Meeting Mr. Steele

by Melanie Marchande

  "Yeah," he says. "You?"

  "Nope. Just poaching for talent. That is, if you're looking for work." I say this all very calmly, very casually, like this is a completely normal thing to do.

  He grins a little. "I think they taught me something about this in kindergarten. 'Stranger danger,' maybe?"

  "I know it sounds weird, but I don't want to post an ad," I tell him. "I can't have a paper trail."

  His eyebrows go up, just a bit. "You're not really helping your case, y'know."

  He's making fun of me, but I can tell he's intrigued, too. And a little bit desperate. And Amy's right about one more thing - I definitely have the advantage of looking sane and harmless. If I was giving off crazy vibes, he would've disappeared already.

  "Let me buy you a coffee, and I'll explain everything," I promise him. "You look like you could use a pick-me-up."

  Shrugging, he looks me up and down for a moment. "Okay," he says. "What the hell, right?"

  "That's the spirit!" I stick out my hand. "I'm Kimberly."

  "Nice to meet you, Kimberly. I'm Josh." His handshake is warm and firm, and it makes me wish we'd met under some other circumstances. And maybe, just maybe, that I was some twiggy blonde he'd actually be attracted to. I've been on a long journey of self-acceptance lately, and the end result is that I've decided I love my curves. But getting other people to love them - and in a non-creepy way - has been a little more of a challenge. I finally deactivated my online dating profile when I was tempted to murder the next guy who messaged me saying he liked that I had "a little meat on my bones."

  I'm not a damn pot roast.

  We sit down in a diner up the street, and a bored-looking server saunters over to us with a couple of sticky menus. "Just coffee, thanks," Josh says, even as he glances longingly at someone else's steak.

  "Get whatever you want," I tell him. "Seriously."

  He hesitates, while the server looks like she wants to stab us both for holding her attention this long.

  "Okay," he says. "Steak and eggs, then. Medium rare and over-easy."

  I have to smile. He knows how to order his food, at any rate. My stomach suddenly growls, and I realize I haven't had anything since my yogurt at breakfast. But there's nothing here that's exactly calorie-friendly.

  The server shuffles away, muttering to herself.

  Josh is looking at me curiously. "You're not going to have anything?"

  "No," I tell him. "I'm fine."

  His brow furrows. "I mean, thanks, but - you're obviously hungry. You just bought me lunch and dinner, I'm not going to be offended if you eat."

  "Seriously, I'm fine."

  The server is pouring our coffee now, as slowly as humanly possible. I wait for her to leave before I start getting into the good stuff.

  "So," I say, resting my elbows on the table. "I'm an author."

  The gears are turning, but he's not quite there yet.

  "I have an opportunity to be on TV," I tell him. "The problem is, I write under a male pen-name. Nobody knows who I really am. And for now, I want to keep it that way."

  "Ah ha." His eyes light up. "You should've just said that. Not creepy at all. I get it. What do you write? Spy stuff? Horror?"

  I sigh, taking a sip of my coffee. "Good guesses, but no. You ever hear of a little book called Fifty Shades of Grey?"

  This time, he frowns very deeply. "Wait. I don't get it."

  "Neither did I, at first." I sigh. "I got the idea when I started reading people's reactions to the book, and other stuff like it. A bunch of women talking about how much they'd love to read the book from Christian's point of view. But the whole thing didn't click until I saw somebody on a fetish message board, saying he was a real-life Dom and he wishes he could write mass-market romance fiction, 'cause he'd clean up under the guise of 'a real-life dominant alpha male tells all.'"

  Josh is staring at me like I've sprouted another head.

  His steak arrives, and he digs into it with enthusiasm, but he keeps one eye on me. "So you decided to lie," he says, around a mouthful of meat dipped in yolk. I swallow a mouthful of saliva that's suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

  "It's a white lie," I tell him. "Besides, it's no different from using a male pen name for spy stuff or horror. You seemed fine with that."

  He shakes his head. "It's very different. Lots of people wouldn't pick up a book like that, if they knew a woman wrote it." He eyes me briefly before turning back to his steak. "In romance, you already got the home field advantage, don't you?"

  "Typically." Since when did this become his interview? "Look, are you interested in the job, or not?"

  He shrugs. "Am I supposed to do sophisticated? That's not my usual M.O."

  "We'll work on that," I tell him. "But yes, you need to come across as someone with money, and good breeding. But it's a thin veneer. You could snap, and become an animal at any moment. That's part of the appeal."

  He's grinning while he chews. It should be gross, but somehow, he gets away with it. "Animal, huh? That I can do."

  I press my fingers into my closed eyes for a moment. "So, this is what I'm thinking in terms of compensation." I pull a sticky note out of my pocket and slide it across the table. He shoots me an amused look and picks it up, then all the color drains from his face.

  For a second, he makes a noise that sparks a worry he's choking on a piece of steak, until I remember my first aid training. Choking people can't make any noise at all. As long as he's coughing, I won't have a good reason to wrap my arms around his tightly-muscled stomach.

  I remind myself this is not a bad thing.

  "This isn't exactly SAG standard," he says, when he's recovered. "Is some TV appearance really worth this much to you?"

  Nodding, I interlace my fingers together. Now I've got his attention for sure. "I'm anticipating a significant visibility boost. Visibility is everything."

  He makes a little whistling noise. "I guess I always thought authors were in the 'starving artist' category."

  "Not all of them." I feel like he's definitely judging me, and I don't like it. "You can't accuse me of not spreading the wealth."

  "So, how do I audition?" He sets down his fork, and clears his throat.

  Right. Audition would be a good idea. I was actually about to offer him the job completely untested, but thankfully he didn't pick up on that.

  I pull a few of my paperback proofs out of my bag. "I'd like you to read through these a bit first, just to get an idea for the character. Obviously, you'll need to study them thoroughly if you're actually going to play him, but you can just skim as much as you feel like you need to, for now."

  He's making a little face, not a negative face, necessarily, but I'm really curious what it means. "Gotcha," he says, flipping through one of the books too fast to even notice any of the words. "Sounds good to me. Want to meet up next week, and see if I've got the right stuff?"

  We make the arrangements, and I realize belatedly I've just invited him to come over to my place. My place. The one that still has a pile of boxes in the corner from when I moved in, two years ago. I need to do some serious housecleaning.

  ***

  For the next seven days, I spend every spare moment cleaning and straightening up. I spend an obscene amount of money at some yuppie organizer store, and I sweep and mop and dust everything. It's not that I think Josh will care, but I want to be a good host. And right now, it feels like "being a good host" is a synonym for "scrubbing the bathroom grout with an old toothbrush."

  An hour before our meeting time, I get a phone call. It's not even a local number, and certainly not one I recognize. Frowning, I pick up.

  "Hey, Kimberly." I recognize his voice right away, but I let him introduce himself anyway. "It's Josh."

  He sounds apologetic. My heart sinks into my stomach. "Hey, how are you?"

  "Pretty good. I think I need to postpone our meeting, though. I'm sorry about this. I'll understand if you just need to move on."

  "We can reschedule," I
say, perhaps a little too quickly. Is my sparkling bathroom sink really going to go to waste? "Why, what's wrong? Are you sick?"

  "No," he says. "I just, I think I need a little more time to prepare. Maybe. I'm not sure." He exhales heavily. "I don't mind saying, this is harder than I thought it would be."

  "Do you want to talk it through?" I offer, switching the phone to my other ear and settling down. "I can give you some insight, if you're confused about anything."

  "Hmm." He ruminates on this for a second. "I mean, if you've got nothing better to do, I could still come over. Just don't expect much in terms of an audition."

  "Sure," I say, feeling relieved and excited all at once. "No problem. I've blocked out my schedule anyway."

  "I appreciate it. I'm just, I'm not great over the phone." He clears his throat. "Thanks, Kim."

  Nobody calls me Kim unless they've known me for a million years. Hearing it come out of his mouth is strangely intoxicating, allowing me to indulge in the fantasy that we've always been friends.

  More than friends.

  Stop it.

  For the next hour, I can hardly focus on anything. I nearly jump out of my skin when the doorbell rings, five minutes early. I don't know why that surprises me. He kind of seems like someone who'd be chronically late.

  "Hey," he says, hesitating a moment before he steps inside. "You have a nice place."

  It should be a compliment, but I feel like I'm detecting an air of judgment. "Thanks." I'm anxious to move on to another topic. "So, is Landon Steele a little bit of a mystery to you? Guys don't usually get him. I'm not surprised."

  He looks a little defensive, and an evil part of me thinks: good. And then I immediately feel terrible. "It's not that, exactly," he says. "I do feel like I need to get to know him better, I'm just not sure I really want to." He glances at me. "No offense."

  I snort. Right. "Well, you could always wing it, and fill in the blanks. You've got an idea for who he is, right?"

  He lets out a huff of laughter, scratching the back of his head in a thoughtless gesture. It makes the front of his shirt ruck up, exposing tight abs and a little trail of dark hair disappearing down under the waistband of his ratty jeans.

  "Improv's not my strong suit," he says. "But at least I've got a lot of source material to work from."

  Suddenly, I feel very awkward. Knowing he's actually studied my writing, probably closer than I ever have. It's like that funny feeling I get in my chest when somebody I know wants to read my books - because all of a sudden, there's that fear of being judged. Not that it's Josh's place to judge me, but that's certainly not going to stop him from having his own private thoughts about the quality of my writing.

  "Well, I'm glad it was helpful," I say, because the silence is getting weird.

  He nods. "I checked out your online profiles, too, and your blog and stuff. I hope I can do this Mr. Steele some justice. He's obviously a classy guy."

  I really can't tell if he's being sarcastic at all, and it takes me a couple minutes to remember the last status update I posted. Is he referencing that on purpose?

  I clear my throat. "Sit down, please. Did you want something to drink? I can make coffee, or..."

  He shakes his head, glancing around the room before he perches on the edge of the sofa. I hate that I have to think this way, but I'm starting to wonder if I made a mistake. Mr. Steele should never hesitate before sitting down on somebody else's furniture like he owns the place. He commands the room.

  "Go ahead, tell me what you're thinking," he says, his eyes piercing into mine. Well, that part's right on point. "Did I do something wrong?"

  "No, no," I say, quickly. "We just have a lot of work to do. It's got nothing to do with you. I'm just starting to feel like I bit off way more than I can chew. Six weeks isn't long enough to make sure we get all the details ironed out."

  He shrugs. "Sure it is. We'll have all the questions ahead of time, right? No problem." His eyes narrow a little. "Right?"

  I don't know anymore. He's perfect, but he's so not perfect. There are so many little things about him that don't quite fit, and if I'm being quite honest with myself, I hate the idea of changing him. The whole package works - for him. Just not for Landon Steele. Who was, after all, a pathetic echo of the concept of a perfect man, concocted by a lonely, undersexed woman. The real thing is so much better.

  But if the "real" Landon Steele shows up acting like a rough-around-the-edges blue collar type, it's not going to fit. He's talked about wearing suits to the corner store, for crying out loud. Sensible people are going to understand that nobody can be exactly how they present themselves on the internet, but when it comes to the kind of sexual frenzy that Landon Steele inspires, there's no such thing as "sensible."

  "No," I say, firmly. I sit down across from him, crossing my legs at the knee and folding my hands over them. I want to look professional, and in control, even though Josh makes me feel decidedly unbalanced. "There's no problem. Let's talk about Mr. Steele. What's your impression of him, other than 'classy?'"

  His mouth twists a little. "Can I be honest?"

  "I hope you always will be," I say, trying not to worry about what he's going to say.

  "Well, he seems like an asshole." Josh shrugs a little, sort of apologetically, but not really. "I know that's what people want. I mean, that's what they always say. Guys complain that women only want assholes, and I always thought they were full of shit, but now I've seen it with my own eyes. Don't really know what to make of it."

  I've actually put a lot of thought into this. "You say asshole, I say confident." I shrug. "Real life is one thing, but there's a reason why women don't tend to fantasize about a guy who spends all day going 'oh, but what do you want to do, honey?' My readers want to dream about a guy who knows what he wants, and knows how to get it. They want him to be assertive and confident - and more than all that, they don't want him to care about what other people think. And it's not completely a fantasy, either. You ever have a girlfriend get angry at you for being too diplomatic when she was fighting with somebody else you know?"

  "Oh, yeah," Josh says, nodding. It's starting to sink in. "I was just trying to stay out of the crossfire. I guess that comes across kind of limp-dicked, huh?" He grins.

  "Well, that's a way to put it," I admit. "Everybody wants to be with someone who will have their back, who'll help defend them, or help them fight against a common enemy. It's basically a biological imperative. I'm not saying it's simple, or that it makes a lot of sense on the surface, because of course women don't want to be with a guy who's always combative and causing trouble. It's exhausting. On the other hand, when you're fighting the saber-toothed tiger outside your cave, you want the guy who's picking up a spear with you, not the guy who's gonna try and reason with it."

  "Okay," Josh laughs. "I think I get it. Sort of. I need to do some more research. There's so many of these books out there, I don't really know where to start."

  I pick up a little pad of paper. "I can give you some recommendations." Smiling a little, I glance up from the paper as I scribble. "You're really committing to this role. I'm impressed."

  "It's actually pretty interesting," he says, shifting in his seat. "I gotta admit I never thought I'd be doing something like this. Don't think I can really put it on my resume, but hey, it's good experience."

  Ripping off the piece of paper, I stand up and hand it to him. "That's the spirit."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Josh is five minutes early for our next meeting. I've learned to expect that of him, and it's so charmingly dutiful that I have to smile.

  The smile fades a little when I open the front door.

  He's all scrubbed up, as much as he can be, with his forearms eternally marked in ink. His hair's combed back, or maybe he got it cut, and he's wearing a button-down shirt but the sleeves are rolled up, of course. His dark jeans look like they're fresh out of the wash. Landon Steele might actually wear something like this, in his off-time. I have to appreciate the
effort, even if it is more than a little distracting.

  And unnerving, for some reason. I don't like the fact that he feels it's necessary. Which I know is ridiculous - he knows I want him to play a role, so he's trying to look the part. I've got to stop taking everything so personally when it comes to this man.

  "Come in." I'm forcibly dragging the smile back onto my face. "Can I get you something to drink?"

  He shakes his head. "Thanks, I'm good."

  "So." I sit down, crossing my legs at the knee. "Did you pick a scene to monologue for me?"

  "Actually, I was thinking we could do something a little different," he says, tilting his head a little, as if he's trying to gauge a reaction. Which is impossible, since I have no idea what he's talking about.

  "Oh?"

  "Roleplay," he says. His mouth twitches a little. "I mean, you know - like a rehearsal, kind of. Using one of the scenes from your book."

  The sense of dread kicks in first. Going back and re-reading my own work is next to impossible, for me - I'm too much of a perfectionist, and I'll want to trash the whole thing and start over. But at the same time, I realize I'm excited.

  Shit. How pathetic is this? The idea of this guy pretending to be attracted to me is thrilling.

  I can't do this. But he has a good point. It's really the best way for him to truly audition for the part, to prove himself - and if I can't envision him as Landon, then nobody else will be able to, either.

  On some intellectual level, I understand that it doesn't really matter if he's perfect. People's first thought will be "well, he wasn't what I expected." Not - "FAKE! He must actually be a chubby singleton whose most meaningful relationship is with her robotic vacuum cleaner!"

  But still. I need him to be perfect. Anything less, and it feels like some kind of betrayal. Of me, of my readers, I don't know - I just know that it matters.

  "Uh, okay," I say, slowly. I'm realizing that he never actually specified what kind of role I'd be playing, or whether I'd be involved at all. But it's obvious, isn't it? Especially from the way he's smiling at me, smug as hell. Probably thinks this is my dream come true. And it is, of course. That's why I wrote it. But in my version, it's real.