How Sweet It Is

by Dylan Newton

  Maybe even teetering over the edge.

  Finally, her taxi pulled around. Pocketing her phone, she made her way toward a red sedan with “Jimmy’s Car Service” printed on a magnet affixed to the passenger door. Her silver-tipped black stiletto heels—a throwback to her Maya Evert internship days—clicked on the pavement, as sharp as an ice pick.

  A middle-aged man in Timberland boots and a tan Carhartt jacket got out of the car.

  “You the one who called for a ride?”

  At Kate’s nod, the man introduced himself as Jimmy, and after adjusting his blue knit Buffalo Sabres hat so it covered his ears, he came around to open the back passenger door.

  The car’s wipers were going full blast but were barely able to keep the windshield clear of the sheets of cold rain pummeling down as the driver wove through the streets of the sleepy little town. Jimmy’s taxi wasn’t anything like the screaming fast yellow ones of New York City, which was to its benefit. The inside of Jimmy’s cab was clean, had no Plexiglas separating the front and back, and even had a faint new-car smell.

  She hadn’t, of course, told the driver she was meeting with Drake, but as soon as she’d given him the address, Jimmy nodded, flashing a knowing look at her in the rearview mirror.

  “Going to the Matthews mansion? You a fan? We get a lot of folks want to stand outside and take pictures. See if they can see the ghost in the attic window, or whatever.”

  “No, I’m not a fan. I’m working with him on his upcoming book launch,” Kate said, feeling compelled to explain she wasn’t some random stalker going to lurk around the writer’s house. “He’s expecting me.”

  The driver did a double take in the mirror, his expression morphing from interest to incredulous. “You’re not meeting him there, are you?”

  At her confused nod, the man went on.

  “You do know his house is haunted, right? I’ve only been here a year, and I’ve met four people who’ve seen things in or around that house. Faces in the window when nobody’s home. Shadows around the old well where that little girl supposedly drowned. Lights flickering in the attic. Stuff like that.”

  “Well,” Kate said, smiling, “I don’t scare easily.”

  Jimmy slowed for a stop sign, the wipers whining a staccato beat as he turned in his seat to look at her. His eyes beneath the knit cap were serious, and his voice dropped to a confidential tone. “But when Drake Matthews is in residence? They say the house practically comes alive…not in a good way! Some of what the media says about him is foolishness. But you gotta wonder. The guy rarely ever leaves the place, and when he does, he skulks around in that leather coat and those glasses. You know horror writers—they all turn out to have something…off…about them.”

  Kate gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, I’m sure that’s all just to cultivate their image. You know, branding. If they act eccentric, people will buy more of their books. That sort of thing.”

  The driver turned around and, after checking the four-way stop, proceeded slowly down the road. Several shops were open for business on what passed for Main Street, but they looked mostly deserted. A few people braved the weather, hustling down the sidewalk, heads bent under dark umbrellas. Jimmy flipped his wipers to low, the sleet turning to fat, wet plops hitting the windshield.

  “I’m not so sure. Edgar Allan Poe was a creeper who married his thirteen-year-old cousin. The woman who wrote that spooky The Haunting of Hill House story—what was her name?”

  “Shirley Jackson,” Kate dutifully replied.

  “Yeah, her. She suffered from such agoraphobia she couldn’t even leave the house some days. Horror writers are, by trade, a strange breed. Just be careful, is all I’m saying.” Jimmy put on the blinkers, and the cab splashed through a gulley of water, then halted.

  Kate took in the foreboding spiderweb gates protecting the dark red Victorian towering over the town on top of a small hill.

  “This is it?” Kate said, her voice sounding high and reedy to her own ears. She cleared her throat. “I mean, this is where Mr. Matthews lives?”

  Jimmy nodded, turning to take her cab fare. “Wish I could bring you closer, but he keeps the gates locked to the driveway. Only way to the front door is through there.” He gestured to the gates set at the base of the sidewalk, framing a brick path to the black double-hung doors of the mansion. “He keeps ’em locked, but if he’s expecting you, he’s probably got a way to buzz you in.”

  The gloomy day made the whole scene look just like a backdrop from one of those slasher movies she’d always been too afraid to watch. The wind whistled in a low, lonely tone outside the car, and Kate shivered.

  “Miss? You okay?”

  She took a deep breath, halting mid-inhale as the fabric of her suit coat stretched uncomfortably tight. “Yes. Thanks again for the ride, Jimmy.”

  “Here.” Jimmy shifted, fetching something from his glove box. “You take my card. Call if you need to be picked up, and I’ll be here in ten minutes, tops!”

  Kate thanked him and pocketed the card. Gathering her briefcase and her courage, she stepped onto the wet sidewalk. She blinked against the icy wind, fought with her umbrella, and finally got the tiny thing up and over her head just as Jimmy pulled away with a final dire look at the house.

  Angling the umbrella to take the brunt of the wet gusts, Kate approached the gates. She squinted against the wind to peer at the sides for any buzzer or call button. Nothing. Teeth chattering, she knocked against the gates, feeling like an idiot, and when that got no response, she reached out to jiggle the latch at the intersection of the batwings, and was surprised to find it swung open at her touch. She’d half expected the gates to screech, but they moved as if on well-oiled hinges, silently opening and then closing behind her with a faint click.

  Figuring Drake must have somehow buzzed her in, she picked her way carefully up the slick, uneven brick path to the house, watching the ground so her stilettos didn’t get caught between the pavers. She’d made it about halfway when a huge gust of wind caught her umbrella and blew it from her hands. It tumbled end over end to the edge of the lawn, half burying itself in the leafy shrubs lining the fence.

  “Damn,” she whispered under her breath, pushing damp strands of hair out of her eyes. Using her briefcase to shield her face and what was left of her perfectly curled hair, she stepped off the brick-lined walkway and onto the lawn surrounding the house. The sharp points of her heels immediately sank into the rain-soaked earth, so she adjusted her gait, tiptoeing through the grass.

  Reaching the edge of the yard, she grabbed for the open fabric of her umbrella…and then something from the bushes tugged it back. She snatched her hand away as the bushes erupted in a low, steady growl.

  She froze. Imani’s words came rushing back to her, and Kate’s mind filled in the blanks.

  Oh, I forgot to tell you, her best friend had said. Be careful…terrifying! Watch out for—

  It had to be this. The dog. The same rabid-looking Doberman from the video! Panicked, Kate’s gaze shot to the road beyond the wrought-iron fence. Jimmy’s taxi was long gone, and what she could see of the street and sidewalk beyond the Matthews property was deserted. She calculated the distance to the gates and all the rolling green lawn between and quickly determined the big red Victorian behind her was her best bet.

  Still holding her briefcase above her head, Kate took a teensy step backward, hoping the lack of sudden movement would keep the dog from charging. The bushes rustled. Something was making its way through the underbrush. Clearly, the Doberman was onto her scheme—there was no choice now. She had to run for it.

  Forgetting all decorum, Kate whirled, sprinting on her toes. Her body was pointed in the direction of the safety of the mansion’s front porch, but her head was swiveled toward the bush, dreading the sight of the beast about to erupt from its leafy depths. The foliage moved as if barely restraining some massive creature, and Kate let out a panicked scream. She picked up the pace, hurtling toward the house.

  Sh
e’d turned her head to gauge the distance to the porch, and her eyes had just enough time to register the dark figure. A man.

  Kate shrieked in horror before her body slammed into him. Her scream cut off abruptly, the air ejected from her lungs in a massive whoosh.

  “Oof,” the man grunted, staggering back a step before recovering himself.

  Kate was not as fortunate.

  The collision was like sprinting headlong into a wall, and the impact turned her into a human pinball. Her body ricocheted off the dark figure, her arms pinwheeling in an effort to remain upright. She lost her grip on her briefcase, and the black bag went sailing as she struggled for balance. Both her stiletto heels stuck in the ground when she’d stopped and now acted as tent stakes, making the physics of adjusting her weight impossible. Kate felt herself losing the battle with gravity. She was going to fall backward—right into the path of the attacking dog!

  Suddenly, strong arms grabbed her by the waist, reversing her fall.

  “Whoa,” the man said, his voice low and rumbly in his chest. “I’ve got you.”

  Kate clutched at him, trying to yank herself upright. Her hands fisted into his shirt so hard, the fabric tore. She looked up, her gaze locking on to the man’s eyes as he lifted her out of her stuck-in-the-mud heels, picking her up until her head was even with his. Startling golden eyes blinked at her from behind dark-framed glasses.

  Drake Matthews.

  Her client.

  She should have been embarrassed by her lack of professionalism, but the only feeling registering in her brain was awe. This was the bookish guy she was working with—this man with the arresting eyes and the startling strength? He was holding her up, by the waist, as if she weighed no more than a bouquet of flowers. Her hands, still clutching his shirt, felt nothing but solid, well-muscled flesh beneath the fabric, and she said the first thing that came into her mind.

  “You’re not Photoshopped!”

  Drake’s eyebrows went up, and he opened his mouth to say something, but just then, Kate felt something wet and cold bump up against her calf.

  The Doberman!

  Another scream burst from her mouth, and she scrambled up him until her arms wound around his neck. She yanked her feet up out of harm’s way, shimmying up him like he was a fireman’s pole, inching skyward with every fiber of her body until her thighs gripped his waist. She heard the sound of more fabric tearing, and some distant part of her mind was telling her that this wasn’t an appropriate way to act with a client—especially this client—but then she heard a small bark, and all thoughts of professional behavior were swept from her mind with the cold wind of fear.

  “Your dog! Your dog—call off your dog!” she yelled in Drake’s ear, while still wildly looking over her shoulder to find the beast.

  “Mmph,” came Drake’s muffled response, and Kate realized she was mashing his face into her chest as she clutched his head. She released some of the grip around his neck, and he turned his head enough to blurt, “It’s just Sasha. She won’t hurt—”

  The dog gave another muffled growling noise, and Kate yelped, tightening her knees around Drake’s waist. Suddenly, the man began to shake. Was he okay? Did the dog bite something…important down there?

  Kate peeked at Drake’s face to find he was staring at her, grinning. Laughter vibrated through his chest, and his body rose and fell with the effort to contain his amusement.

  “I’ve never heard of an attack shih tzu before, but I guess there’s a first for everything.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t worry—the most this little mutt will do is love you to death. And, apparently, steal your umbrella. Isn’t that right, Sasha?”

  Drake nodded his head to the left, and warily, Kate looked down. On the ground was not a slobbering Doberman, eager for a bite of her leg. Instead, romping back and forth on the wet green lawn beneath them was a tiny brown-and-white furball, dragging at the fabric of the open umbrella, alternately growling and shaking his head to toss the thing around only to pounce on it once more. The dog stopped playing long enough to gaze up at Kate and bark, his tail wagging so hard, his whole body swayed from side to side.

  “Th-that’s your dog?” Kate gasped in disbelief, wondering where the vicious Doberman from the YouTube video was. “He sounded so much more…menacing than he looks.”

  “She. And Sasha is a menace. When you’re on deadline and trying to get some writing done. Other than that, the most trouble she causes is trying to get out of the gates to visit the neighbors. Which reminds me,” Drake said, clearing his throat. “I think it might be best if you got down now? And, erm, adjusted your skirt? Old Mr. Penny is about to have a stroke.”

  Her head swiveled to look through the front gates. Fifty yards away stood an older man in a raincoat holding a black umbrella whose wingspan was large enough to shelter him and his big retriever. Both man and dog peered across the street, and it took a moment of staring back at them until the meaning of Drake’s words sank in. In a rush, her senses returned, and she realized she was wrapped around Drake Matthews—the Drake Matthews—like a spider monkey. Her black skirt was rucked up to the tops of her thighs, and rain drizzled onto the wispy fabric of her thong…which meant her skirt, with its walking slit, had been transformed into an outfit now suitable for some deep lunges or high karate kicks.

  She yelped, disengaging both her arms and legs from Drake at once, plopping down onto the wet grass. Hard. Hastily, she sat up and shoved the fabric of her skirt down, casting a look over her shoulder at the old man across the street. The neighbor just shook his head and resumed walking, his umbrella angled to the sprinkling rain. The retriever gave one bark, as if in disgust, and followed his owner.

  Kate’s cheeks heated, and she turned to face Drake Matthews, who’d bent down next to her as soon as she’d fallen from his arms.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, one arm reaching out hesitantly. His golden eyes glowed with wary concern behind his rain-spattered glasses, and Kate could tell he thought she was some kind of lunatic. “I’m expected in a meeting in a few minutes, but I can drive you down to the clinic if you’re hurt? Or can I call someone for you?”

  Just then, the shih tzu wagged her wet tail, wriggling closer, her paws stamping muddy prints over Kate’s black skirt as she climbed on Kate’s lap, licking and panting gusts of warm puppy breath in her face.

  “No,” Kate said, sighing and petting the dog. Sasha wriggled with pleasure, giving her two more dog kisses before Drake reeled in the tiny furball. “You don’t have to call anyone. And you won’t be late for your meeting.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said, his eyebrows drawing together.

  “I am your meeting.” Kate stood on shaky legs, her feet squishing into the rain-soaked grass as she thrust out a hand toward her client. “Mr. Matthews, I’m Kate Sweet. Your new event planner.”

  Chapter 3

  Oh. Uh, hi?” Drake Matthews winced as his introduction came out as a question. He reached out and shook the small, grass-flecked hand of the event planner—Kate Sweet, she’d said her name was—as he pinned a smile on his face. “I mean, welcome, Ms. Sweet.”

  She beamed at him, and even with her wet hair and smudged makeup, Drake felt his mouth go dry. She was stunning.

  “Call me Kate. I know you were expecting Imani Lewis, but her flight was delayed,” Kate said, and he tried to act normal as he watched her tuck a damp auburn lock behind her ear before she continued speaking. “So, for now, you’ve got me. I’m really excited about your launch and can’t wait to show you my ideas.”

  He struggled with what to say next. When writing a book, he could imagine every situation, but in real life his mind felt mired in molasses. He hadn’t dated in months, unless he counted those awkward setups by well-meaning friends, and the last time his hands had been on another woman’s thighs was back before Rachel had decided writing a tell-all book about her time with him was better than actually spending time with him.

  Drake knew he needed to shif
t gears. Be professional. But his body was taking longer to adjust. Because forty-five seconds ago, this beautiful woman had been in his arms, her thighs locked around his waist, his face buried deep into the cleavage of her chest, his hands cupping her bottom.

  And now he was standing here, shaking her hand. Getting ready to talk business. Plan book launches and make arrangements. What did one say in this situation? Joke about it? Channel Groucho Marx and wiggle his eyebrows and say something like, If that’s your introduction, I can’t wait to get to know you better.

  No. Who’d even know a Groucho Marx impression anymore? She’d probably have no idea, and he’d come across as a creeper. Maybe he should apologize for what had happened—it was on his property, after all. Something like, I’m sorry my nine-pound dog scared you and made you run in those god-awful heels? No. That sounded disingenuous and snarky, even if it was true.

  If it had been a scene he was writing, he’d have had an afternoon to craft the perfect response. But in real time…he had nothing.

  Sasha barked, finally bringing him back to reality. Drake saw the woman shiver, and all at once, noticed the cold and the rain around them. He winced at his terrible manners—he really needed to get out more.

  “Um, Kate? Would you like to come inside? Get dried off and cleaned up?” Drake turned to lead the way into his home and had taken four of the five wooden porch steps before he realized the event planner wasn’t with him. He turned, Sasha wriggling like mad in his arms, and saw the planner scurrying around his yard. It took a moment before he realized she was retrieving her heels, umbrella, and briefcase—and before he could move to help her, she was sprinting toward him, her bare feet leaving tiny prints on the dry wood of the porch as she caught up to him by the front door.