still about the Duane thing. It wasn’t every day one had his immortality revoked.
“Why…would he do his writing here?”
“Because he likes to take his laptop and write in coffee shops.”
“Yeah, but he lives in Chicago.”
Paige shook her head. “Not anymore. Where were you last night? He’s moving here to be closer to his family.”
I recalled Seth mentioning his brother, but I had been too caught up in my own mortification to pay much attention. “When?”
“Now, as far as I know. That’s why this was his last stop on the tour. He’s staying with his brother but plans on finding his own place soon.” She leaned close to me, eyes gleaming predatorily. “Georgina, if we have a famous author hanging out here regularly, it’ll be good for our image.”
Honestly, my immediate concern wasn’t where Seth would be writing. What freaked me out was that he would not be departing for a different time zone anytime soon, a time zone where he could then forget about me and let us both get on with our lives. I could run into him every day now. Literally, if Paige’s wish was realized.
“Won’t that be distracting to his writing if his presence is widely known? Annoying fans and whatnot?”
“We won’t let it become a problem. We’ll make the most of this and respect his privacy. Careful now, here he comes.”
I drank more of my mocha, still marveling at the way Paige’s mind worked. She could think of promotional ideas that never would have entered my head. Warren might have been the one to invest capital in this place, but it had been her marketing genius that made it a success.
“Good morning,” Seth told us, walking up to the table. He wore jeans, a Def Leppard T-shirt, and a brown corduroy jacket. The lay of his hair did not convince me he’d brushed it this morning.
Paige looked at me pointedly, and I sighed. “Let’s go.”
Seth silently followed me outside, that awkward tension building between us like a solid barrier. He did not look at me; I did not look at him. It was only when we stood outside on Queen Anne Avenue and I realized I had no plan for today that conversation had to occur.
“Where to start? Seattle, unlike Gaul, is not divided into just three parts.”
I made the joke more to myself, but Seth suddenly laughed. “Seattle peninsula est,” he observed, playing off my observation.
“Not exactly. Besides, that’s Bede, not Caesar.”
“I know. But I don’t know very much Latin.” He gave me that quirky, bemused smile that seemed to be his trademark expression. “Do you?”
“Enough.” I wondered how he would react if I mentioned my fluency in Latin dialects from various stages of the Roman Empire. My vague answer must have been interpreted as lack of interest because he looked away, and more silence fell. “Is there anything special you wanted to see?”
“Not really.”
Not really. Okay. Well. The sooner we got this started, the sooner it would end and I could see Erik.
“Follow me.”
As we drove off, I sort of hoped we might naturally flow into meaningful conversation, in spite of our bad start yesterday. Yet, as we traveled, it seemed clear Seth had no intention of carrying on any discourse. I recalled his nervousness in front of the crowd yesterday and even with some of the bookstore staff. This guy had serious social phobias, I realized, though he had made a valiant effort in shedding them during our initial flirtations. Then, I had gone and turned on the back-off vibes, undoubtedly scarring him for life and undoing whatever progress he had made. Way to go, Georgina.
Maybe if I could broach some compelling topics, he would muster his earlier confidence and bring back our rapport—in a platonic way, of course. I attempted to recall my profound questions from last night. And once again, they eluded me, so I switched to mundane ones.
“So your brother lives around here?”
“Yup.”
“What part?”
“Lake Forest Park.”
“That’s a nice area. Are you going to look for a place up there?”
“Probably not.”
“Do you have another place in mind then?”
“Not really.”
Okay, this wasn’t getting us anywhere. Annoyed at how this master of the written word could be so short on spoken ones, I finally decided to cut him out of the conversation altogether. Having him involved was too much work. Instead, I chatted on amiably without him, pointing out the popular spots: Pioneer Square, Pike Place Market, the Fremont Troll. I even showed him the shoddier representatives of our competition, per Paige’s instructions. I neglected anything closer to the Space Needle than a brief nod, however. No doubt he’d seen it from Emerald City’s windows and could pay the exorbitant fees to visit it up close if he really needed the tourist experience.
We went to the U District for lunch. He followed without protest or comment to my favorite Vietnamese restaurant. Our meal progressed quietly as I took a break from talking, both of us eating noodles and staring out the nearby window to watch the bustle of students and cars.
“This is nice.”
It was the most Seth had spoken in a while, and I nearly jumped at the sound of his voice.
“Yeah. This place doesn’t look like much, but they make a mean pho.”
“No, I meant out there. This area.”
I followed his gesture back to University Way, at first seeing nothing more than disgruntled students hauling backpacks around. Then, expanding my search, I became aware of the other small specialty restaurants, the coffee shops, and the used bookstores. It was an eclectic mix, somewhat tattered around the edges, but it had a lot to offer quirky, intellectual types—even famous, introverted writers.
I looked at Seth, who looked back at me expectantly. It was our first direct eye contact all day.
“Are there places to live around here?”
“Sure. If you want to share a house with a bunch of eighteen-year-olds.” I paused, thinking that option might not be so unappealing for a guy. “If you want something more substantial in this area, it’ll cost you. I guess Cady and O’Neill ensure that’s not really an issue, huh? We can drive around and look, if you want.”
“Maybe. I’d honestly rather go there first.” He pointed across the street, to one of the used bookstores. His eyes flicked back to me uncertainly. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Let’s go.”
I loved used bookstores but always felt a little guilty walking into them. Like I was cheating. After all, I worked around bright, crisp books all the time. I could obtain a reprint of almost anything I wanted, brand new. It seemed wrong to take such visceral pleasure from being around old
