by Shandi Boyes
A broad grin stretches across her face as she moves through the coffee bean chain she works at.
"I broke my laptop," I inform her, my voice high as devastation dangles on my vocal cords. "Not a little broken, the whole screen is black, and I lost everything broken."
Pepper’s face grimaces. “Show me.”
My hand rattles as I twist my phone to show her my laptop.
“Did you try a hard reset?”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Yes. I’ve turned it off at the wall, begged to the writing gods, and I even promised not to write smut on it if it would turn back on. Nothing is working.”
I groan and flop into my favorite writing chair I salvaged from a dump site over three years ago. Even though it's hideously ugly, it's my good luck charm. I penned my very first best-selling novel on this chair.
“Hours of hard work, gone. I’ll never get the entire first draft re-written before my deadline is due,” I mumble, returning the screen to face me.
I burrow my head into my shaking hands. “God, Pepper, what am I going to do?”
“First, you need to take a deep breath,” she instructs.
I suck in a deep, nerve-cleansing breath of air.
“Second, you need to remember you’ve never missed a deadline. Not once in three years.”
“This time is different. I didn’t have a computer malfunction weeks before my final draft is required,” I interrupt, my voice displaying I'm on the verge of tears.
"That's where step three comes in. Grab that piece of shit computer I told you to get rid of years ago and get your tushie to the local IT shop. Upon entering, fall to your knees, cry like you're a baby who had its binky stolen and beg for them to save the hard drive."
“Save the what?” I interrupt, my dire mood perking up just from talking to Pepper.
“Just because the outside of the laptop has gone kaput doesn’t mean the inside is worthless. But if you don’t get your backside out of that revolting chair and to the computer store, you’ll never know what data can be saved.”
I jump from my chair when Pepper screams, "Move, Paige. Move, move, move," down the line as she did four nights ago when she thought Hunter had spotted us spying on him.
“I love you, Pepper,” I say into the screen while yanking my laptop off the desk and charging down the stairs.
“I know you do, Sweet Pea.”
After air kissing Pepper farewell, I disconnect FaceTime and call the local taxi company.
By the time I make it to the town of Ravenshoe, I'm sweating like a pig. Unfortunately, perspiring is one of the many side effects I endure when I am nervous. Thankfully, I'm not normally a bumbling idiot. But when something stands between me and my deadline, all my regular traits vanish, and a naïve, fumbling imbecile takes over my body.
“Thank you.” I toss a bundle of bills from my purse to the driver when he pulls in front of an IT shop called Mr. Fix It.
I gather my belongings and slide out of the cab as my eyes scan the unfamiliar street. Ravenshoe is surprisingly busier than I was anticipating. The sidewalks are packed with residents and the roads have a dense layer of traffic on them, nearly thicker than the sweat slicking my body.
Shrugging off my surprise that Ravenshoe is a bustling hive of activity compared to the serenity of the private beach at Bronte’s Peak, I saunter to the single glass door of the computer shop. A set of bells above the door chime when I yank open the heavily-weighted door.
My nose scrunches when the smell of burned wires and… toast filters through my nostril cavities. Spotting a gentleman in his mid-fifties with a rounded stomach and a comb-over, I adjust my bag on my shoulder and make a beeline for him. My brisk pace slows to the speed of a tortoise when the quickest glimpse of a profile freezes my heart.
Hunter is pacing through the moderately sized store grabbing a selection of computer parts and accessories. A grin curls on my lips when I discover his outfit choice has returned to his much-loved combo of a pair of designer jeans and a plaid shirt. After watching him in silence for a few minutes, mentally taking note of a few of his finer quirks I could use for Archer, I continue with my original pursuit.
“Hi,” I greet the computer repairman with a large smile on my face, hoping my over-the-top friendliness will aid in having my laptop pushed to the front of the queue.
The gentleman behind the counter sets down some weird-looking green and silver contraption and strides toward me. It's a hard fought battle to keep my smile on my face when his sullied eyes roam my body, not once, not twice, but three times. His depraved stare is so inappropriate, it’s downright unprofessional.
“What can I do for you, honey?” he asks, his voice as slick as his greasy hair.
I place my laptop on the glass counter, which houses small camera devices and a collection of pens. “I’ve broken my laptop.”
“Hardware malfunction or malware issue?” He shifts his dark brown eyes from my not-that-impressive bosoms to my laptop.
I huff and shrug my shoulders. “Ah. You tell me?”
The grooves indenting my head amplify when he cranks open the laptop screen and pushes the power button. I may look a little ridiculous sweating in the coolness of a November day, but I am not a complete idiot. I know how to turn on a laptop.
“Fixing an old girl like this is pointless; you're better off purchasing a new device.”
He tosses my laptop to the side like trash before moseying to a shelf of fancy new laptops on his left.
“Oh no, I don’t want a new laptop. I just need the documents stored inside this one.” My voice slightly raises as panic sets in. “Very important documents are hidden somewhere in this laptop. Very very important documents.”
The repairman’s lips quirk into a cunning smile as he paces back to me. “That important, hey?”
I eagerly nod.
A beading of sweat forms on his shiny forehead as his eyes roam over my laptop. “I’m sure I can get your important documents off this device for you.”
“Really?” My voice is high with excitement.
“Sure, the hardware in this old girl would survive a house fire. Even if you’ve fried the mainframe, I’ll still retrieve some information.” He lifts his dark eyes to mine. “It will cost you, though.”
“That’s fine. Charge any amount you want.” I’m sure it won’t be nearly as high as the advance I’ll lose if I don’t get this draft handed in by the end of the year.
"Alright, leave it with me, and I'll have it back to you in around eight weeks."
My heart slithers into my gut. “Eight weeks?” I squeak out.
“It's only six weeks until Christmas, honey. My planner is fully booked out.”
Tears prick my eyes as quickly as a sweat mustache forms on my top lip.
“Oh don’t go crying on me, honey. I can’t stand seeing a girl cry.” He yanks two tissues out of a box on his left and hands them to me. “Look, let’s make a deal. I could have this back to you by the end of the week.”
My tears dry from a rush of excitement scorching my veins.
“On one condition,” he adds on, pushing his protective glasses up his blackhead-covered nose.
My suspicious eyes dance between his. Even though his covetous gaze is already relaying his true intentions, I want him to spell it all out, as clear as day, so I fully understand the specific agreement he wants me to sign up for.
"What's the condition?" My voice comes out surprisingly high.
“You have to go out with me.”
He peers at me like Hannibal Lecter stared at Clarice in the Silence Of The Lambs movie when they met for the first time. All he needs is the slithering tongue, and the scene would be set.
“On just a date?” I debate with my brow arched high. “No extracurricular activities required?”
My stomach churns when the corners of his mouth lift into a sly smirk.
I grit my teeth. “No deal. I’ll take it to another computer shop in town.”
I snatch my laptop off the counter and charge for the door.
“I’m the only computer repair shop within a hundred miles!” he shouts.
“Then I’ll stop by the local high school,” I argue, spinning around to face him. “As I’m sure I’ll find a teen there who has better computer skills than you and your hideous comb-over.”
A blast of cold air hits me in the face when I yank open the door. Just before I step onto the sidewalk, I crank my neck back and peer at the repairman.
“And just for the record, buddy, I wouldn’t care if the map for Pablo Gaviria’s buried billions in Columbia was on this computer. I'd rather go poor than slap skins with a man like you.”
My sassy attitude dampens when a deep rumbling laugh barrels through my ears. Switching my narrowed eyes from the slacked jaw of the computer repairman to my right, I catch the amused face of Hunter. After giving him the same stink eye I gave the repairman, I spin on my heels and charge out onto the sidewalk.
Halfway down the block, I am still rambling incoherently under my breath. Even walking straight into a shit-storm, I’d rather miss my deadline than be some guy’s side platter for the night. I hate when men use a woman’s desperation as a way in. If they were smart, they would realize most women would pick the helpful geeky, glasses wearing guy over a Calvin Klein underwear model any day. Because at the end of the day, looks vanish; brains don’t.
My quick strides down the bustling sidewalk slow when I hear my name being called over the hum of activity. When I stop and spin on my heels, my heart beats double time. Hunter is dodging his way through the crowd mingling on the sidewalk. My lungs struggle to secure a full breath just from the way the muscles in Hunter's thighs stretch and expand as he quickly closes the distance between us.
“Hey,” he greets me, still smirking the same smile he wore in the computer store.
"Hey.” My breathlessness makes the single word come out like a long pant. "Sorry about that." I nudge my head in the direction he just came from. Even though I was irate, he didn't deserve to cop my knee-chattering stink eye.
Hunter’s smile enlarges. “It’s all good. Bosco deserved it.”
I don’t attempt to refute his claim. Bosco should be glad he still has his nuts attached to his body.
Hunter runs his hand along the edge of his scruffy beard as his shrewd and assessing eyes bore into mine. I return his stare with just as much vigor, studying the parts of him I haven't been able to fully access from a distance.
When I first started writing about Archer, I placed him in his mid-thirties, but from the youthfulness of his eyes, and the fact his face is void of any wrinkles, I’ll lower his age range to late twenties, making him closer to my twenty-five years. He has a straight, defined nose, sharp cheekbones partially hidden by a maintained but full beard, and intelligent eyes. He's handsome in a unique, masculine type of way.
After Hunter finishes his assessment of my body and face, he says, “I can fix your laptop for you.”
I curve my brow, giving him the same dubious stare I gave Bosco. “At what cost?” My voice is tainted with suspicion.
Hunter chuckles, gaining him the attention of a handful of residents walking by. Noticing we've acquired unwanted, prying eyes, he places his hand on my elbow and guides me into a small bakery at our side. His simplest touch causes a surge of awareness to prickle my skin.
Thankfully, the loud grumble of my stomach distracts him from the reaction my body had to his closeness. The smell of freshly baked goodies and pastries slams into me when he moves us to the corner of the bakery. Peering down at my watch, I note it's a little after 2 PM. No wonder I'm hungry; I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I have a terrible habit of forgetting to eat when I am writing.
"It won't cost you anything," Hunter advises, drawing my attention away from the delicious goodies on display in the glass cabinets. I stare at him, confused by his offer. It's only once he continues speaking does it dawn on me what he's talking about. "It will also make up for the rudeness in the way I approached you the other night."
My brows become lost in my hair. I was the one busted watching him during a sexual encounter, and he's worried about his rudeness?
“It will only take me around an hour. Easy work,” he assures me, spotting my angst-ridden face.
I peer into his wholesome eyes. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Although I hate asking for help from a stranger, I am in a real pickle.
“Certain,” Hunter responds without a hesitation, easing my guilt at taking up his valuable time.
“Alright. That will be great. When can you do it?” I ask, praying to the writing gods he says sometime within the next week.
“Now,” he replies with a broad grin.
My eyes bulge. "Okay, great," I stumble out through the tumbleweeds in my throat. "Let me grab us a couple of treats first; then we'll get this show on the road."
Chapter Five
My dropped jaw gains leverage the closer Hunter's Hellcat rolls down the driveway of his residence. Although I've spent a majority of my time the past six weeks spying on him, I've never paid much attention to the details of his house. I've been missing out. This place is ginormous. Panel upon panel of multi-hued glass meticulously joined with thick steel beams painted the color of the ocean backdrop creates an awe-inspiring architectural delight.
When Hunter parks his car in front of a four-car garage, I yank open my door. The gravel crunching under my feet matches the rhythm my heart is thumping as I follow him up a small flight of stairs to a set of double glass doors. I don't know who this guy is, but he's obviously stinky rich. The whole house screams of wealth. I'm not talking Ivanka Trump asked daddy for a loan. I'm talking Eric Berry signing his deal with the Kansas City Chiefs rich.
I rub my hands together like a kid in a candy store when an electronic face enters the screen of a computer panel at our side when it notices us approaching.
"Are you shitting me?" My voice is eccentric and high. "You have a computerized security system?"
Hunter smirks at my giddiness but remains quiet. My eyes bulge even more when a female voice booms out of the speakers. “Welcome home, Mr. Kane… and guest.”
My eyes rocket to Hunter. “Is that a computer program or a real life person watching us?”
I'm putting bets on it being a real life person. Because I swear she sneered when she said, "Guest."
"She's a computer.” Hunter turns his eyes to the panel of equipment on his right. "Patricia, this is Paige, add her face to your database for future recognition."
“Yes, Mr. Kane,” the computer program replies.
Even though Hunter has declared Patricia is a computer, I'm standing by my original statement. There's no doubt in my mind she's sneering. Ignoring my bug-eyed expression, Hunter pushes open the thick glass door and enters the opulent foyer of his home before offering to take my jacket. Even though the house has a cold, sterilized feel with stark white walls and marbled floors, it's surprisingly warm.
Shrugging out of my deep red padded bomber jacket, I hand it to Hunter. While he hangs our coats in the coatroom at the side of the foyer, I pace deeper into the space. I inwardly chuckle when my eyes absorb the beautiful nude paintings adorning his pristine white walls. They are painted in a similar color to the ocean backdrop. Unlike the disastrous pieces I've sketched of Hunter and his companions, these paintings resemble humans.
Slinging my laptop under his arm, Hunter gallops down the three stairs to the open living area at the back of his residence. I closely shadow him as my eyes categorize every inch of his house. A large ten seater dining table sits on my right; an expansive and adeptly decorated white marble kitchen is on my left, and the vast span of his living area stands directly in front of me. From this vantage point, there are uninterrupted views of the pristine beaches below. It's nearly as spectacular as the views I’ve witnessed in this space numerous times the past six weeks.
My eyes stray from the beautiful vista when tinkering filters th
rough my ears. Spinning around, I spot Hunter seated on a white glass bar stool at the breakfast bar he eats his three slices of toast at every morning. He already has the back of my laptop removed and is fiddling with stuff inside my computer that looks way over my pay grade.
“Do you work with computers?” I pace closer to him.
The corners of his lips quirk before he shakes his head. “It’s more of a hobby I kind of stumbled into.”
My brows stitch. “You do know what you're doing, don’t you? Because I wasn’t joking when I said very important documents are stored on that laptop."
Every crude joke I’ve ever heard filters through my brain when Hunter throws back his head and chuckles a full-hearted laugh. I’ll dish out more one-liners than Chris Rock at the Comedy Cellar if it guarantees me he will laugh like that again.
When his chuckles settle down, his glistening eyes raise to me. “I’ve got you covered, Paige.” He returns to tinkering with my laptop. “I work for a telemarketing company in New Delhi.”
My brows become lost in my hairline. “As in you own the company? Or…” My words trail off when I can’t think of a plausible reason why a guy who works in telemarketing would live in a house worth well into the millions.
When he chooses not to answer my question, I pace to a small selection of photos on his fire mantel. The photos cross a broad span of years in Hunter’s life, from a young teen to a college graduate.
“Have you always had the beard?” I pick up a photo of him I’d guess was taken four or five years ago. Although his beard isn’t quite the thickness it is now, it still covers a majority of his jawline.
“Yeah, pretty much since I could grow one.”
My lips twist before I return the photo to its rightful spot. I’ve never really been a fan of beards, but Hunter’s has grown on me. When I first commenced writing about Archer—the fictional character based on Hunter—I initially removed the detail of his beard. But after a few paragraphs, something felt off in the story. It was only after I added the beard back in did the story line progress with a natural flow. Archer is the very first character I’ve penned with a full beard.
