by Nikky Kaye
His research was going much better now, thanks to Sophy’s input, but he still couldn’t figure out what made millions of readers of romance so loyal to the genre.
He tapped the pen against his teeth absently, and pecked out a few words with his right hand.
Looking for a hero.
Sophy certainly was; he knew that much. And she seemed to want to cast him in the role. He wished she wouldn’t; she’d only be disappointed.
His fingers stilled and tightened on the pen. Yes, she would be disappointed. He had a great gift for disappointing people. Like Trisha, his former clients looking to mend their marriages, his parents who wanted him to go to medical school. He knew that the Doctor in front of his name was not the kind they had been hoping for. Even Chapaty would be disappointed in him if this damned paper didn’t get written soon.
Max dropped the pen on the desk and leaned back in his chair. His lips twisted as he ruminated that for once, just once, he would like for someone to want him for who he was, not what they expected him to be or to do.
The buzzing movement on his desk brought him out of his funk of self-pity, and he auto-saved as he reached for his phone.
“Dr. Wright,” he announced.
“Hi, Max!”
He sighed. “Sophy.” Her brief greeting had sounded positively exuberant, which was always a bad sign. “You know what? I’m really tired today. I’m not sure I’m up to any more of your harebrained schemes.”
“Ah, but this isn’t a harebrained scheme.”
Max frowned. “Ha! Right. So far you’ve been the Wile E. Coyote of romance research.”
She giggled nervously. “This is different! I promise!”
“What is it?” He had good reason to be suspicious. After all, the last time she had sounded this optimistic, he had ended up practically mooning his boss.
“You’ll see. Are your classes done for the day?”
“Sophy, it’s June. Classes have been over for over a month.”
“Oh right. Then you’ll have no excuses.”
“What?”
“I’ll pick you up in front of your office in twenty minutes.”
The click echoed in Max’s ear as she hung up. He sighed, replacing the receiver with resigned wariness. He wondered if it was too late to call his insurance agent. There must be a policy against inhumane humiliation.
True to her word, she was waiting outside in exactly eighteen minutes. Her small compact vibrated silently as she rested her arm on the open window. She was humming along to the radio when he opened the passenger door and leaned in.
“Where are we going?”
She turned towards him with a broad smile, and he suspected that her eyes were sparkling behind her sunglasses. “It’s a surprise.”
The word sent shivers down his spine. He slammed the door shut behind him and started walking away from the car.
Another clunk sounded and he heard her sandals slapping on the asphalt as she ran after him. “Hey, wait a minute!”
He pivoted on one heel and crossed his arms over his chest. “Give me one good reason why I should go anywhere with you.”
He knew he was being petulant, but he was tired, and staring at his blank screen all morning hadn’t exactly helped. If he didn’t get some writing done soon, he could kiss his grant goodbye. Not to mention his merit increase. And tenure.
She stopped a few feet away from him and crossed her arms the same way he had. The movement deepened the cleavage revealed by her black tank top, and her expression was unreadable behind her sunglasses. Sweat suddenly prickled on Max’s forehead, and he wondered if tweed was too hot for June.
“Why?” he repeated.
“Because you have less than two months left on your grant, and a little over two weeks left on our agreement. And I’m going to help you.”
He turned away from her, his jaw set. “I think you’ve helped enough.” He pivoted, raising an eyebrow when she muttered something under her breath. “What was that?
The expression in her eyes concealed by her sunglasses, she smirked and enunciated clearly, “I said, what an asstard.”
“Well, then. Good luck with your book, Miss Honeypot.”
Her voice rang in his ears as he walked away. “How’s the paper coming?”
Max halted. Damn. She had him, and she knew she had him. When he turned back, her sunglasses were off and she squinted at him in the sunlight. Raising a hand to shade her eyes, she promised, “I am going to help you. Just come with me.”
He sighed, set his shoulders back, and followed her to the car. “Should I call my attorney first? Or a bail bondsman?”
She slid the sunglasses back on and grinned at him. “Buckle up. We’ll be there in an hour.”
There was a large mall in a neighbouring city fifty miles away, where Sophy pulled into a parking space. Max carefully peeled his hands from the armrest, which he had been clinging to for the last forty miles.
“My god, where did you learn how to drive?”
Her reply was muffled as she reached into the backseat for her tote bag. “My mother taught me.”
“Figures,” Max mumbled, remembering a few volatile counseling sessions and the way Maura Hadden had thrown her ex-husband around the dance floor the week before.
They entered the mall and Max instantly felt more comfortable, thanks to the icy blast of air conditioning. Sophy swung her straw bag over her shoulder and pointed to the left. “This way.”
A few minutes later they reached a bookstore. A poster near the entrance announced a book signing at two o’clock.
“Great, we’re not late.” Sophy clapped her hands together lightly and headed for the back of the store.
“Uh, what are we doing here?” Max had an idea that their visit had something to do with the signing, but he wasn’t sure what. Until he saw the display.
Dozens of books lay snuggled in a cardboard case. Heaving bosoms abounded on every rose pink cover, as well as long flowing hair, pectorally-enhanced bodies of both sexes, and curly script.
He frowned. “This isn’t your signing?”
“Oh no.” She pushed her sunglasses up on her head. “This is another romance author’s. I’m here to show support.” She jabbed him in the chest lightly. “I thought you could do some impromptu interviews of the customers. You know, get an idea of the average romance reader. A focus group of sorts.” She smiled softly, as if thinking about some private joke.
Relief flooded Max’s veins. He had been worried that she was planning to position him near the display and poll customers about his heroic qualities. This was different. This was almost academic. There was a method to this. He could handle this.
“Got a pen and paper?”
She beamed at him and produced a slightly battered notepad and ballpoint pen from the depths of her purse.
“I’m going to go talk to the author,” she told him.
He looked around the store and nodded towards a wall of paperbacks. “Is it okay if I stand over here and approach people as they leave the signing table?”
“Perfect.”
Max was surprised at the number of people who came into the store just after two o’clock. He peered at the display case again, wondering if he should recognize the name on the cover. He didn’t, but he would be the first to admit that his ignorance didn’t mean that the author wasn’t popular. Apparently she was.
The author sat behind the table with a welcoming smile and friendly words for every customer. She laughed at something Sophy said and glanced in his direction.
Clearing his throat, Max flipped open the notebook and walked over to a lady admiring her signed copy of the new book.
“Hi, I’m a psychology professor doing a study on the phenomenon of romance novels. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
The woman glanced down at the pen in his hand and then smiled at him. “Sure, go ahead.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven.”
M
ax jotted it down on the pad. “How long have you been reading romance novels?”
The woman’s gaze shifted to the small stack of books in her arms and looked pensive. “Probably about fifteen years or so. Maybe longer.” She frowned. “I guess it depends on what you consider romance,” she added.
Max made a note. Just what was considered romance? he wondered. “Are you married?”
“Yes, for ten years. Two kids, girls aged seven and nine.” Her smile widened and her eyes softened.
“That’s great.”
She nodded in agreement.
“What do you do for a living?” Max asked.
“I’m a stockbroker.”
Max nearly dropped the pen. “Really?”
The woman blushed slightly and shifted the books in her arms. “I’m taking the day off. It’s my brokerage, so what the hell!” Her laugh ended in an “Oops!” when one of her books slipped from the pile and fell to the floor.
Max stooped to retrieve it for her. She thanked him with a smile.
“Just one more thing.”
She waited patiently.
“Why do you read romance?”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “I’m not sure,” she replied slowly. “I guess I’m just a sucker for a happy ending.” Her frown disappeared and her mouth curved once again. “It’s nice to escape once in a while, you know what I mean?”
Max looked at her blankly. Escape? Escape from what?
She wedged the stack of paperbacks under her right arm and reached into her pocketbook for her purse with her left. “I mean, after work and the kids and everything, it’s nice to read a good book and relax.”
He was beginning to understand. “What does your husband think of your reading preferences?”
She unearthed her purse and let out a short laugh. “They’re not his cup of tea, but he doesn’t mind me reading them.” She winked at him. “He thinks they make me more creative, if you get my meaning.”
Max stopped scribbling on the pad. “Uh, yeah. Thanks for your time.”
She nodded and headed for the cash register.
Max bent his head over the pad and starting making some notes. He stepped forward, intending to head over to Sophy when he ran into something. Something around the size of a Mack truck, to be more specific.
His head jerked up to take in the expanse of black leather and steel studs, and the grizzled beard hiding an equally grizzled face. He would bet his nascent university retirement plan that there was a big, bad, black motorcycle in the parking lot with this guy’s name on it. Bubba, maybe. Or Snake. Max smiled nervously at the giant.
Yeah, Snake sounded about right. It would match the tattoo that surely covered a fair portion of his anatomy under the leather and studs.
“Sorry,” Max said.
The man grunted and stepped to the left at the same time that Max stepped to the right. They reversed directions and ran into each other again. This time a book fell from the Mack truck’s hand. Max glanced down at the fuschia cover and tried to hide his astonishment.
“You read romance?”
The man grunted again.
Max raised his pen. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
“I guess.” He sounded as though he chewed gravel for breakfast.
Max asked him similar questions that he had been asking other customers, trying to establish a kind of profile of the average romance reader. But, as Snake’s scarred leather pants caught the fluorescent light in the bookstore, Max realized that this man could never be called average.
He noted Snake’s answers on his pad and glanced over at Sophy. She was watching them carefully, a small smile on her lips. There seemed to be an “I told you so” glint in her eyes, and Max turned back to Snake. It was time to get to the interesting stuff.
“Do you feel that romance novels promote immoral behaviour?”
“Immoral?” Snake’s bushy eyebrows raised from beneath his wraparound sunglasses. “I guess not.”
Max tilted his head, frowning. “Why do you read them?”
“I like the characters, I guess.” Snake was starting to look uncomfortable.
“Which do you prefer, the hero or the heroine? Generally speaking, of course?”
Snake’s lips twisted in a grin. “The villain.”
Max made some notes and one more thing popped into his head. He looked up at Snake and smiled. “Just one more question. Are you ever embarrassed that you read a genre considered by most to be traditionally feminine?”
The last thing he saw was the light reflecting off of the steel studs on Snake’s jacket as his fist plowed into Max’s face.
6
“Well, what did you think was going to happen?” Sophy grinned. She had been hoping that Max would get something out of the booksigning, but this wasn’t what she had in mind. “Hold still, will you?”
Max glared at her through the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. “It hurts.”
“I’m sure it does.” Sophy lifted the plastic bag full of ice cubes to take a look at his souvenir from the bookstore and winced. “And it’s going to for a while yet.” After gently placing the ice pack back on his eye, she sat back on Max’s couch and sighed. “Whatever possessed you to ask that question?”
Max raised an eyebrow and grimaced at the movement. “It was a perfectly legitimate question,” he replied belligerently.
“Hmmm.” Sophy was not convinced. Just what was he trying to prove with this study of his? That romantic novels were detrimental to masculinity? If that biker had aimed a little lower, Max might have proven that theory. As far as she was concerned, he deserved that wallop—maybe it would knock him down from his ivory tower.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t heroic enough for you back there,” he said with a liberal dose of sarcasm.
She stifled a giggle at the memory. “Actually, you did okay. When you hit the floor, your leg hooked around that guy’s ankle and you took him down pretty hard.”
Max’s eyes widened. “I did?”
“Mmm hmm. He probably has a shiner himself from when he took out that low-fat cookbook display. With his face,” she added.
“Wow,” Max breathed.
Wow is right, Sophy thought. It wasn’t quite dueling pistols at forty paces, but for Max, it was progress in the hero department. She rubbed the back of her neck and looked around the room for the first time. “Nice place.”
Max rested his head against a cushion, half-lying on the couch beside her and squinted. “Thanks. I guess all you saw before was the kitchen.”
It was a cozy room, brightly colored and dimly lit. Sophy was already in love with his couch, and wondered where she could get one like it. Upholstered in a plush chestnut corduroy, it was perfectly cushy in all the right places, and could swallow a person whole. She tucked her feet under her legs and smiled.
“Didn’t you ever have clients taking swings at you?”
“What?”
“When you were a marriage counselor,” she prompted.
“I didn’t exactly try to promote violence in sessions, Sophy. I tried to be a mediator, not a referee.” He paused, a faraway look in his uncovered eye. “I nearly got clocked by my ex-fiancée though.”
Sophy stilled. “You were engaged? To a woman?”
He frowned then winced at the movement. “You don’t have to sound so shocked.”
“What happened?”
Max smiled mysteriously and closed his eyes, his stupid long eyelashes dusting his unmarred cheek. “She wanted to marry a doctor, or a banker. I didn’t want to be either of those things. When I left for Stanford, she threw my ring at me.” His good eye fluttered open and he grinned at her. “Her follow-through was great but her aim was lousy. Cracked my windshield. Cost me nearly three hundred bucks to get it fixed,” he added, looking only slightly affronted.
“What was her name?”
“The windshield?”
Well, he had been hit on the head, she thought. “No, the fiancée.” It wasn’t important,
Sophy told herself. She was just curious.
“Trisha.” There was no love lost in his voice, and she sighed inwardly in relief.
“And your ex-clients?”
“No, I never had any clients try to hit me.”
She shrugged, slumping into the couch. “Seemed reasonable to me.” She tilted her head at him and narrowed her eyes. “I might have.”
“That’s where you and I are different,” Max acknowledged from his prostrate position. His feet were touching the floor, but his upper body was almost flat on the couch, his arm raised over his head as he held the ice pack to his eye. He had divested of his jacket as soon as they got in the door, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, exposing the dark dusting of hair along his lower arms.
Sophy frowned. “Different? You mean because I might, let’s say, allow my passion to overcome me, and you wouldn’t?”
“Precisely. Except that I really don’t think you would.”
She had the feeling she had just been insulted, but she wasn’t exactly sure how. “Why not?”
Max repositioned the ice pack a few inches to the left, and replied casually, “You might believe in passion, Sophy, but you don’t practice it. Except when you order from Acme,” he joked.
Her mouth opened slightly, then clamped shut. She had definitely been insulted. When she spoke, it was in slow, measured tones. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
“There’s a big difference between passion and love. And you may write about passion, but I think you want love. You just don’t know what it is.”
“I write about love!” she cried indignantly.
“Ah, but is it really love, or is it just passion with a happy ending? I think you’re confusing love with lust. Damn, I think there’s a hole in the bag. It’s dripping.”
Still speechless at his pronouncement, she leaned over him to check the ice pack. “Where?”
She didn’t know what love was? She was confusing it with lust? Passion? Where did he get off?
You don’t believe in love anyhow, so how do you know what the difference is?” she finally retorted.
“Somewhere near the bottom, I think. After counseling couples for over a year, I think I can tell the difference between love and passion.” Water started to dribble across his temple and into his hairline, and pooled in the groove by his nose. He grimaced as a sliver of an ice cube slipped through the hole in the plastic bag and slithered across his cheek. “Love is the kind of feeling you have for your parents, your dog. It’s warm and safe and—”
