Part 3 (1/2)
Not believing him, she met his eyes, then picked up the paper. Her type of book didn't tend to be a popular success, though she had done well enough because she was her own publisher. The Internet had given her the ability to reach markets she might not otherwise have touched.
Because of the Internet access, she had also been picked up by the bookstore chains, as well as by a number of the remaining independent bookstores that specialized in history and anything medieval.
”Fine, don't believe me. Look!” he told her.
She looked. And there was her book and her name.
”You don't think there's been a mistake?” she asked him.
He laughed. ”You sound like me.”
”No,” she told him, flas.h.i.+ng him a smile. ”You're a total neurotic.
You can't believe in your talent because you are successful, and you're always terrified that you're not talented enough to be successful, and no matter how often we all pat you on the back, you're still neurotic.”
He nodded cheerfully. ”I know. You sound just like me,” he repeated.
She sighed, looking at the list again. ”I'm just amazed. And happy, of course.”
”It's a great book. Fabulous photography. And you did it all yourself.”
”Most of it. But Shanna did some.”
Jade's waiter came back to the table. Jade ordered more coffee; Matt ordered beignets and coffee.
Jade continued to stare at the list.
”It is unbelievable,” she said, flas.h.i.+ng him a smile.
”So when's the party?” ”Party?”
”Naturally you're having us over-the Wednesday Eve Group- tonight.”
”It's Thursday.”
”I know that. But you're buying lots of champagne- and no cheap stuff-and maybe even some caviar.”
”You told me once that you hate caviar.”
”That's beside the point. At such an occasion in life, you should have caviar. And we're all going to toast you and say good things and celebrate.”
”Maybe we should. But do you think there's time to get hold of everyone?”
”Jade, Jade, Jade,” he said impatiently. ”Why do you think I'm here so early? We'll start calling everyone right away.”
”We?” she queried.
”Well,” he said modestly. ”The Ripper of London, hardcover by yours truly, is in the top ten,” he told her casually, pulling the actual paper from his back jeans pocket and tossing it on the table.
”Matt, really?” she inquired, excited for him. He already had the Arts and Entertainment section opened to the right page. His book, number eight, had been circled in bright red, and the word yeah! had been written around it several times. ”Congratulations!” she told him.
”Thanks!” he grinned happily.
”So ... you're higher up. Why am I having the party?”
”You have the nicer apartment.”
”You think?”
”Town house in an actual old antebellum colonial with a French restaurant right next door that serves the best desserts known to man?
Beautiful, flower-filled, vined brick balcony on the second floor overlooking the street, with a view of a great jazz club and beautifully kept streets? Um. Let me rethink this. I have a third-floor walk-up in a part of town where they tell the tourists not to go. Yes. I've thought it through. You have the nicer apartment. You have the party.”
”You could move,” she told him.
”Are you kidding? I live next to the best, craziest voodoo pract.i.tioners I have ever met. My neighbors are totally insane. I love them all. Including the one-eyed, one-balled Jack Russell owned by old Mammy Louise upstairs.”
”He pees on your shoes all the time.”
”How mad can you get at a one-balled dog?”
”I have nothing against the little fellow; he never pees on me. And hey, I like your place myself,” she a.s.sured him. ”You were the one complaining.”
”I wasn't complaining. Yours is simply the better place for a party.”
”Fine. I'm happy to have a party. I'll invite everyone.” !
”Just call your sister.” He flushed. ”I already made a few phone calls.”
She arched a brow. He grinned. ”Well, you had to agree. You had to be excited. You had to want to celebrate!”
The waiter brought more coffee and beignets. Matt pushed the basket toward her. ”Fresh and warm!” he said hopefully.
She pushed the basket back. ”I've had plenty. Thank you.”
He accepted her refusal, quickly gobbling down one of the powdered-sugar-covered breakfast rolls. He let out a little sound of sensual pleasure at the taste of the food, and licked his fingers.
”I'll buy the caviar,” he told her.
”Good. You should. I don't like the stuff, and neither do you, so if you want it, you go find it.”
”You'll do the champagne?”
”I will.”
He snuffed a second beignet in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed in seconds flat. He gulped his coffee and rose.
”You're in a hurry,” she said.