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to order and presented Chester F. Bordon to the waiting crowd. The distinguished-looking, gray-haired mystery writer stepped up to the microphone and began his lecture, but Betsy knew she might as well have had cotton in her ears. Her eyes were on Bordon, but her nerves were tuned to the man sitting next to her.
    Her name tag was on her left shoulder, while Mr. Dreamboat’s tag was on his right. She couldn’t see it without facing him, and that, she was not about to do.
    Defiantly flinging all her attention to the speaker, she straightened her spine and tried hard to focus.
    It was obvious that Chester Bordon was enthused about his subject as he detailed how the workshop would proceed. The first half, he would lecture on writing technique; the second half would be devoted to a simple exercise.
    “I want you to choose a partner, preferably a stranger. Make a friend. Who knows,” he chuckled, “the stranger sitting next to you may be your perfect soul mate. Your life’s partner, the man or woman of your dreams.”
    Individuals in the group slid glances at the people around them and everyone smiled and tried to suppress nervous giggles. Betsy continued to stare straight ahead, until she felt a gentle jab. Her neighbor was nudging her with his elbow!
    Turning her head as slightly as possible in his direction, her gaze drifted unwillingly to his mouth. Mmmm.
    Be my partner? he asked silently. Lifting his brows in inquiry, he gave her an encouraging nod.
    Betsy glanced desperately to her left just as the woman seated there sneezed, then coughed, then sneezed again. Taking out a huge handkerchief, she proceeded to blow her nose with the passion of a foghorn eliciting a small craft warning.
    Bordon was still detailing the instructions. “One person will go first and write a paragraph on a topic I’ll give you. Keep the paragraphs to two or three sentences. Then, the partner will compose the next paragraph based on what the first person wrote. Trade back and forth in that manner until I call time. When we’re done, I’ll read one of them so you can see how ideas can play off each other. You may find your story going in a direction you never dreamed possible, but which is much more interesting for the element of a second person’s perspective.”
    A tingle of excitement skittered up Betsy’s spine. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to concentrate enough to actually compose an entire paragraph, let alone several. Not with her nerves and emotions in such a state.
    The speaker proceeded to elaborate on the importance of accurate research in fiction, but for her, what had been a much anticipated lecture suddenly turned into a countdown to the partnership exercise.
    Betsy suppressed a groan. Glaring at Chester Bordon, she wondered if the damned man couldn’t talk any faster. All she could think about was that when he was done speaking, she would be partners with the totally hot guy sitting next to her.
    Her mind spun and her stomach flipped. She was a nervous wreck by the time the famed mystery writer finally wound things up and asked for questions.
    No questions! she wanted to yell. Just everybody sit quietly and let’s move on to the partnership exercise. Okay?
    She resisted the urge to tap her toe nervously while several people asked their questions. Bordon took his time answering them. How nice. How thorough. How very professional of him. Next!
    In a few minutes the questions and answers came to an end. Finally! But just as she turned to her partner, he stood.
    “I’ll be right back,” he assured her. “I’m going to speak to Chester for a sec. Don’t go ’way . . . partner.” Stepping through the crowd, he strode toward the podium.
    Oh yes, he was tall. Dressed in that black suede jacket, open-collared white shirt, and faded blue jeans and boots, he looked like he’d just stepped off a men’s magazine cover. And his butt! Betsy nearly swooned. Shoulders to die for and a butt to match.
    Out of the corner of her