On Saturday night, I sat in downtown Des Moines at the lovely Cosmopolitan Lounge, stirring my very apropos Cosmo drink and nodding on cue to the stylish, dripping-with-expensive jewelry, and very young wife of Derek’s client, Mr. Middle-Aged Moneybags. I listened to her describe how she had lived enough to fill ten novels with her exploits in the fast-paced world of the rich and famous.
“You should do it. You should write a novel,” I urged her.
“Oh, I couldn’t!” she huffed, with a self-conscious hand over her mouth, floored by the thought. “But if you ever run out of ideas, I would be happy to share.”
“I’ll definitely keep that in mind—can’t have too many good ideas,” I said as I reached for my black clutch, which was vibrating on the oversized leather chair beside me. I pulled out my cell phone and opened the face to read a text message. It was from Dave.
“That little black dress is killer!”
In shock, I looked up and around the room, finally finding him seated at the bar halfway between me and the stage at the far end. He was relaxed, seated on a bar stool, drink in hand. He raised his glass to me in salute and grinned.
Oh, I had missed Mr. Cameron.