“I won’t do it,” Liam said.
Ben sighed resignedly and threw out his arms. “And why the heck not?”
Liam nodded at the area where they had put his chair and table. It was surrounded by his books on both sides. A full-body-sized cardboard figure of Liam stood next to it, and a poster was hanging behind it, showing a picture of him in his chef’s uniform with a big knife in his hand. He looked ridiculous. But that wasn’t anything new. Everything about this entire charade was absurd. It was, however, his life now, and he had made an image and a career of it. They expected him to cause trouble, to act like a diva. That’s why they called him the Rockstar of Cooking.
“What’s wrong with it this time?” Ben asked. “Is the chair too low again because I can get you a new one. I know you don’t like to look small in front of people.”
“Look to the right of the table,” Liam said. “Look at what they have placed next to me. On the wall behind me. I refuse to sit there with his books glaring down on me.”
Ben took an extra look, then nodded. “All right. I get it.”
“You know how I feel about that imposter.”
“I do know that, but still, don’t you think you’re overreacting a little here? The guy did say he was sorry for the things he said about your food.”
“I just can’t stand him,” Liam said. “And don’t let me get started on his use of truffle oil. It’s preposterous.”
Ben exhaled. “All right. I’ll have them remove his books from the shelf behind you, but then…then you promise me you’ll go ahead and sign the books, right? Because people have been waiting for hours now. We all want this done so we can go home after a long book tour, right?”
Liam nodded and finished his glass. He was looking forward to going home more than anything, even if it was to a teenage son who hated his guts and hadn’t spoken to him in months.
Chapter 2
I had been waiting for hours in the line outside in the freezing cold and finally made it inside the warm store. I was surrounded by housewives wearing heavy makeup and low-cut shirts, puffing themselves up to meet him. They were all waiting to have fifteen seconds with the guy who had written the book under every arm in the line in front of me. The closer we got to him, the more mouths were pouting and hair was being corrected.
I felt like an outsider in my flat white sneakers, jeans, and a leather jacket. My red hair was in a ponytail, and I was wearing absolutely no make-up whatsoever. I saw no need. I wasn’t here to flirt with the guy or even to see him because I had read his book. To be honest, up until now, I had thought it was just a cookbook. But, apparently, it was a book about him and his childhood growing up in the streets of Philadelphia before making it as a famous TV chef and household name. The first African American to have made it in the world that was mostly dominated by British and French chefs.
If I stood on my tippy toes and stretched my neck, I could see him. There he was, smiling at a woman in a tight red dress, then glaring at her behind as she turned around and walked on.
The Rockstar of Cooking all right.
“What am I even doing here?” I mumbled as the line moved forward.
But I knew very well why I was there, and it wasn’t a social call. This was important enough to embarrass myself if I had to.
As soon as it was my turn, I slid my book across the table to him.
Liam Berkeley looked first at my fingers, holding the book, then up at me.
“You bite your nails,” he said.
I shrugged. “So? Is that illegal?”
That made him chuckle.
I gave him a fake smile. That made his chuckle turn into a laugh. “You do realize that a genuine smile doesn’t involve showing your bottom teeth, right?”
“Whatever,” I said and dropped the smile. “I don’t usually smile a lot.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
I shrugged again. “Because I don’t think there is a lot to smile about.”
“What do you mean?”
I threw out my arms. “Have you seen the world we live in?”
“You’re fun,” he said and pointed at me with the pen. “Now, who should I make this out to?”
He opened the page to sign it, and I bit my lip. This was it. This was the moment that I had waited hours in a line for, freezing outside those doors, knowing it was the only way I could get my message to a guy like him.
He read the message I had scribbled on the blank page, then looked up at me, eyes suddenly serious.
“What is this?”
“Just do as it says. You’ll know more when you get there.”
And after that, I ran out, elbowing my way through flocks of ladies in high heels and cocktail dresses who were making Books-A-Million seem a heck of a lot more glamorous than usual on a Tuesday night.
Chapter 3
THEN:
“Nine-One-One, what’s your emergency?”
“Yeah, hi…uhm, my name is Brady. I just want to say that there is a…uhm bomb.”
“There’s a what?”
“A bomb.”
“A bomb? Where?”
“At Lincoln High School.”
“There’s a bomb at the high school, you say?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you know this?”
“I placed them there.”
“Them. So there is more than one bomb at the high school?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Uhm…seven.”
“Seven bombs at the high school?”
“Yes. They’re scattered all over the school in backpacks. I placed them there myself. There’s a timer on them. They’ll go off in ten minutes.”
Chapter 4
The small Lebanese restaurant Suraya in Fishtown in Philadelphia was turned into a café and market during the day while there was a full-service restaurant and a bar for dinnertime. The beans were Stumptown, and their Middle Eastern and French pastries weren’t to be missed, or so it said in the online review I had read when looking for a good place to meet.
I wasn’t there for the food, even though I had already gulped down two cups of coffee and two pieces of greasy yet yummy pastry by the time he was supposed to be there. I had chosen a place in Philadelphia because that’s where he had lived all his life. If I wanted him to come, then I needed it to be convenient for him.
The décor was not fancy, and that was part of what I liked about this place. Just a few wooden chairs and tables scattered about in what looked like the lobby of a boutique hotel.
I stared into my oversized mug as someone approached my table. I lifted my glance and saw him.
“This is not something I usually do,” he said. “It better be good.”
A few other guests recognized Liam Berkeley, and a woman beamed in his direction but left it at that. I had hoped that no one would bother us in this place since it wasn’t one of the trendier cafes where young people went to get their coffee.
“Me either,” I said. “Sit down, please. Do you want some coffee? It’s good, and so are the pastries.”