Moore had been seen having lunch with a total stranger.
"And here I was, thinking you were a native."
"I think it's important to try to blend in with the native culture whenever possible," he said pedantically.
"You're doing a fine job," she assured him. "Where are you from?"
"Most recently? Seattle, for the last couple of years."
"Is the Pacific Northwest as beautiful as it looks in pictures?"
"There's lots of green stuff," Neill said, without enthusiasm. "I haven't figured out how it manages to grow when there's never any sunlight. If it ever got warm, it would be like living in a sauna. As it is, it's just chilly and damp and...green."
"So why did you live there for two years?" Anne asked, smiling at his bleak description.
"Work," he said, glancing around for DeDe and her pink uniform, hoping she would provide a distraction before Anne asked what he did. But DeDe was on the other side of the counter, arguing with the cook over an order. And Anne was already asking the obvious.
"What kind of work do you do?"
"I'm a writer," he said, tossing the word out with a verbal shrug. He didn't want to talk about his work.
"Really?'' Startled, Anne looked at him. "You don't look like a writer."
The comment surprised him. "What does a writer look like?"
''More...writerly." The smile in those impossibly blue eyes deepened and she shrugged, smiling self-consciously. ''Glasses, maybe. Stooped shoulders. A little vague."
"I think you've got writers confused with absent-minded professors," Neill said, grinning.
"Could be." Certainly the man sitting across from her was about as far from that image as it was possible to get, Anne thought, letting her eyes skim over those broad shoulders. She wondered what he looked like without a shirt. Was his chest smooth or covered in dark, curling hair? She could see the ripple of muscles under the thin cotton of his T-shirt, and she wondered what those muscles would feel like under her hands. Catching his questioning look, Anne felt her cheeks warm and cursed her fair complexion that made it impossible to hide a blush. To distract him—and her own wayward thoughts—she rushed into speech.
"So, what do you write?"
Neill hesitated a moment over the answer. If he told her what he wrote, there was a chance she would connect N. C. Devlin, the bestselling writer, with Neill Devlin, stranded motorcycle rider. Then things would change. She didn't strike him as the sort to start scrabbling for a pen so she could get his autograph, but fame always changed things. And, although he couldn't have said why it mattered, he didn't want to see the look in her eyes shift from interest to curiosity.
"I write nonfiction," he said, shrugging lightly. 'I've done articles on a lot of different things, how to plant a rosebush, ten tips for buying a ladder— that sort of thing."
It was true enough, as far as it went. He'd spent a couple of years scrabbling as a freelance writer, working at odd jobs while he used his spare time to write The Stranger Next Door, his first book and, as luck and the vagaries of the publishing world would have it, his first bestseller. He hadn't lied, he reminded himself in answer to a twinge of conscience, but he was grateful for the distraction provided by DeDe's sudden arrival, pink uniform, blue eyeshadow and all.
"What can I get for you two?" she asked, pencil poised over her order pad, eyes avid with curiosity.
Anne ordered a salad and then listened wistfully as Neill ordered a hamburger, fries and a shake. It was one of the great injustices of the world that men could so often stuff their face full of zillions of calories and never gain an ounce, while most women had only to walk past a Danish to gain weight
He didn't want to talk about his writing, she thought, lifting her water glass to sip. It wasn't hard to understand. She'd never known any writers, but she knew most of them were lucky if they made a bare living wage. It was pretty clear that he was just scraping by.
"And here I was, thinking you were a native."
"I think it's important to try to blend in with the native culture whenever possible," he said pedantically.
"You're doing a fine job," she assured him. "Where are you from?"
"Most recently? Seattle, for the last couple of years."
"Is the Pacific Northwest as beautiful as it looks in pictures?"
"There's lots of green stuff," Neill said, without enthusiasm. "I haven't figured out how it manages to grow when there's never any sunlight. If it ever got warm, it would be like living in a sauna. As it is, it's just chilly and damp and...green."
"So why did you live there for two years?" Anne asked, smiling at his bleak description.
"Work," he said, glancing around for DeDe and her pink uniform, hoping she would provide a distraction before Anne asked what he did. But DeDe was on the other side of the counter, arguing with the cook over an order. And Anne was already asking the obvious.
"What kind of work do you do?"
"I'm a writer," he said, tossing the word out with a verbal shrug. He didn't want to talk about his work.
"Really?'' Startled, Anne looked at him. "You don't look like a writer."
The comment surprised him. "What does a writer look like?"
''More...writerly." The smile in those impossibly blue eyes deepened and she shrugged, smiling self-consciously. ''Glasses, maybe. Stooped shoulders. A little vague."
"I think you've got writers confused with absent-minded professors," Neill said, grinning.
"Could be." Certainly the man sitting across from her was about as far from that image as it was possible to get, Anne thought, letting her eyes skim over those broad shoulders. She wondered what he looked like without a shirt. Was his chest smooth or covered in dark, curling hair? She could see the ripple of muscles under the thin cotton of his T-shirt, and she wondered what those muscles would feel like under her hands. Catching his questioning look, Anne felt her cheeks warm and cursed her fair complexion that made it impossible to hide a blush. To distract him—and her own wayward thoughts—she rushed into speech.
"So, what do you write?"
Neill hesitated a moment over the answer. If he told her what he wrote, there was a chance she would connect N. C. Devlin, the bestselling writer, with Neill Devlin, stranded motorcycle rider. Then things would change. She didn't strike him as the sort to start scrabbling for a pen so she could get his autograph, but fame always changed things. And, although he couldn't have said why it mattered, he didn't want to see the look in her eyes shift from interest to curiosity.
"I write nonfiction," he said, shrugging lightly. 'I've done articles on a lot of different things, how to plant a rosebush, ten tips for buying a ladder— that sort of thing."
It was true enough, as far as it went. He'd spent a couple of years scrabbling as a freelance writer, working at odd jobs while he used his spare time to write The Stranger Next Door, his first book and, as luck and the vagaries of the publishing world would have it, his first bestseller. He hadn't lied, he reminded himself in answer to a twinge of conscience, but he was grateful for the distraction provided by DeDe's sudden arrival, pink uniform, blue eyeshadow and all.
"What can I get for you two?" she asked, pencil poised over her order pad, eyes avid with curiosity.
Anne ordered a salad and then listened wistfully as Neill ordered a hamburger, fries and a shake. It was one of the great injustices of the world that men could so often stuff their face full of zillions of calories and never gain an ounce, while most women had only to walk past a Danish to gain weight
He didn't want to talk about his writing, she thought, lifting her water glass to sip. It wasn't hard to understand. She'd never known any writers, but she knew most of them were lucky if they made a bare living wage. It was pretty clear that he was just scraping by.
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