Without a Net (4 page)

Max watched the virtual fish swim across his laptop screen.
He’d been doing a lot of that lately, staring at the computer screensaver in lieu of doing something productive.

Everyone had one book in them.
At least that was the conventional wisdom. Well, he’d written his, and now he was stuck trying to figure out what to do next.

The whole process of accumulating rejection slips from agents and publishing houses didn’t appeal.
Besides, it took too long. In a world where everything else moved at lightning speed, data bytes streaking along fiber optic cables, transmitting billions of signals and data points per second, the glacial pace of getting a book out to the public seemed ridiculously dated.

Luckily, while he was recuperating, he’d stumbled onto an online community of indie writers—authors who self-published their work.
He devoured their blogs, eavesdropped on their discussion groups, and slowly shed all his preconceptions. Gone apparently were the vanity presses of previous generations, outfits that charged a writer exorbitant fees to print a limited number of books, which the author was then responsible for hawking. He recalled one of his high school English teachers going that route, passing out books to anyone who wanted one. Max had at some point used his copy as a doorstop. He cringed now at the memory. Having spent the past three months slaving over his own manuscript, he knew how hard the process of writing could be. Whoever said it was like slitting open a vein and bleeding was right.

At least today’s technology made sharing books with readers much easier. Thanks to distribution giants like Amazon, and hand-held devices like the Kindle, Nook, and iPad, indie books were reaching the public in unprecedented numbers.
Uploading a finished manuscript was quick, easy, and the digital platforms integrated seamlessly into whatever e-gadget a reader had.

So that’s what Max decided to do.
He’d already had an editor proofread his work. All he needed was someone to design an eye-catching cover, and he was good to go. Maybe a website as well. And a blog. It seemed every writer had a blog these days.

Problem was
, he really didn’t feel like dealing with all the minutiae and scut work involved. As an attending physician, he had residents and medical students, nurses and X-ray techs, case managers and clerks to handle all that. He was more like an Army general, assessing the situation and directing the movement of ground troops. But when it came to writing and marketing, he was still trying to figure things out.

His computer skills were rudimentary at best.
He’d always preferred being physically active, outdoors when possible, rather than cooped up inside pecking away at a keyboard. The only way he’d made it through the first couple years of med school was by studying at the gym: reading and highlighting while logging countless hours on the stair-climber or treadmill or stationary bike. By the time clinical rotations rolled around, he hit the wards running, and he’d rarely stopped since.

Luckily, emergency medicine, despite the occasional lull in activity, was a h
igh energy field. Mentally engaging
and
physically demanding. Nothing like a multi-car pileup or a drive-by shooting to get the adrenaline really going. In a good twelve hour shift he’d be guaranteed at least one V-tach or respiratory distress requiring intubation. He rarely had time to sit around twiddling his thumbs.

It wasn’t until the skiing injury forced him to take a break that he realized how much of a challenge prolonged inactivity could be.
Within days, he was ready to climb the walls, bulky knee brace be damned.

His sister Nina was the one who gave him the idea.
“I don’t want to hear another word,” she said. “You want to gripe? Write it down.”

And so he did.
Writing took his mind off the frustratingly slow recuperation process. The fracture might temporarily prevent him from bungee jumping or scuba diving, but at least he could sublimate his craving for adventure by writing about it. What started out as a litany of complaints morphed into an action-packed story, with a fictional alter ego who did all the things Max wished he could be doing.

When it came to creative writing, Max was in good company.
Plenty of physicians had blazed the way, penning everything from medical thrillers to literary fiction: Robin Cook, Michael Crichton, Tess Gerritsen, Leonard Goldberg, Khaled Hosseini, Abraham Verghese.

What to do with his book now that it was written, though, still stumped him.
He was completely out of his depth when it came to marketing. And unlike the first time around, when the words seemed to pour from some deep well of frustration, this time he couldn’t seem to get past the blank screen and blinking cursor.

His leg still wasn’t a hundred percent.
He was due to return to work next month, at least on a limited basis. In the meantime, he had five weeks to play with. The writing bug had bitten him, no question. He’d been tossing around ideas for a new thriller, but somehow in the last few days, the words simply wouldn’t come.

At first, he’d succumbed to the mindless time-suck of the internet.
But even then his attention wandered. Back to the last image he’d had of a certain primly dressed female rushing to get away from him as fast as her sexy heels would allow.

In the three days since he’d run into Eva Landry, he found his thoughts circling back to her again and again.
Recalling the way her pale blue eyes widened in alarm when she’d first crashed into him. The way she’d kneeled in front of him to gather up the spilled boxes, her head bent, her dark hair pulled back in some elaborate twist that made his fingers itch to set it free. The way her lips pursed when she glanced up at him, as if she wanted to say something but then changed her mind. An arrow of heat shot through him as he imagined her leaning forward just a bit and putting those gloss-slicked lips to better use.

The ringing of the doorbell interrupted his fantasy.
The door opened before he had a chance to reach it.

“Oh, good, you’re up early,” Nina said, tucking her keys back in her shoulder bag.
“The muffins are still warm. Hope you like chia seeds.”

“You mean the fuzzy green things we used to grow in grade school?” He hummed the commercial.
“Cha-cha-cha-chia!”

“You’re worse than Connor.
At least he knows not to mock me.” She strode past him to the kitchen. “The seeds are good for you. Chock full of omega-3’s and fiber.”

Max followed her more slowly.
“I appreciate your looking out for my digestive tract, Nina. But you don’t have to bring me food anymore. I can handle the shopping myself.”

“
Really?” Nina set the foil-covered plate on the kitchen counter and opened the refrigerator. A two second survey of the contents had her shaking her head. “I can see the kind of shopping you do for yourself. Didn’t they teach you anything about nutrition in med school?”

“Doctors don’t need to bother with that as long as there are dieticians.” Max leaned against the counter.
“It’s called division of labor.”

“I see.
Is that why you dated that dietician…what was her name?”

“Gretchen. And no, she was just good in bed.”

Nina rolled her eyes. “Well, man does not live on sex alone. I’m making some chili in a slow-cooker. I’ll bring some by later today.”

“You must really love me.”

She dumped a filter with used grounds from the coffee machine and filled the carafe with fresh water. “When’s your next appointment with the ortho?”

“Not till next week.” He passed her a couple mugs from the nearby cabinet. “This thing is taking forever to heal.”

“Three and a half months is not forever.” She raised her voice over the whir of the coffee grinder. “How long before you’ll be able to go back to work?”

“Next month.
I’ll start out slow. Eight hour shifts, a couple days a week.” He frowned. “I just need to build up the strength in the leg, so I can stand and walk for a full shift without having to pop pills.”

“I thought you were off the Norco.”

“I meant ibuprofen. I hate the way it messes with my stomach.”

“Oh.”
She tapped the grounds into a fresh filter and started the drip. “You should take it with food.”

“That you, Dr. Oz.
All I have to do is find time between resuscitating one patient and intubating the next so I can eat.”

“You don’t have to get snippy, Max.
I know you work hard. But you’re the one who chose emergency medicine, so no point in complaining about the pace.”

“I’m not,” he said, lifting a corner of the foil off the muffin plate and examining the contents.
“I’m actually looking forward to getting back. I wasn’t cut out to be a man of leisure.”

“What abou
t the medical-legal work you’re doing?”

“A few hours here and there.
Not enough to keep me busy.”

“Poor baby.
No wonder you’re grumpy.” She passed him a cup of coffee.

“Thanks.” He took a cautious sip.
“I meant to ask, do you know any graphic artists? I need someone who can do a cover for me.”

“You’re done?
Writing, editing, everything?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s great! So when do I get to read it?”

“You won’t like it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’ll like it. You’ve always had a great imagination.”

“You’re obligated to say that, you’re my sister.
But I guarantee you’re going to think the protagonist is a jerk.”

“There are plenty of literary anti-
heros who are well-written.”

“Fine.
I’ll email you the PDF. So, about the graphic designer…?”

She took her time answering.
“What about Eva?”

“Who?”

“My friend Eva Landry. I’m sure you met her at some point. Her son is Connor’s best friend. Anyway, she does all sorts of design work. I’m sure she could whip up a cover for you in no time.”

Max tried to keep his voice casual.
“Really?”

If Nina knew what he was thinking, she’d retract the offer and tell him to stay the hell away from her friend.
But clearly she knew nothing about the chance encounter at Whole Foods. And he wasn’t about to disillusion her. Especially when she was handing him the perfect excuse to call up the woman he’d spent the past few days fantasizing about. It didn’t even matter if Eva did a hack job on the cover, he could always hire a real professional to fix it after the fact.

Nina apparently took his silence as a sign that he needed more convincing. “She’s very good.
I promise you won’t regret hiring her.” She pulled out her phone and thumbed through her contacts list. “There. I just sent you her number. Tell her I referred you. She could really use the extra work.”

Max frowned.
How odd. At the market, Eva certainly hadn’t looked like she was hurting for money. He’d dated enough Windsor Square socialites to recognize a pair of Louboutins when he saw them. And her handbag was either Hermès or a damn fine replica. In fact, Eva looked like the typical trophy wife who shopped on Montana, lunched at the Jonathan Club, and spent her afternoons playing tennis and doing yoga.

If her need for work wasn’t driven by money, then what?
Was she still grieving her husband’s loss and looking for ways to keep busy? Yeah, that’s probably what Nina meant.

Well, he certainly wouldn’t mind helping Eva with that.
He could think of a whole lot of things they could do to keep busy.

Nina gathered up her bag and pecked Max on the jaw.
“Gotta go. I’ll stop by later with the chili.”

He nodded absently. “Thanks.”

“Don’t forget to call Eva.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The door closed, and he stood for a moment, contemplating what he was about to do. Then he headed back to the study to retrieve his cell phone.

They agreed to meet at the corner coffee shop
ten minutes from her house.

Eva pushed the plate glass door open and paused just inside the entrance.
It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. She saw Max at a table toward the back. He rose as she approached.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, waiting until she was seated before reclaiming his own chair.

As if her appearance hadn’t been a foregone conclusion after their phone conversation. He’d invoked Nina’s name at the very start, guaranteeing that Eva wouldn’t offer a polite rebuff and hang up. Even though that had been her first instinct when she recognized his voice. Besides, she was curious about what sort of work he needed her to do. He’d been evasive earlier. Some cover art, he said. Possibly a website.

He nodded toward the counter.
“Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.”

“You sure? They make a mean Caffè Mocha.”

Any more caffeine and she’d go from wide awake to twitchy.
“I’m good, but you go ahead.”

She watched as he made his way to the end of the line.
No cane this time, and the limp was barely noticeable. From this distance, she could appreciate the breadth of his shoulders, the lean waist and taut backside, the powerful thigh muscles encased in well-worn jeans. Glancing around, she saw that she wasn’t the only female tracking his progress toward the cash register.

In a town full of beautiful people, where it seemed every waiter aspired to star on the silver screen, you’d think that women would become immune to the sight of tall, blond,
and handsome. Apparently not.

She forced herself to look away.
Might as well use the opportunity to set up. She pulled out her laptop, a legal pad, and a couple pencils from her bag, then waited for the computer to boot. By the time Max returned with a plate of scones, coffee, and a bottle of water, she had her online portfolio open and ready for inspection. He deposited the water next to her laptop, and placed the pastry within easy reach.

“In case you change your mind,” he said, flashing a toothpaste ad smile, along with a dimple she hadn’t noticed before.

Eva steeled herself against responding. He could flirt all he wanted, it wouldn’t change a thing. She was here to do business, nothing else. She might have fallen for a charming rogue once, but she was smart enough to learn from her mistakes.

Time to take control of the situation.
“You mentioned you needed a cover. Did you have something in mind?”

“Not exactly.
I’m open to suggestions.” He lifted his mug and took a sip.

She watched the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
Followed the slide of his tongue across his upper lip, where the cappuccino had left a bit of foam.

She blinked.
“Right. Why don’t we start with what the cover is for?”

It turned out he had a medical thriller that he planned on publishing.
Eva jotted notes as he spoke. For a man who otherwise struck her as supremely self-confident, he seemed surprisingly reticent in discussing his writing. She had to prompt him repeatedly with questions about the plot and characters.

“Sounds like a great story,” she said, when he fell silent yet again.

His green eyes brightened. “You think?”

“Yes.
I can’t wait to read it.”

“I can forward you a PDF, if you like.”

“Thank you.” She flipped to a fresh note page. “Now, about the cover. We could go as simple or elaborate as you want. The quickest, easiest approach would be to design something around a stock photo. Or we could set up a custom shoot with real models, though that would take more time and money. Did you have a particular budget in mind?”

He shrugged.
“I don’t know what the going rates are. I haven’t actually done this before.”

Neither had she, though she wasn’t ab
out to admit that to him. Besides, she had plenty of experience with multimedia design, and this project sounded pretty straightforward. “Why don’t I email you some figures tonight, and you can think about it?”

“I’ll need more than a
book cover.”

“Of course.”
She cleared her throat. “I can do Facebook cover images, make a custom blog template, build a website, do a newsletter. Whatever you need to help market your book.”

“The full range of à la carte services,” he murmured.

“Yes.” He was still talking graphic design, wasn’t he? She pulled up a page on her laptop and turned the screen toward him. “If you can enter your info on the ‘contact us’ line, I’ll work on some cover ideas tonight. Maybe start with a stock photo, and have something for you by tomorrow. If you like it, we can go from there.”

H
e dragged his chair closer and leaned in to take a look. “Is there an ‘us’?”

Her heart skipped a beat.
“Excuse me?”

“Here.” He
rested one hand on the back of her chair, and pointed to her website with the other. “The ‘contact us’ line.”

“Oh.
No, it’s just me.”

He nodded and pulled the keyboard closer.
Eva experienced a mixture of relief and disappointment when he removed his hand so he could type his information into the appropriate fields.

“You do it, too,” she said.

“What?”

“Use the royal ‘we.’
When you go in to see a patient, you say, ‘How are we doing today?’ Right?” She thought back to the countless hours she’d spent in doctors’ offices and hospital rooms. A bubble of resentment floated to the surface. “You know what I’ve always wanted to answer?
We
are not doing so well, otherwise
we
wouldn’t be here.”

His fingers stopped typing.
The silence stretched for several moments. Embarrassment set in. She opened her mouth to apologize for her outburst when Max beat her to it.

“You’re right,”
he said, nodding slowly. “If I haven’t said it before, I’m sorry about your husband.”

She glanced at him, and the compassion in his eyes was almost her undoing.
“Thank you.”

She felt his steady gaze as she gathered her things.

“You sure you’re not hungry?”
he said.

“Positive.”
She shouldered her bag and rose. “I had a late breakfast.”

He stood as well.
“Maybe next time?”

She hesitated.
“I’ll email you the package options and some preliminary ideas by tomorrow.”

“Hang on a sec, and I’ll walk you home.”

“No.” Her voice came out sharper than intended. She shook her head and softened her tone. “Please, don’t. Stay and finish eating. I need to run some errands anyway, and then pick my son up from school. We’ll talk after you have a chance to review things. Okay?”

Later, while waiting at the pharmacy for Ben’s asthma medication, and picking up milk and eggs at the grocery store, Eva brooded over her interaction with Max.

The man had definitely been flirting with her.
But to what end? Surely he hadn’t run out of likely prospects at school, or the hospital, or the gym, or wherever else he trolled for women. Did he really think that by flashing his dimple and dangling the possibility of a paying assignment in front of her, he’d get more than just the graphic design services she offered?

Okay, maybe a teensy part of her feminine ego was flattered by the attention.
And maybe she was even a little tempted to see how far this could go.

But then reality intruded.
Her life was a mess—emotionally, financially, legally. She had a son to raise, bills to pay, a lawsuit to deal with. No time or energy to get involved with a man like Max. Or any man, for that matter.

Grounded once more, Eva pasted on a smile and greeted a few of the other parents milling on the
school’s front lawn, waiting for the gates to open.