Reading Mr.Wright

By Kimber Vonn

Ian Wright is an award-winning novelist. He’s had movies made from his books for Christ’s sake. He’s also one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen . . . and he wants to spend the evening with me!

That’s why my mind is absolutely boggled by the fact that at the end of the evening, I just walked away and left him standing on a patio without any way of finding me. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I’m stupid. Or maybe I just want a fairytale of my own.

I guess the real reason is that I’m tired of being the one who invests all the energy in making a relationship work—I want Ian to want me as much as I want him. And God knows I want him!

But the real question is . . . can a relationship like ours work? I mean, he’s famous, and I’m just a lowly legal assistant attending law school at night. He works wherever he wants. I work in a cubicle.

And then there’s the paparazzi. Oh, the paparazzi! They’ll do whatever it takes to create the story they want . . . even if it means breaking up a relationship!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kimber Vonn
• Release date: Jun 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463533277

Book preview

Reading Mr. Wright

Copyright 2020 © Kimber Vonn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please refer all pertinent questions to the publisher.

Thanks to everyone who helped make this story better . . . you know who you are!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Chapter One

Are you here for the bride? the older lady asks. She’s busy pawing through an oversized purse. Scraps of paper bubble out of the puffy, leather bag. Some of the contents tumble onto the pew between us. Other parts spill onto the church floor.

I bend over to help retrieve the litter, notice a grocery list scribbled on the back of a receipt—milk, eggs, bread, all written in thin, shaky letters. Next to the receipt lies a photograph of a raggedy, orange cat. I scoop up the mishmash of items and hand them over. She smiles and offers me a wrinkled stick of mint gum in return.

I work with Jen at the firm, I say.

Oh, are you a lawyer? she asks in a soft voice, stuffing the materials back into her bag. She pauses to admire the picture of the tabby.

No, I say with a chuckle. Just a lowly legal assistant.

I’m here for the groom. Josh is my great-nephew, she says adoringly, motioning towards the altar with a frail, bony hand.

I peek up to see a dark-haired man standing at the front of the chapel. I’ve worked with Jen for three years now, but I’ve never met her fiancé. I’ve only seen him in the pictures she’s shared around the office—her postings on FaceBook or the occasional Snap Chat. I knew he was handsome, but as he stands fiddling with the cuffs of his white shirt, making sure they’re adjusted perfectly beyond the ends of his jacket sleeves, I can’t help but realize he’s more than that . . . he’s beautiful.

The lady holds out the photo of the cat. Precious died two years ago, she says with a sigh. Do you like cats, dear?

I’m so sorry, I whisper. I have one at home.

What’s its name? she asks, a tinge of excitement in her voice.

Renaldo, I say.

Oh, how nice . . . Renaldo. Such a nice name. I bet he’s wonderful.

He’s a spoiled brat, I say, rolling my eyes.

She giggles and slides Precious back into her purse. I suppose most of them are. We wouldn’t have it any other way.

I guess not, I say with a chuckle.

The organist keys the first chords and our heads crane towards the rear of the church. The crowd gasps as Jen appears at the top of the aisle. She’s wearing an ivory princess-lace ballgown with a five-foot train, three young girls managing it from behind. Her blonde hair is in a braided, half-up style, and she carries a bouquet of antique-white roses. She looks stunning.

She steps intimately down the aisle, her eyes beaming towards the groom. As she takes her place beside him at the altar, I can’t help but think about my own love-life. I haven’t had a date in months. I haven’t had a serious relationship in over two years. By all accounts, my love-life is non-existent, and the way it’s going lately, things don’t seem to be getting better anytime soon.

For one thing, I don’t have the time. I’ve been attending law school these last two years, which pretty much eats up every free second I have. The other thing is Brent, the man who was once the love of my life. We met during our senior year of undergrad. He was everything I’d dreamed. Tall. Strong. Handsome. He swept me off my feet. Promised me the world.

We moved in together right after graduation, me working at the firm and him pursuing his graduate degree in engineering. But what I didn’t know at the time is that Brent was pursuing other interests as well. Those of the female persuasion. Multiple female persuasions to be exact.

It all came out around the same time he was finishing up his graduate degree, in the form of a video I stumbled across on his laptop—more specifically, a threesome of him with two girls in our apartment. The whole thing was devastating. At the time, I thought Brent was the one. Scratch that—I knew he was the one! That’s probably what hurt the most. The idea that one moment I was so certain he was my happily ever after, and the next I was certain he was Satan incarnate. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so blind?

I slouch in the pew, feel my heart pound inside my chest reliving the whole thing, feel disgusted at myself that even now, so long afterward, I allow the memory of Brent to bring me the slightest hint of anxiety.

They look so beautiful together, the old lady whispers. I glance over to see her dabbing a tissue at the corner of her eye. I slide an arm around her shoulders. Just so beautiful, she repeats.

After the ceremony, the wedding party retreats to a banquet hall across town. It’s a beautiful brick building situated along the bay, with tall leaded-windows and bare wood-rafters overhead. There’s an area cordoned off for dancing and a corner stage where a five-piece band has set-up its equipment. The entire place is adorned with flowing silk streamers, white roses, and a giant crystal chandelier hanging fabulously in the middle of the room.

Iris! a voice calls as I weave through the crowd. I glance up to see Lynn Bettler, a legal secretary for one of the attorneys on the fourth floor of our office building. I don’t know Lynn all that well, but we’ve spent a little time chatting on occasion in the firm’s cafeteria. She’s older, maybe in her mid-forties, and, from what I remember, married with three kids.

Lynn! I exclaim, rushing over to embrace her. It’s great to see you.

It’s great to see you, she says, leaning in to kiss my cheek. Sit with us. You remember everyone, I’m sure? she says, motioning towards the table.

Yes, I squeal. Hello everyone!

I have to say, the familiar faces are a relief. Jen’s reception is huge. There must be three hundred people. I was beginning to worry whether I’d find acquaintances.

From what I know about Jen, she comes from a pretty modest upbringing. Her mother is a retired teacher and her father a pharmacist. On the other hand, Josh’s family is a pretty big deal around the community. His father owns a string of successful businesses, and his mother is a local socialite who comes from old money. By the looks of things at the reception, they spared no expense.

Jesus, is he not the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen? Lynn leans in and whispers as I sit next to her. Seems Jen’s landed herself a real stud. Her eyes twinkle as she says it. I peek up to see Josh standing across the room.

He is nice to look at it, I hear myself say.

"I bet the sex is out of this world," Lynn says, her voice filled with curiosity.

Oh my, I gasp, unsure how to respond.

C’mon . . . don’t tell me you weren’t wondering the same thing.

Um . . . I mean . . . I . . . I stutter, feeling instant guilt for lusting after my friend’s new husband.

He’s built like a gladiator, she says. Imagine what he could do with those guns?

I nearly fall out of my chair.

What? she exclaims, obviously sensing my reaction. Can’t a girl fantasize?

Certainly, I say with a giggle. It’s just . . .

Just what? Do you think I’m too far off the field to be in the game?

Too far off the field? I bumble, not quite sure what to make of her analogy.

Yeah. Do you think I’m too old or something? Too much of a mom?

No . . . no! . . . that’s not it at all.

Well . . . I hope you know cougars are in.

Cougars are what?

Cougars are in, she says emphatically. All these young men roaming around here . . . She spins her index finger in the air.

Yeah? I say.

That’s what they prefer. A cougar!

O-M-G! I gasp, my hand going reflexively to my mouth.

That’s right. Any of them would be happy to score a MILF like me.

"You are sooo bad, Lynn . . . I had no idea."

What? she snaps, her bright blue eyes going wide. You young girls need to watch out. We cougars are on the prowl! She forms her hand into a claw and paws the air.

I laugh so hard my insides hurt.

Back at the table, they’re chatting about the wedding. For the most part, the group agrees that this has been the event of the year, especially since the reception includes an open bar.

"That’s what does it for me, says Rob Finch, one of the first-year attorneys for the firm. You’ve got my attention whenever you say free booze," he laughs, approaching the table with two beers in hand.

It’s probably the only thing that keeps any of these men here . . . free booze, whispers Lynn with a chuckle.

I glance at the head-table. Jen and Josh reign over their royal court. I watch as she leans in and nuzzles her nose against his neck, as he kisses the top of her head. My heart melts. I can’t help but think how in love they seem. Watching the newly married couple sitting at their special table, eyes all aglow, I can’t help but feel how instantaneously their energy has changed. They aren’t separate individuals any longer. They’ve become one.

Oh, jeez! Lynn exclaims, interrupting my daydream.

What is it? I ask, glancing over to see her typing on her phone.

Oh, it’s just Geoffrey.

I remember from our conversations back at the office that Geoffrey is her husband.

Is everything alright? I ask.

Yes. It’s just that he’s home alone with the children, and he’d have you think he’s completely helpless.

Sounds like a man, I say with a smile.

I’m pretty sure the real reason for his text has nothing to do with him not being able to figure out how to run the nebulizer. She frowns as she says it. Our youngest is taking allergy treatments.

Geoffrey doesn’t know how to work the machine?

No! That’s not it, she snaps. He’s just looking for a reason to bother me.

I laugh as I take a sip of wine. It nearly goes out of my nose. I pull a napkin to my face. A reason to bother you? I mumble through my hands.

Yes, she starts, I’ve instructed him a thousand times how to use the damned thing. The real reason he’s texting me is that he doesn’t like the idea of me being out without him . . . you know . . . having fun while he’s cooking dinner, washing dishes, and seeing the kids off to bed.

Suddenly, I find myself facing the flip side of happily-ever-after. Just as I was beginning to fall head-over-heels with the picturesque vision of two newlyweds basking in the glow of their holy matrimony, Lynn slaps me in the face with the reality of what it means to be married with children. Here she is attending a wedding all by herself, her husband minding the house, and the poor bastard can’t leave her alone long enough to figure out how to use a shitty nebulizer. The irony is as thick as tar, and instantly my idealistic vision of what this love and marriage thing is supposed to mean comes crashing down around me. As I sit here, I can’t help but imagine a frazzled Geoffrey scrambling about the house, tangled in nebulizer hoses, trying his damnedest to wrangle his three rambunctious children into bed. All the while his beautiful bride sits next to me guzzling another glass of wine.

Maybe you shouldn’t respond, I say. Maybe you should let him figure it out.

Oh, Christ no! she snaps. If I don’t tell him how to do it, I’ll get home to find the goddamned thing shoved up someone’s ass.

This time I spray wine across the room.

After I get the mess cleaned up, and finish apologizing to everyone for the chardonnay shower, a team of wait-staff shows up at our table. They fill our glasses and bring salads, and when we complete the first course, they promptly appear carrying trays filled with entrees. The food is delectable, and after I eat, I sip my wine and listen to the low roar of voices and familiar clanging of utensils working steadily against plates and bowls.

I gaze across the room to see the ringbearer and flower-girl frolicking on the dancefloor. The boy tags the girl on her shoulder, turns and darts back towards the head-table. I watch as she stands stunned for a moment and then speeds after him. They chase one another for a while, weaving in-between the tables, until finally meeting up with another group of children swirling near the front of the bandstand.

Hey . . . did you hear Ian Wright is in attendance? Lynn asks.

One of the wait-staff slides a cake-filled platter into the center of our table.

Ian Wright. The writer? asks Angela Bowers, a first-floor receptionist.

Yeah . . . definitely the writer, says Rob sarcastically, as if any of us is stupid not to know who Ian Wright is. The truth is, I don’t know. I’d heard his name a time or two, but I’m not sure I could have guessed his profession. And I’m positive I couldn’t guess any of his work.

He’s here? says Angela. Didn’t he do that one book . . . what was it called?

"Lest Our Eyes Deceive!" Rob answers haughtily.

Yes . . . that’s it . . . Lest Our Eyes Deceive. Didn’t they make it into a movie? she asks.

"Yes, he won a National Book Award for it . . . and they made it into a movie . . . the book is better if you want my opinion," he adds.

Wow, I can’t believe he’s here, Angela gasps.

They’ve turned four of his books into movies, Ren Nestor says. Ren is also a first-year lawyer, and although she’s never come out to any of us, I’m pretty sure she’s a lesbian. I think Our Eyes Deceive is the best, though, she adds, lifting a thin slice of the wedding cake to her mouth.

I’m not saying it was a horrible movie, it’s just that I preferred the novel, Rob says.

I find that’s generally the case, Ren adds, licking blue icing from her lips. Although I have to admit, I didn’t read the book.

Isn’t Brad Pitt in that one? Angela asks.

Dicaprio, says Ren, shoving the rest of the cake into her mouth.

"Brad’s in The Wars We Wage . . . his first novel," Rob corrects.

Oh, god . . . I loved that movie, Lynn says, her eyes glowing.

Well . . . has anyone got a peek at him, yet? Angela asks.

Who? Brad Pitt? asks Lynn with a chuckle.

No . . . Ian! says Angela.

I gaze at the table. No one responds. I watch as Rob glances around the room, eager to be the first to pick him out of the crowd.

"Maybe he’s not