat in this seat, there was something new in his office. Today it was the statue of the broken scissors.

“It’s from a local artist in Paris,” Wilson said when he caught me studying the statue.

“It’s interesting,” I said.

“Isn’t it?” Wilson mused. He cocked his head to the side to regard the statue. When he’d had his fill,