Read Hannah Jayne for Free Online Page B

Will said, letting go of my hand.
    I followed him and Nina through the stacks of polished hardbacks, best sellers, and reader recommendations to a life-sized cardboard cutout of Eliza Draconie. Eliza stood one-dimensionally six feet tall, looking smug in head-to-toe leather and shoes to die for. Plumes of orange and pink smoke were painted behind her, to give the “just stepped out of a cheery, fashionable Hell” look.
    If only.
    Nina whipped around Eliza and stopped dead; Will and I, in turn, rammed into each other.
    “That’s Edie Havenhurst?” Nina gasped.
    I don’t know what I expected from a woman who spent her life writing about fictional vampire fashionistas, but Edie Havenhurst was not it. And judging by Nina’s slack-jawed expression, Edie didn’t meet her expectations, either.
    Edie was sitting behind a table stacked with pink-spined paperbacks that reached to her shoulders. The elegant blond waves that were a shoulder-sweeping halo in her “About the Author” picture stuck out in random arches now, with black roots giving way to brassy blond streaks that made her thick eyebrows look even darker, dwarfing her already small brown eyes. She wore no makeup, and rather than the selection of haut couture that Eliza Draconie sported, Edie Havenhurst wore a nondescript turtleneck sweater and pants suit.
    “She’s wearing sneakers!” Nina hissed.
    Underneath the table Edie’s legs were crossed at the ankles, the hem of her pants rising enough to show off thick white sport socks and those roundy boat shoes that are supposed to tone your thighs and firm your ass just by virtue of lacing them up.
    “I expected Steve Maddens, at the very least.” Nina shook her head disappointedly.
    “Nina, if you love her books, you shouldn’t—”
    “Judge a book by its cover?” Will said with a satisfied grin.
    I linked arms with Nina and guided her through the crowd. “We’re here. You might as well get your book signed.”
    We stopped in front of Edie’s table and I felt Nina stiffen, heard her let out a tiny yip. Her eyes were Disney cartoon wide, and her small chin hitched upward, with lips slightly parted. I started to panic.
    I knew this look.
    I loathed this look.
    I followed Nina’s laser-sharp gaze and gave a little yip myself.
    He was beautiful. He was hunched over, with one perfect, large hand resting on Edie Havenhurst’s shoulder. Even in this crouching state you could tell that this man was tall, commanding; he wore his confidence as well as he wore his relaxed Chinos and his smart blue button-down shirt. His eyes—an amazing cross between golden wheat and burnt sugar—were focused wholly on Nina.
    The bookstore din seemed to fade and I realized I was trapped inside Nina and Mr. Perfect’s lovestruck bubble. I stepped forward and gave Nina a hard, for-her-own-good shove.

    She pitched forward, breaking the mesmerizing stare, throwing her copy of Fendi and Fangs forward so that it hit poor, unsuspecting Edie smack between her too-small eyes.
    While Edie rubbed vigorously at the red spot that the book had left, I noticed that her fingers were short, her nails stubby and bitten to the quick, and that I had likely lost Nina forever.
    “Oh geez,” I breathed out.
    It wasn’t that I didn’t want my best friend to find true love. I did. For years I lived vicariously through Nina’s never-ending parade of well-muscled party boys and San Francisco power brokers. She brought home millionaires and dukes, and they almost always left with all their blood. But when her eyes went wide and her lips pursed like that, I knew there was going to be trouble—and I was the one usually up to my neck in it.
    “Oh, are you okay?” His smooth voice matched his burnt-sugar eyes.
    “I’m fine.” Nina’s voice came out soft and breathy—like a sex kitten or Michael Jackson.
    “I’m Nina.”
    “Harley.” The man held out that perfect hand and Nina grasped it; the whole exchange happened just above Edie’s dark