Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) Read Online Free PDF

barely concealed disgust. 'Okay then!' she says in a high-pitched tone. 'I'll be off now! Goodnight Jamie! Goodnight Craig!'
    The poor woman can't move through the busy throng of Maruga customers quick enough. I watch her go with bleary-eyed regret, knowing full well that I will be getting a new editor soon.
    I look back to Craig, to discover that he is staring at me in wide-eyed Scottish horror.
    'Oh boy, Jamie. Oh boy!' He roars with laughter and sits back down. 'You know, I've read all your books and thought you might have been exaggerating about the stuff that happens to you, but you bloody weren't, were you?'
    I slump back into my seat, rubbing my knee as I do. 'Nope,' I reply in a forlorn voice. 'If anything I've underplayed quite a lot of stuff.' A thought occurs. 'At least I didn't try any belly dancing this time.'
    This sends Craig off into a gale of Highland laughter. Sadly, this also draws the attention of our waitress for the evening, who comes over to see if there's anything else we'd like. I would like to order a taxi, a bottle of Tramadol and a loaded shotgun, but Craig unfortunately gets to her first and orders us both a nightcap. I start to protest... but give up before I've even got my mouth halfway open. There is no possible way on Earth that Craig will let me leave tonight without consuming at least one Bailey's Irish Cream liqueur.
    'Bottoms up, Jamie!' he exults, and throws the entire glass of creamy liquid back in one go. 'Here's to your book launch tomorrow!'
    Oh yes. That's right, isn't it? This is Thursday night, and Friday night is the most important night I've had in a long time. Of course, the perfect preparation for it is to get captain bladdered the night before and kiss your editor's earlobe.
    I throw the Bailey's down my throat with resignation and feebly hold the empty glass up. 'Yay,' I say in an equally feeble voice.
    'What's the matter? You don't think it'll go well?' Craig asks.
    'Well Craig, well, the thing is... the thing... the thing is... '
    The thing is I'm absolutely busting for a piss. I have no idea how I feel about the book launch, but I do know that if I don't get to a toilet soon, the crotch of my trousers will be a lot darker and wetter. 'I need a wee,' I tell Craig. I could have said 'slash' or 'piss', either would have been more alpha, but as I think I've already established, around Craig I am most definitely beta, so what's the point in trying to prove otherwise?
    I rise from the table - managing to avoid another knee related injury this time - and stumble off in the general direction of where I think the toilets are. Having never been to this restaurant before I have absolutely no idea where the toilets are located however. I have to be rescued from trying to take a piss in the kitchen by a passing waitress, who points me in the direction of where the facilities actually are - right back across the other side of Maruga, behind where Craig and I are sat.
    As I shamble past my agent again, I give him a little wave. He responds with the kind of unsure smile you'd usually see someone make when his dog starts chewing on its own foot.
    In the toilet I discover a row of clean white urinals... and blessed relief.
    I'm halfway done, when a short, fat little man of about 50 comes in, and stands a couple of urinals down from me. I ignore him completely of course, as is right and proper.
    I can hear him start to urinate too, so he's obviously not a man who suffers from the legendary stage fright. I return to contemplating the wall in front of me, which is decorated in an attractive aqua marine marble effect that I think would look lovely in the bathroom back home.
    'Excuse me?' says my fellow urinator .
    I turn my head slowly in his direction. 'I'm sorry? Were you talking to me?' I ask, unable to believe that this could be the case. Men simply don't have conversations at urinals. It is most definitely not right and proper.
    'Yes. Sorry to interrupt, but you're not the fellow who writes