“Tolstoy asked me to thank you for the mice. He’s crazy about them. In fact, he batted them around the house half the night.”

“It’s the catnip. It’s like kitty pot. Makes them frisky and then really mellow.”

“That explains a lot.”

“You still look pretty tired. Did you manage to get some rest?”

“A little. I was up until two, reading your manuscript.”

Wade winced visibly. “And?”

“I made lots of notes. We could go over them if you want. Or we can wait until I get through the rest of the pages.”

Wade scrubbed at the scruff on his chin with a pained expression. “No time like the present, I guess. Are you free for dinner?”

“Hmmm, dinner with my cat’s dealer. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Come on. Take a walk on the wild side.”

There was that smile again. He was making it difficult to say no, and she was pretty sure he knew it. “Let me guess—you have spaghetti leftovers you need to unload.”

“Actually, I was thinking the Cork and Cleaver around seven?”

Christy-Lynn felt a skitter of nerves. Dinner. Out. Probably not a good idea. But it was business, wasn’t it? A business dinner. With a client. In a public place. How dangerous could it be? “Okay, then. I’ll run home for my notes when we close and meet you there.”

Christy-Lynn waved as she stepped into the lobby of the Cork and Cleaver. Wade was seated at the end of a long oak bench, looking handsome and crisp in dark slacks and a light-blue oxford. He stood when he saw her, wrapping up his chat with Queenie Peterson, who, in spite of owning the restaurant, appeared to also be playing hostess.

Queenie’s face brightened when she spotted Christy-Lynn. “Well now, Wade didn’t say it was you he was meeting. How lovely.”

“Just a little business,” Christy-Lynn assured, not liking the matchmaker gleam in Queenie’s eye. “Wade asked me to give him some feedback on his novel.”

Queenie leaned close, voice lowered. “Are you sure? He’s awfully dreamy.”

“He’s a client, Queenie. We’re here to talk about his book, and that’s it.”

“Fine.” Queenie sighed, reaching for a pair of menus from the hostess stand. “But for the record, I think you’re crazy.”

Wade trailed behind as Queenie led them to a dimly lit corner table. He held out Christy-Lynn’s chair before settling across from her. “I’m a client?” he asked with raised brows.

“I needed to set the record straight. She tends to go off the rails when there’s a good-looking guy around.”

“You think I’m good-looking?”

He had opened his menu, so that only his eyes were visible, but she could tell by the tiny creases at the corners that he was smiling. She fought a smile of her own as she spread her napkin in her lap. “Don’t beg for compliments. It isn’t attractive. Now let’s decide what we’re eating so we can get to work.”

Wade grunted. “All work and no play—”

“Makes Wade a better writer,” Christy-Lynn finished primly. “Let’s do the crab dip. It’s delicious.”

By the time dessert arrived, she had checked off most of the large ticket items on her notepad. Across from her, Wade sat pushing a bite of cheesecake around his plate, his face stony. She wished she could read him better, but he had a way of closing down that made it impossible to guess his mood.

“Look, I know no one likes negative feedback, but it’s part of the gig. And I’m not saying it isn’t good. Quite the opposite, in fact. You have a wonderful voice, fresh and clean, stripped down but still evocative. And the story mechanics are strong in the beginning. The problem is your main character. I haven’t read all the pages you gave me yet, but as a reader, I’d have probably put the book down about halfway through. I just . . . stopped caring.”

“Wow.” Wade put down his fork and looked at her. “I really am a client.”

Christy-Lynn felt a pang of sympathy. She wasn’t used to dealing with writers face-to-face. Her clients were spread from Nova Scotia to Scotland, which meant she gave most of her feedback by e-mail or phone. It was different when you had to look someone in the eye and stomp all over their heart’s work.

“Come on,” she said, trying to keep it light. “You didn’t really ask me to read it so I’d fawn all over you. You wanted to know what wasn’t working, and I’ve told you—or at least given you my opinion. And it’s not like any of it’s fatal. You just need to know your characters better. Do a little psychoanalyzing.”

Wade glowered over his wineglass. “On my characters or myself?”

“Sometimes it’s the same thing.”

“You think I’m Vance?”

“I have no idea who Vance is based on or if he’s based on anyone. In fact, all I know about him is he’s an angry guy with a past, and anyone can write that guy. Tell me where he’s vulnerable. Show me what makes him bleed. Because if he doesn’t bleed, no one’s going to care if he gets the girl.”

Wade was quiet as he signed for the check, leaving Christy-Lynn to wonder what he was thinking. Was he nursing a bruised ego? Digesting what she’d said? Already pondering how he might apply her suggestions? Judging by his grim expression as they made their way to the lobby it could be all of the above—or none.