I rode to the barn and dismounted my bike, coasting the final few feet with my left foot on the pedal and my right leg swinging over the seat. Nobody waited for me there, casually sexy or otherwise. I went up the wooden steps to the front porch of the house and rang the bell. Dylan answered the door unkempt, with a pair of sweatpants hanging off his hip bones, a white T-shirt barely tucked into his waist, and indecent hair that defied gravity. Unfortunately, that only made me picture his head on a pillow in his bed, and I steeled myself before entering his stronghold.
He kicked a basket of laundry out of the way, scratching his side as he stretched. “Hey, thanks for coming.”
I followed him back to his bedroom, which was neater than I expected. Maybe he’d straightened for me. His cat slept on the bed, and I took a seat by the fat, lazy boy, petting his neck until he rolled over and offered up his belly. I wasn’t dumb enough to be seduced by his coy flirtation. His cat could turn vicious on a dime.
Dylan stretched over to grab his guitar and his phone. Until right then, I hadn’t been sure if his invitation had been a pretext for more, but he looked like he was going to play me some music. Whatever else Dylan meant to me, it always gave me a thrill of pride to be involved in any part of his music creation. I loved when he’d performed for me alone in the barn, singing his songs like they’d been written specifically for me. I liked to think that they were. He’d written more songs since. Songs about love and loss and sex and alcohol.
I almost understood why Layla spent so much time following bands. It had been a huge temptation to climb on that bus with Dylan and live like a groupie, but my mom would have killed me. She’d sacrificed too much to make sure I got an education, and I wasn’t about to disappoint her.
Then I met Peter, and Dylan met whiskey. I’d never tried to find out who else might have “inspired” him during that time. He wasn’t mine anymore, he was desirable as hell, and I could guess how those years were spent. He’d left the whiskey behind for the most part, and I could only speculate about the girls.
He plopped down next to me, against the headboard, with his guitar cradled in his lap and started to strum a couple of chords, just warming up. “I’m gonna play this acoustic so you can hear the underlying tune. I used Pro Tools to put together a demo that will give you a better idea how it could sound with more instrumentation.” He placed a capo on the neck. “I think this could be it, Mads.”
He started to play, and the first line of the new song hit me like a sledgehammer.
Orion, your constellation
Shines in the night
A million miles away
A million years too late
I reach for your light
My past, my future destination
“Holy shit, Dylan.” I hadn’t expected him to write an ode to the town, but it was working for me. He kept his eyes closed, ignoring me. Only a slight curve of his lips indicated he’d heard me.
Oh, heavenly body
Your orbit sucks me in
Want to touch your surface
Need to move in your space
We lie, skin to skin
We burn, we burn hot, so hot
I swallowed hard. He’d opened his eyes midway through and looked at me with those damn blue eyes. Even with his hair standing half up on one side and sleep in his eyes, Dylan was irresistible. My fortress crumbled.
I’d made a terrible mistake coming here alone. Before he could get to the chorus, which I imagined would inflame me beyond salvation, I stood.
He stopped playing and set the guitar aside, watching me carefully. I took a step toward the door, and he was up in a flash and in my space. Not menacing. Just there. In my way. Nearly skin to skin. And I could smell his scent. It was overwhelming.
“Maddie. Don’t go.”
“I have to. Please let me go.”
He moved toward me, his energy vibrating all the atoms in my body, and then as quickly stepped back with a royal flourish. “You know where to find me.”
I raced out the door and down the steps to my mom’s bike, hoping to get some distance between us before I changed my mind. I rode past the lake, straight out the country road, pedaling as fast as I could, trying to burn off the physical need, hearing the words “we burn hot, so hot” and I knew we would. I rode through town and along the stream.
I nearly crashed into a tree when I saw Max walking across the bridge.
He waved. I kept pedaling.
By the time I got home, I was exhausted, but completely free of unwanted sexual desire. I stood in the shower, ideas swirling, and my novel characters started talking.
Rane said, “Lira, I burn for you.”
Lira said, “Rane, this is impossible. You and I, we were never meant to be.”
Rane said, “We were meant to be. We were destined to be.”
I knew the words probably sounded better in my head than they would when I got to my computer, if I even remembered them that long, but I suddenly knew Silver Fox had been right all along. What was missing from my characters wasn’t just romance, it was sex. It had been so long since I’d felt that kind of undeniable physical urge, and even though that was all Dylan and his charisma, my thighs ached again.
Layla sat in the kitchen when I came out, half dressed, still towel-drying my hair. She had her laptop open to a Word doc.
“Is that a résumé?”
She nodded and ignored me. I came up behind her and read over her shoulder. She closed the window. “Nosy much, Maddie?”
“Fine.”
My email ringtone caught my attention anyway. I grabbed my laptop to move over to our sitting room sofa. We had a TV on a stand, but we’d never bothered to hook up the cable and mainly only used it for the occasional Netflix binge. Layla tended to do that on her laptop, though, so the TV collected dust in the corner. I put my feet up on the coffee table and opened up Silver Fox’s latest missive.
Claire,
It sounds like you’re taking baby steps, and that’s probably not bad. I hope you end up finding the love of your life, and not just for the sake of your art.
You asked me why I was reading Pride and Prejudice. I happened to read it recently, and I can’t explain why but it resonated with me. I think I’ve fallen for a Lizzie Bennet, and I don’t know how to get her to meet me halfway. She vexes me, but I’m more optimistic about my prospects. We’re nowhere near the happy ending, but I have moments of hope. Cross your fingers.
I’m wondering if I should give your book another read before the next time my heart gets trampled.
By the way, how’s your second book coming?
SF
P.S. I prefer to be called Foxy. :)
I laughed at his postscript and hit Reply.
Foxy,
Maybe you should follow Darcy’s lead and write your Lizzie a big-ass soul-baring letter? Or if she won’t budge, move on and cast your net a little wider? Sorry if I’m crossing any lines here, but I’m paying you back for the good advice you sent me.
My own romantic life isn’t much better. I’m identifying very much with Jane Eyre right about now. The ghost of Rochester beckons me in the form of a past love interest. While I can’t deny the lure of instant gratification, I don’t need the drama. Meanwhile, I’ve been pursuing a less swoon-worthy romantic prospect.
It’s funny. In the past, I never understood why Jane gave St. John Rivers the time of day, but there’s a safety in that kind of transactional relationship. In real life, taking a huge leap of faith on someone like Rochester rarely works out. What if Rochester hasn’t changed at all? It’s a jump into the abyss.
But for the sake of research, I will keep my options open and let you know how things proceed.
Claire
How sad was it that I was confiding more with a total stranger from the Internet than with any of the people I knew? Maybe that was due to the lack of risk. Or maybe life sometimes just worked that way, mocking our efforts to find meaningful connections with the people in our live
s while dangling promising relationships out of reach. What guarantee was there we’d ever even cross paths with our perfect partner?
Maybe Layla had been on to something all along.
I went to grab a soda from the fridge. As I poured it over ice, my phone alerted me to another incoming email.
Layla looked up from the laptop. “You’ve got to change that ringtone.”
She was probably right, but I was afraid if I picked something less obnoxious, I wouldn’t notice it. I still got excited over needing a separate email for my authoring activities. It reminded me that I’d succeeded against all odds to produce a finished novel. Whether my book had sold or not, I hoped I’d always celebrate the creation of a whole fictional world. I’d lost sight of the joy of writing when I’d read Silver Fox’s negative review, but it wasn’t his fault how I chose to respond to his critique.
Speak of the devil, the unread email in my inbox was from my new friend.
* * *
St. John Rivers? Ouch.
It’s funny you bring up Jane Eyre. I was just rereading that.
I hope this doesn’t come off as too forward since I don’t even know you, and maybe I’m reading between the lines again, but don’t settle for something easy over something hard (yeah, “That’s what she said,” I know). Something easy is better than nothing, I suppose. Tell me this: Does this drama-free guy give you butterflies? Do you feel anything above a warm friendship? I agree with you that those feelings can grow in time, and to be honest, I’m counting on that possibility in my own life. But don’t make that your ultimate goal. We all deserve fireworks.
I have to think that if you’re comparing him to an obviously unlikeable character, maybe you need to reconsider if he’s right for you. On the other hand, playing devil’s advocate, there are good things to be said for a practical match. Surely there are even positive examples in literature. It doesn’t have to be St. John Rivers.
I shot back a one-line email: Name one.
A few minutes later, he replied, short and to the point: I dunno. Bhaer from Little Women?
Oh, no way.
I returned fire. You can’t tell me you didn’t root for Laurie, though.
I’d always been Team Laurie, even though I could see how, on paper, Bhaer might have been the better match for Jo. Maybe it bugged me that we only knew Bhaer from a distance, and he didn’t materialize as a suitor until late in the book, whereas Laurie had been there all along. And he truly loved Jo.
Silver Fox replied: It’s true. I did. But there’s an argument to be made that Bhaer was right for Jo. Love’s such a strange thing. I wonder if Jo wanted to love Laurie but the chemistry wasn’t there for her.
Interesting. I had an alternate interpretation. Or was she simply so passionate about her independence that she could push romance aside until she’d made her own way? She resisted Bhaer’s advances. But in the end, Bhaer could at least offer her mental compatibility.
He replied: Maybe it’s just a case of “may the more persistent man win” since Bhaer refused to take no for an answer.
That made me laugh. Says he who bases his life on the romantic notion of waiting until the girl of his dreams deigns to come to him.
Just biding my time. The butterfly has alighted. I don’t want to scare her away.
This felt like flirting. Face it, young Laurie; you’re pining. Maybe you just need to tell her how you feel.
Oh, I’m Laurie? Well, I think you’re acting like Jo, to be honest. I haven’t seen any indication you’re following your heart in matters of romance.
Touché. You’re right. But I haven’t found my romantic hero.
Has it occurred to you that maybe people aren’t romantic heroes or tropes? Maybe you’re approaching this backward.
True, but books had a certain structure and direction to them that was lacking in my life. If I had the power of the pen over my real life, I wouldn’t be wandering around aimlessly, stumbling into accidental heroes. I looked at the clock. It was getting late, and I needed to finish writing a chapter.
I dashed off: That’s what everyone always tells me. Thanks for chatting. You always seem to give me lots to think about.
His response was almost immediate. Same. Let me know how things go.
Another followed directly after. Hey, follow me on Twitter. It would be a lot easier to chat there.
I opened Twitter and hunted for Silver Fox’s profile, searching out any clues about what he might look like, but his picture was a cartoon fox, and he tweeted mostly links to his reviews. My Twitter profile wasn’t any more revealing. I used a picture of my book in place of a headshot and tweeted mostly never.
I clicked Follow.
Chapter 14
When I opened the bookstore on Monday, the air conditioner was off, and a funky odor permeated the air. I sniffed as I walked around trying to locate the source. I expected to discover I’d left out a rotting deer carcass overnight. Whatever was stinking hadn’t originated from the bathroom or the storeroom. I ducked my head in the kitchen, but the smell grew distinctly more aromatic around the register, over near the display case.
I flipped on the light behind the counter, opened the sliding glass, and gagged. Covering my mouth and nose, I stuck my hand in and cursed because the refrigeration wasn’t functioning. Among other things, a leftover roast beef sandwich, yogurt, and several pints of milk had been sitting at late June temperatures long enough to turn criminal.
As I was throwing every bit of food away, Gentry strolled in.
“Oh, my goodness. What is that smell?”
Without stopping, I hollered over, “What do you need, Gentry?”
The fruit probably would have been salvageable, but I didn’t want to keep anything that had sat in that stink all weekend. So I tossed one after the other into the garbage bag.
Gentry made his way over. “I was stopping in to remind you to come get flags to hang up prior to the Fourth. And please make sure the area outside your store is tidy. I noticed debris on the sidewalk as I came in.”
I pushed up my sleeves so I could reach the plates at the front of the case. It made me sad to throw away the double chocolate fudge cake. I stood and ran the back of my hand across my forehead, acknowledging Gentry again. “Got it. I’ll take care of it.”
He turned to leave but paused. “Shame about your baked goods. I wonder what a health inspector would make of this situation.” I half expected him to twist his nonexistent handlebar mustache malevolently, but instead, a crocodile smile emerged. “If you’d like to send your customers next door, we can accommodate them.”
As if.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You know, my offer still stands.”
As much as I hated to admit it, Gentry’s continued offer was starting to feel less like circling vultures and more like the eagles rescuing Frodo and Sam from Mount Doom. The loss of revenue from closing the shop for another day dismayed me. I was one catastrophe away from ruin. I considered calling Peter to beg him to let me delay my payment this month.
A sense of panic was taking root, and it didn’t help that the deadline for my second book was nearly upon me. I’d already written my editor begging for an extension, but she told me the production schedule was fixed and if I failed to deliver, my release date would slip, which would piss off the marketing team since they were already preparing for the various book fairs where they’d promote the sequel.
I could almost see daylight, but the ending was fighting me. I needed to buckle down and crank out the working draft by Friday so I could beg Layla to read for me before I turned the pages in to my editor in two weeks.
The bookstore had picked the worst time to explode.
Most of the smell moved to the dumpster with the trash. I sprayed everything with a water and bleach solution. I couldn’t tell if the remaining residue was nauseating or not. I’d already adjusted to it.
When Max showed up, I couldn’t complain about the origin of my salvation
. “You are a godsend, Max.”
He beamed as he set the boxes next to the register. “Well, now. That’s better.”
I grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him on a tour of the room. “Do you smell anything funky?”
He put his nose into his armpit. “I did shower.”
Hilarious. “So you don’t notice anything?”
“Maybe. It’s not too bad.” He leaned in. “And you smell nice.”
I did a double take. Was he pretending to flirt? “The display case went out.”
He scratched his chin, which had a dusting of scruff I wished I hadn’t noticed. “But it was working on Saturday? It just stopped?” He went around the register, bent, and started poking at the fan. “Let me see what I can figure out. Hopefully, the motor isn’t burned out.”
My heart sank. I didn’t think I could afford to replace the unit. It might put me out of business.
He tinkered for a few minutes before he dropped to the floor with a frown. “This is beyond me. I think we’re gonna need help.”
“Shit.” I didn’t want to have to pay someone to come out, but I couldn’t run a coffee shop for long without a refrigerated case. “Okay. I’ll call Jack.”
Jack was a friend of my mom’s who ran an HVAC repair business. He could do just about anything, though. He was like rent-a-dad growing up. I’d come home from school to find his legs sticking out from under the kitchen sink or the lingering scent of his man musk after he’d been in the laundry room.
Jack came over right away and hooked up the compressor with some fancy gadget. He plugged a blinking device into the outlet, and then inexplicably got up and went outside. I followed him to the meter. Whatever he was doing was a complete mystery to me, but he rubbed his chin, a sign I interpreted as proof this was going to cost more than I had socked away.
“I think I found the problem.”
“And?”
“Has anyone been tampering with the service box?”
Dating by the Book Page 12
