Mad Love Read Free

He wore a black hoodie, its hood pulled over his head.
    “Yes?” Tom pointed to him. “Do you have a question?”
    The guy stood. “I have a question for Alice.”
    I tapped my flip-flops against the floor. Though his eyes were somewhat shaded by the rim of his hood, his gaze was intense. “Yes?” I asked.
    “I have a love story to tell,” he said. “And I need you to write it for me. When can you get started?”
    A few women chuckled, then a long span of silence followed as the guy continued to stare at me. Was this a joke?
    Tom cleared his throat. “You mean you want Alice’s mother to write it? Alice is the Queen of Romance’s daughter. Maybe you didn’t hear my introduction.”
    “I know who Alice is,” the guy said. “I want her to write my story.”
    The word “want” hung in the air, adding an eerie note to the atmosphere. I shifted in my seat. “Well, that’s very nice and everything, but it’s your story so you should write it yourself.”
    “I’m not a writer,” he said. “But I lived the story, so I remember every single detail. All you have to do is read through my notes, then write it.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said, realizing this wasn’t a joke. “But I’m not a writer either. Good luck though.” I forced a smile, then looked away.
    Tom rescued me by calling on someone else, and the attention turned to the other two writers. The guy sat back in his chair, disappearing, once again, behind the sun hat. I slumped against my own chair, relief washing over me. I’d done what I’d set out to do—protect my mother’s secret. For a brief moment I felt proud of myself, but as Cookie Sparrow made a joke, and as laughter filled the bookstore, the familiar ache of loneliness pressed against my chest. It felt as if I’d been on my own forever, and in many ways I had.
    Tom went upstairs to work the cash register. While the two authors signed books, I handed out the copies with the forged signatures. “This book doesn’t have sex in it, does it?” a woman with a sunburned nose asked. “I don’t like the ones with all that sex.”
    Hello ? It’s a romance novel . “Actually, there is some sex,” I said, having long gotten over being embarrassed by my mother’s sex scenes. Her finger ran along his thigh. His tongue searched for hers. Her breasts heaved with passion. Stuff like that.
    The woman narrowed her eyes. “Hmmm.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Well, I suppose I could make an exception.” She grabbed Hunger of the Heart and hurried from the room.
    It was the last copy. I pushed back my chair, but as I stood to leave, something landed on the table. The other authors turned to look. The something was a big manila envelope. A strange odor filled the air—salty and muddy.
    “My notes are inside,” the guy from the audience said. He stood on the other side of the table. His hood still covered his head but I now had a clear view of his face. He was my age, maybe a bit older, with a square jaw and full lips. It was that James Bond kind of handsome. Greek God kind of handsome. Not cute. Cute did not apply to this guy. And he was unusually pale, which is saying a lot because I live in a very pale part of the world. But that’s all I noticed because my gaze was pulled toward his dark eyes. My mother would describe them as “smoldering.” Her leading men often had smoldering eyes. The word that came to my mind was “intense.” He stared at me as if he knew me, or wanted to know me. Kind of creepy. I looked away.
    Nessa and Cookie, forgetting they had books to sign, stared up at him.
    “Read my notes and then we’ll talk about the first chapter.” He started to leave. Nessa Van Nuys grabbed my arm.
    “I don’t care how handsome he is, don’t let him leave his notes,” she whispered. “You don’t want to get stuck with them. Believe me.”
    “Hey, wait,” I called. The guy turned back. “You can’t leave this with me.” I pushed the envelope to the edge of