But Mason was a nice distraction, as crass as that sounded. He was kind and funny and so easy to talk to. It didn’t hurt that he was also extremely easy to look at. It also didn’t hurt that he was a…what was the phrase she’d used in her novels? A master in the sheets. God, just thinking about the way he touched her gave her cold chills. It was unreal how good he was. Or maybe it had just been so long for her that anyone would seem impossibly good.
She sank into the couch, pulling her laptop to her lap and opening it. She’d already decided to scrap the story she’d been working on, finding a new story in her latest muse. She typed the first words, losing herself in her words for the first time in so long. Maybe it was true, that her best work had come from being inspired by Brett, because now the story was flowing from being in Mason’s presence like it hadn’t in so long. Was she entirely useless on her own?
After a few hours of writing, and nearly five thousand words written—holy cow!—Arlie closed the laptop, covering her eyes to allow them to adjust to the lack of light.
Her phone was going off, its vibrations echoing through the quiet house, and she stood, walking to the kitchen countertop where it lay and picked it up. “Hello?”
“Arlie, darling, sorry it’s taken so long to get in touch. How’s the book coming?” It was her agent, Phoebe. The one who was supposed to call two weeks ago. The one Arlie was glad hadn’t called, as she had absolutely nothing new to report.
“Hey, Phoebe, no problem. I’ve actually just started a new project. I had to step away from the first one—it just wasn’t coming to me—but this one’s flowing nicely. I’m at around twenty thousand words,” she bit her lip at the lie, promising to get there soon, “but it’s nothing like I’ve ever written before. I really think it’s going to be a hit.”
“That’s fabulous, honey.” Phoebe always called her little terms of endearment, like ‘honey,’ ‘darling,’ and ‘sweetheart,’ even though she was nearly the exact same age as Arlie. “Look, I want to be supportive, and you know I’ll love whatever you put out, but you do have to put out something. And soon. Sales are dropping pretty rapidly. That’s the business, you know? You had a great year and then a decent year, but these last few months…well, things are headed south. We need to put something new out quickly. What kind of a timeline are you thinking?”
“Nine months?” Arlie asked, knowing she was pushing it. When Phoebe didn’t respond right away, Arlie corrected herself. “Maybe six.”
“Okay,” Phoebe said hesitantly. “I’m sure it will be fine. Let’s check back in next week and see where you are, okay? Write, write, write. Love you, doll face.” With that, the line was dead and Arlie was left in silence again.
Phoebe was right. She knew, her sales were pitiful lately, almost back to what they’d been before her career took off. The money she’d made from her success was great, and it would last her for quite a while, but it would eventually run out. Especially if she didn’t put something new out. If she wasn’t able to do it soon, she was pretty convinced Phoebe would give up on her. Their contract would be running out soon. And what could she expect, really? She hadn’t put out anything new in over a year, and she couldn’t even make it to the halfway point in anything she was currently working on. Every time, as she grew nearer to forty thousand words, her brain shut down. Suddenly, every word she typed was mush. Pitiful. Unworthy of other eyes.
She groaned. Honestly, what was the point? Maybe she’d be better off getting a day job. She could survive off a few meaningless hours at the local grocery store, or maybe she could venture to Arbordale and find an office job. It wouldn’t be so hard. In fact, it would be a hell of a lot easier than doing what she did. Dreaming, mostly. Dreaming and writing and scrapping what she’d written, and sending it to her editor and agent and getting it torn apart by them, and getting bad reviews and no one understanding what she was trying to say. No one understanding that she was begging for help because she was so incredibly alone, and her husband, the only man who had cared to understand, was dead and she was by herself for the first time since she was eighteen. Her entire life had been spent on her books, not on her marriage, and oh, she had so much resentment for that and all she’d missed and given up just to get a few more words in. All this for what? To accomplish a dream she’d had once? Did she even care about the dream anymore? She’d gotten it. Her books had earned her more money than she could’ve ever hoped for, people knew her name, and yet…it felt empty. Everything she’d dreamed of had been handed to her in a box with a little bow, but it had come at the cost of her husband, the life she’d pictured with him. With that knowledge, she wasn’t sure she could ever feel the love for writing she once had.
But at the end of the day, she was terrified to go out of her house too much, and Arbordale was the town where Brett had taken his last breath, so it felt too emotional to make it a part of her daily routine. She was trapped in the life she’d wished for, the life she hadn’t realized she could hate so much.
She walked to her computer, picking it up again and wanting to get lost in the only thing that could make her feel better. Where were we, Mason Beaumont?
CHAPTER NINE
She opened her eyes, feeling the laptop lift off her lap, her vision blurry from sleeping in her contacts. She stared at him, confused for a second, and then awake. “Hey,” she said, rubbing her eyes and sitting up further on the couch. The morning light was creeping in from behind the blinds.
“Hey.” Mason kissed her forehead, closing the laptop. “Sleep good?”
“I did,” she said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie this time. “How was work?”
“I could call Perry several names worse than ‘jerk,’” he told her, “but it wasn’t bad.” He reached in his pocket, pulling out several twenties and offering them to her. “Here. Take it. It’s not all that I owe you, but it’s some.”
“Mason, honestly, I don’t need that. You don’t owe me anything.” Her eyes lit up. “Actually, you’ve given me something.” She pulled the laptop to her again, lifting the lid and checking her word count. “I’m at fifteen thousand words. In one night. I don’t know if that’s ever happened to me before.”
“Thanks to me?”
“Yes,” she said, feeling her face flush with color. “You inspire me.”
“Well, I’m happy to help,” he said with a wink. “Speaking of, I finished book two. Two down, two to go.”
“You already finished?” She swallowed, nerves rushing through her. It never went away, that overwhelming sense of excitement and fear that filled her at hearing someone had read her books.
“In between customers last night. Perry wasn’t entirely happy, but he didn’t say anything. What can I say? You’re really talented, Arlie. I can’t put them down.”
“You have no idea what it means to me, the fact that you even read them. So many people in my life, even now, six years after I started publishing, they still tell me they’re going to read my books someday. I think it’s almost worse for them to say that than for them to just say nothing at all.”
He slid onto the couch beside her, kissing her lips carefully, his hand on her jaw. “Well, they don’t know what they’re missing. And I can’t wait to see what you’ll come up with next.”
She sighed, remembering her conversation with Phoebe last night.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, sensing the shift in her mood.
“Nothing,” she said softly, but his eyes narrowed at her and made her want to share her burden with him. “It’s just…since Brett died, I’ve really had trouble writing. Last night was amazing progress, but I’m still not where I need to be, you know? And it’s not like my books are getting any more popular. And I’m not putting anything new out. And my agent’s getting frustrated and my publisher’s starting to give up on me and it just feels like I don’t know what I want to do anymore. Or who I want to be. As a writer. Or a person.” She placed her face into her palms, groaning. “I’m sorry. I’m not making any sense.”
>
“No,” he said, “you are. You’re making total sense.”
“I am?”
“You are.” His thumb was caressing her cheek, and she closed her eyes, losing herself in the sensation. “Of course,” he said, “I’m not sure I’m the most reliable judge, you know, being that my mind is an empty slate and all.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said with a laugh. “Well, I trust your judgement anyway.” She paused. “What are we going to do about that? About you. Aren’t you worried? I would be a nervous wreck if I were you.”
“What’s there to be nervous about?” he asked with a shrug. “I mean, of course I want to know who I am, or who I was, but I’m okay. This…what we have…it’s good. If anything, like I told you before, I’m nervous about having to give this all up for my old life. How could anyone be as good as you?”
She looked down, the butterflies in her stomach more active than ever. “I just feel like there’s more we should be doing.”
“Like what?” he asked. “We don’t even know where to start looking. The police know about me. They’re trying to track down any employers who’ve worked in that part of town lately, someone who might be missing me. They’re checking missing persons reports. They’ve run my fingerprints and DNA, and we should hopefully be hearing back, but they said there’s little else that can be done. Even on their end. So, what else is there for us to do but wait?”
She shook her head, knowing he was right. “I guess that’s true. I just feel so useless.”
“You aren’t useless, Arlie. You’ve helped me so much. Given me a place to stay. You’re helping me get a new start until we find out where I belong.”
“So, we just wait, then? You’re okay with that?”
“I’m perfectly okay with it,” he assured her. “But no one said we can’t have a little fun while we wait.” His hand slid up her shirt, his lips grazing her skin, and she let her worries go for the moment. Nothing mattered besides Mason. Mason and her. Her and Mason.
And her books. And his past.
No.
Mason.
Mason.
Mason.
CHAPTER TEN
“Why don’t we get out of Crimson Falls for the rest of the weekend?” Mason asked, staring at her over the kitchen table.
“What?” She took a bite of her bacon, staring back.
“We could get away. Go on vacation or whatever. Head to the beach. Head to the mountains. Head somewhere.”
She bit her lip, thinking about how amazing it might be to get away from Crimson Falls during this week. Arlie had never been the kind of person who wanted to leave the town totally. She felt at home here. It was the only place she’d ever felt accepted, but since Brett’s passing, the town brought more grief than happiness. Could she leave? Could she get away? Escape with Mason and never look back? Would a vacation be enough if she were to truly leave? She wasn’t sure. Leaving Crimson Falls would be like breathing fresh air, and she wasn’t sure she’d want to come back to the pollution once she’d escaped it. “I don’t know.”
“Come on,” he coaxed. “What’s your favorite vacation spot?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve never really been on vacation.”
“What do you mean? Never?”
“Well, growing up with a single mother who worked two and three jobs just to scrape by, we never really had a lot of money to spend on vacations, and then Brett and I struggled, too. He always wanted to support my dream, he wanted me home writing, so he took a corporate IT job, even though teaching was always his passion. And…even though it paid pretty well, we were in tremendous debt from both of our degrees and small loans here and there, plus our cars, so it just…we were barely above water.” She blushed. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. A simple ‘no’ would’ve been fine, huh?”
“I never mind learning more about you, Arlie. I find you fascinating.”
“Fascinating, hmm?” she asked with a wink. “No one’s ever used that word to describe me.”
“Well, I just did,” he said. “And I finished your last book, by the way. I think it was my favorite yet.”
“Really?” She beamed. “Mine too, actually. Brett liked the second one best, but I always connected with the last.”
He suddenly sported a devilish grin. “Well, I think that says a lot about you.”
“Why’s that?” she asked. “Because it’s about a writer?”
“No, because there are some…pretty racy scenes.” He looked away, as if he were embarrassed, but when he looked back, his eyes were full of fire. “It’s pretty hard to believe all of that came out of this.” He tapped her forehead.
“You don’t think I can be…racy?” she asked, rubbing a bit of bacon grease across her bottom lip slowly. It was meant to be a joke, but the tension between them was suddenly very real.
He leaned in, grasping her head and forcing his lips to hers. The heat grew rapidly as he lifted her to the table, shoving the food out of the way. She heard a plate crash to the ground but didn’t bother to look at the mess. In that moment, nothing mattered. She wrapped her legs around his back, tangled her fingers in his hair, and let out a groan. His strong arms were around her, his lips trailing down her neck.
“You know…” he whispered, his voice vibrating against her skin, “thank God for those sex scenes. Now I know exactly what you like.”
She closed her eyes as one of his hands slid down her thigh, her insides on fire for him. She let out a sigh as his lips left hers, and he lifted her shirt, his kisses trailing down her belly. She sat up, wanting to feel his lips on hers again, and he stopped, staring at her and pushing her back down, his icy blue eyes growing dark with passion. He was right, this was like a scene from one of her books. What could she say? She liked men who expected to be in control. “Don’t move a muscle,” he told her, “or I’ll stop.” His lips were on hers again, his hand sliding under the elastic band of her pajama pants.
A knock on the door interrupted them, their lips parting with breathless gasps. "Expecting someone?" Mason asked, looking as disappointed as Arlie felt. She sat up from the table, wiping her mouth and shaking her head.
"Not that I know of." She hopped down to the floor, tiptoeing across the carpet and peering through the navy curtains. She turned around suddenly, staring at him with a furrowed brow. "It's…it's the police. Do you think they've found out who you are?"
Without waiting for an answer, she swung the door open, staring into Chief Chapman's tired, dark eyes. "Chief Chapman, good morning." She put her arms around herself, feeling self-conscious.
"Good morning, Arlie," he said, scratching his head. "I'm sorry to wake you. Do you have a minute?"
"Oh, of course," she said, not bothering to explain that her messy hair was not from sleep. Instead, she took a step back, allowing him to pass by her. "Is everything all right?"
"I'm afraid not," he said, his lips pressed together as he turned around to face her. "Founders Day is in full force."
Her skin went cold, suddenly knowing what he was going to say. "Something's happened?" It wasn't about Mason at all. Had her car been vandalized? Had her house? She hadn't heard anyone outside. Then again, she hadn’t been paying too much attention.
"I'm afraid so," he said, and there was that word again. Afraid. Like a warning. "Perry was murdered last night."
"What?" she and Mason asked at the same time.
The chief looked between them both. "We found him this morning."
"Oh, no," Arlie gasped, touching her chest. Was she supposed to feel bad? Sure, it was terrible, but no one in town cared about Perry. Not the wife he'd abused for years, not the girls at the bar that he mistreated constantly, not the townspeople who he verbally attacked daily. He was a bad guy. And, try as she might, Arlie couldn't summon up one kind thought about him.
Luckily, Mason spoke up, interrupting the silence. "What happened?"
"He was shot. Behind his bar. It happened some
time last night, and I know a few of the guys mentioned that you've been working there…did you see anything?"
"I didn't," Mason answered. "I didn't work last night. I wasn't scheduled to go back in until tonight. Is the bar closed? I can run over and keep things going until…" He trailed off, and Arlie wasn't sure where he was planning to go with that. Until what? Perry wasn't coming back to run the place. Whose responsibility would it be now? Would the bar close? She shuddered at the mere idea of it. Crimson Falls without a bar was like Christmas without a tree.
The chief nodded. "No, we've got it closed down for a while. Open investigation and all. I'm not sure when you'll be able to go back. We'll have to see what the wife wants to do. Anyway, you confirmed what Herman and Ronnie said. About you not being there. They were there all night and never saw you. But I wanted to be sure." He sighed. "We all know this is how this time of year goes. People just lose their minds." He pressed his fingers into the bridge of his wrinkled nose. “And we know Perry isn’t exactly the most liked man in town, so we have no shortage of suspects, but I wondered if you’d seen anything that seemed odd to you? Any fights with customers? Any altercations that may have caused you suspicion? Most of the men in that bar are either too drunk or scared to tell the truth, so we wanted to ask you.”
Mason thought for a moment before shaking his head. “I can’t think of anything. I mean, the guy’s an ass. But, he seems—seemed—to get along well enough with the patrons.”
The Stranger in the Woods Page 4
