Erin fidgeted in the pin-striped chair. The "two-minute" wait promised by the receptionist stretched into ten.
She glanced at the magazines spread on the side table. Shuffling through the pile, she found a new copy of "Them" magazine, a slick tabloid specializing in the latest scandals and love interests of the stars.
The headlines hyped the latest gossip about feuding politicians and love-struck actors. In the feature photo, a man and woman ducked their heads to avoid the paparazzi as they walked on a pier in a tropical locale. The man wore sunglasses, a pair of baggy shorts and sandals. Hmmm, nice abs, she thought.
The woman looked familiar. An actress, maybe? She wore a pink bikini with a black sarong knotted at her slim, tanned hip. Erin glanced out the large window at Washington's overcast skyline and shivered. Smog and low clouds obscured the Capitol dome. Spring and the Cherry Blossom Festival couldn't come soon enough.
She flipped through the magazine. Advertisements dominated the first ten pages, and then she came to the cover feature: The Island Couple. Most of the photos showed only the hunk. In one, he stood at the wheel of speed boat, shirtless, sunglasses on again, his dark wavy hair whipping in the wind. In another, he strummed a guitar at a beach bonfire.
"Like what you see?"
Erin dropped the magazine and stood.
"Patricia. How are you?"
"Fine. Have a seat, Erin."
Patricia McDowell slid behind her massive desk. An imperious veteran of the publishing trenches for more than thirty years, Patricia operated a company that churned out quality non-fiction. Its books dominated the top of the New York Times bestselling list. Despite her diamond-hard veneer and keen business sense, she served as the patron saint of famous artists, musicians and historians who needed help writing books.
Erin interned at McDowell Publishing while earning her master's degree. As an editorial assistant, Erin helped senior staff move manuscripts through the system, from the authors to the production department.
Patricia valued her efficiency, which paled in comparison to her charm and persistence. She discovered Erin succeeded, more often through guile and wile, when experienced editors failed.
Erin's easy-going personality put many shy and introverted scholars at ease as she helped them complete their books on schedule.
Patricia couldn't care less if the girl recognized a split infinitive or a dangling participle. She employed plenty of grammarians. She wanted results and Erin delivered.
"Nice-looking man, isn't he?" Patricia lifted her chin towards the discarded tabloid.
"George Clooney?"
"No. The man on the cover."
"I didn't notice," Erin said. She picked up the magazine, thumbing through the pages until she found the photo spread again.
"He's okay, I guess. Who wouldn't be with that kind of money? How much do you think that speedboat cost?"
"I'm not sure, but the sailboat cost at least half a million. I know. I bought it for him."
"What? You're kidding me. You know this guy?" The magazine slipped through her fingers.
"That, my dear, is your next assignment. The boat was an advance on his forthcoming book."
Patricia smiled at Erin's disbelief. "Yes, he's that important, but he's a bit lackadaisical. He's missed several deadlines and his first chapter was due last month." Patricia leaned back into her leather chair and arched a silver eyebrow. "I cannot tolerate that. I need you on the project immediately."
"Is he local?" Erin picked up the magazine, flipped to the feature article and this time looked closer at the photographs.
"No. You'll have to travel for this one," Patricia said. Noting Erin's frown, she added, "He lives in North Carolina. Just a few hours away."
Erin chewed her lip. She preferred to work with writers living near the Washington Beltway. Her vitae consisted of edited books by professors, not playboys. She lived in Dupont Circle, near the fashionable northwest but not as costly. Still, living in the capital was expensive and she could not afford to turn down a job.
"Can you leave right away?"
Erin fumbled through her jacket pocket and pulled out her mobile phone. Flipping through its digital calendar, she scanned the months of April and May. Nothing she couldn't reschedule.
"Yes. Do you have a dossier on this guy? What does he do?"
Patricia paused. "I'm sorry, no bio unless you count the 'Sexiest Man in America' feature in 'Them.' He's an artist and for some reason he's popular in L.A. You won't believe what they're paying for his paintings. Your job is to make sure he finishes this book. Hell, I need you to make sure he begins it. I envision a book that can be used in a university setting by art students, and still entertain the layperson. He's an exciting talent. It's imperative we publish the book while he's still on top. An illustrated autobiography by Stephen Spence will sell very well."
"What's his name? Stephen Spence?" Erin echoed.
"Have you heard of him?"
"I'm not sure. I'll have to do some research. I guess these magazines are the best place to begin," Erin said, dropping the tabloid on the table. "The paparazzi like to follow him. Who are the women?"
"Who knows? He's seldom seen with the same one twice. He doesn't appear to be lonely, does he?"
Erin heaved a sigh. "Men like him seldom are."
* * *
Not sure how long the project would last, Erin over packed. She decided to keep her appearance professional and maintain a dressy-casual style for work. To her traditional "librarian garb," she added a new cocktail dress. She also packed cotton tops and shorts since spring came earlier in the Carolinas. Stephen Spence lived by the Atlantic Ocean, so she could beach comb, maybe swim during her free time. She tossed an assortment of undergarments, and her bathing suit into the mix. Next, she went through the medicine cabinet and the shower, dumping products into a water-proof tote.
Aidan leaned against the bathroom door, eating a protein bar. "Hey, what's going on?"
Erin's ex-husband, Aidan Carter was a full-time student working on his Ph.D. Their marriage ended the year before, after she discovered his love affair with another student.
Surprisingly, their breakup was not bitter. They'd been childhood friends, and after their divorce, and six months to get over hurt feelings, Erin decided she liked him better as a friend than a husband.
They agreed to be friends and, temporarily, roommates, at least while Aidan finished his doctoral degree. A poor student, he couldn't afford his own apartment in D.C., so he used the spare bedroom in Erin's place. He paid rent, when he could, and bartered cleaning and cooking services when he couldn't pay.
Sometimes, though, Aidan forgot they were "roommates" and poked his nose into her business.
"I have an assignment. I'll be gone for at least a month, I imagine," Erin said.
"What's the assignment?"
"I'm going to North Carolina. Patricia has a client who can't meet his deadlines. I have to go down there and crack the whip."
"Who is this client and how old is he?"
"Jealous?" she asked.
"Maybe," he said.
"Well, don't be. It's work," Erin said, relieved she hadn't brought home the magazine with photos of Stephen Spence. "Besides, you have your life and I have mine. Remember?"
"I remember, but I care about you," he said. Then he glanced into her suitcase and noticed the mass of frilly underwear and the bathing suit.
"Looks more like a vacation to me," he complained.
Erin closed her suitcase and zipped the flap, suppressing a grin. What would Aidan say about her spending the next month at the beach with a handsome and rich playboy?
"Well, it's not."
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