Telling herself not to be nervous definitely wasn’t working in its entirety; her mouth felt drier, her heart was racing. She didn’t know what to say or what to expect, except that she did. Abi had to remind herself constantly that she’d already slept with the man, talked to him, curled herself around him. He was the same as every other guy, right? Well, apart from being one of the most flirtatious men she’d ever read about. Those letters to Marlene Dietrich? They were definitely something else.
Oh boy. And then there was her; dumb, drunk her. She was gonna wreck this meeting, wasn’t she? By being awkward and hero-worshipping him until he got freaked out and would back away slowly from her. Not that she’d blame him. There was only so many body parts she could ask him to sign.
But she loved his work and had enjoyed her time with him immensely before finding out who he was and where he was actually living. It made sense, in hindsight, knowing what she knew. The bar, the house, Cuba, the career talk. Of course he was Ernest Hemingway.
Then he was suddenly walking right up to her with a confident stride, like it was easy. Fuck. She was too awkward to be real. He hugged her and she squeezed him back, still kind of awestruck for a moment.
“Same, same…” she said, clearing her throat. Abi needed to get over this if she ever wanted to speak to him like a real person. “I’m good. Kind of… freaking out over everything, but good. How… how are you?”