She chuckled. “Because I write about it, I guess. I think a lot of people are desperately looking for someone else who isn’t afraid to talk about the things they wish they weren’t afraid to talk about.”
“Ye write anal sex in those dirty books of yours? Christ, woman! I need tae start reading more romance novels.”
“They’re not romance. They’re fiction. They just have romance in them.”
“And anal sex,” Garrett said, bracing as she smacked him with one of her many pillows as he snuck past. “Is this where I’d find this Douglas MacCready, then?”
“It is.”
He rounded the kitchen counter, collecting a few choice items from his fridge. If there was one great blessing he’d gained from his mother, it was his cooking. “Good. Was beginning to worry. Is this Douglas the one riding through the hillsides havin anal sex, then?”
Georgia laughed and made another attempt to tame her hair, scolding him still. “Hey, if it happens, I’m gonna write about -”
She stopped a moment, and Garrett continued setting his items across the counter, waiting for her to continue. He’d cracked two eggs into the hot pan before she’d said another word. He glanced up, finding her staring at him with an almost serene smile on her face.
He felt his face grow hot. “What?”
He didn’t think it possible, but she smiled even wider. “Nothing.”
“What do ye mean, nothing? You’re staring at me like a loon over there, hen.”
And he was smiling right back. He wondered how much longer he could hold her gaze before he cracked like one of the eggs on the counter.
“It’s not my fault,” she said, covering her smile with her hands.
“Then whose fault is it?”
“Yours. You’re cooking half naked.”
Garrett laughed. “That I am? Though no bacon, I assure ye. Does that do it for ye, then? A man cookin ye breakfast in the buff?”
She shook her head, still covering her smile. “I guess so. God, you are -”
He waited again, but she wrinkled up her nose and didn’t finish. “Come on, woman. Out with it. What?”
She took a deep breath. “I think you might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
The exact words he’d fought not to say all morning came from her lips with such fearlessness that it almost frightened him to hear them. He took a moment, the only sound between them that of the eggs sizzling in the pan. He glanced down at them. They were perfectly over easy. He shut off the stove top, moved the pan to a cold burner, and rounded the counter without a word.
Georgia had only a second to brace for him as he lunged down into the bed, his lips on hers.
Inverness station was only a twenty minute walk down the way, but by the time their morning round of aggressive shagging finally passed, it was half ten, the eggs were cold on the stove, and Georgia still hadn’t collected her things from the Premier Inn. By the time he pulled up outside Inverness Station, it was quarter past eleven, and they hadn’t even glanced at a train schedule.
Garrett parked outside the station, assuring Georgia that he had no intention of just leaving her there to wait alone. “That’s simply no how the Burns Book Shop does business, lass.”
Georgia laughed as she fought with her bag in the small trunk of his car. “Oh, I’ve seen how the Burns Book Shop does business, thank you very much. My ass still stings.”
Georgia turned for the station, and Garrett grabbed her ass, giving it a brutal squeeze as he walked her toward the station. She swatted at his hand, pressing her skirts down around her as he chased her across the parking lot.
They went inside, Georgia scanning the massive hall for the ticket kiosk. She hustled over ahead of him, quickly punching in her destination and yelping slightly at the sight of the price tag. “Fifty five pounds! Jesus, Scotland. What are you doing to me?”
“Come on, now. You’ve sold a million bloody copies of your books! That’s nothin!”
“A million point five, thank you very much,” she said, sticking out her tongue as she slipped her credit card into the machine. “That doesn’t mean I have any money, though!”
“What? Ye lose it all on liquor and prostitutes?”
“No, but I plan to.” She winked at him as her tickets printed. “I haven’t received the royalties for any of that, yet.”
The trains bustled suddenly with a surge of people arriving from the south. Georgia scanned around the place, searching for platform numbers.
Garrett watched her, smiling. “Wait, none of it?”
She shook her head, glancing down at her ticket. “I’ve received a bit from the first book, but this whole ‘massive best-seller’ thing? Haven’t been cut a check yet. Not for another month at least. Oh god damn it, what did I do?”
“Are ye serious?”
Georgia’s face flushed and she turned toward the platforms and began plowing ahead. “Not only am I not rolling in the cash right now, I’m also fucking homeless.”
“Are you alright, love? What’s wrong?”
“I mistimed my ticket!” She exclaimed, and her voice sounded pained.
Suddenly the speakers overhead announced the departure of her train. Garrett’s stomach tightened. He wasn’t ready for her to leave. “Is this you? Ah fuck, love, already?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late. I would’ve -”
The voice overhead announced final boarding, and Garrett moved without thinking, grabbing Georgia around the waist and pulling her to him. He planted his lips on hers, breathing her in as much as he could in those final seconds that he would have her. She settled into his arms, clutching his jacket as tightly as he did hers. He breathed deeply, her hair still wet and smelling of his own shampoo. God, what he wouldn’t give to keep her there.
“If this is you, dear, you’ll be wantin to go now.”
Garrett pulled from her lips to acknowledge the conductor as he bustled past. Georgia grabbed up her bag, stood on tip toes to kiss Garrett one more time, and was gone.
“You’re jokin me! You are, aren’t ye?”
Garrett shook his head less than a half hour later, tucked into the corner of Costas. Barry was there at his usual table, getting his work done for the day. He’d spotted the strangeness to Garrett’s demeanor, demanding to know why he looked like a cat that’s been in the cream.
“Of all the writers – what’s she look like?”
“Bloody gorgeous,” Garrett said sipping his caramel latte, a drink he’d never thought to try until he was ordering four of them in a day for his sleep deprived author.
Barry mumbled to himself as he Googled Garrett’s recent ‘success.’ “Oh, she’s right fit, ain’t she?”
Garrett smiled. That she was.
“Well, did ye get her number? Are ye seein her again?”
“I hope so.”
“Ye hope so? What bloody rubbish is that? Bloody hope so? Ring her up. Send her a text. Go in the loo and shoot off a quick pic of your cock for her to remember ye by.”
“Shut it, will ye?” Garrett hissed, but he was smiling. “I don’t have her number in me phone, yet. It’s in the shop.”
“Well, fuckin off ye go then! Christ on a bike, marry that woman, will ye? Can’t tell ye how grand it would be havin my best mate married to a millionaire.”
“Married? Jesus Barry, get your shit sorted, will ye? We just spent the night together.”
Barry gave him a skeptical look. “I’ve known you since primary. I’ve never seen ye lookin like ye were when ye walked in here. Light in the bloody loafers, as they say.”
“As who says?”
“I dunno. Some American sayin, I believe. Well, do tell. Did ye get a proper blow job then, ae?”
An elderly woman gasped at the table beside them, but as Garrett turned to apologize for his friend, he recognized the lady. “Oh, don’t act scandalized, Mrs. Ferguson. I know the books you’ve been readin
.”
She blushed bright red and buried her smiling face in her tea.
Garrett turned back to Barry. “And you, ye prick. Keep yer fuckin voice down, ae?”
“Well, did ye?”
Garrett glared at him, fighting to keep his face straight.
Barry could read him too well, and he beamed. “Aye, ye did! Well done, lad. Was it good?”
Garrett covered his face in his hands. “Will ye shut it, for fuck’s sake?”
“Bout bloody time, mate. Bout bloody time. Get her tae move up here tae the middle of fuck all nowhere. I’d like to meet this randy minx.”
Garrett shook his head. “Nae, I’m leavin. Ye know it.”
Barry sighed, feigning to put his headphones back in.
Garrett sighed right back. “What would ye have me do? Stay here for bloody ever? There’s nothin keepin me here now Mum’s gone.”
“I’m here, ye dick.”
“You’re no here! You’re off travelin the bloody world. I’m stuck in fuck all Inverness, constantly worryin I’m gonna see Nicola if I so much as leave the flat. I’m done with the North. I’m gone.”
Barry frowned at him. “I’m not always travelin.”
Garrett tapped the back of Barry’s laptop. “Ye are. It’s winter, so you’re home for what? A month?”
“Two months!”
Barry worked much of the year as a travel writer. He’d seen the coolest breezes on tropical islands, watched African tribes perform welcome dances, and even set up for a few weeks at the base camp of Mount Everest. Barry was living his dreams ten months out of the year. The other two, he expected Garrett to entertain him in Inverness while he was home for the Hogmanay.
“When do ye leave, anyway?”
Barry frowned. “Week from Saturday.”
“Ye fuckin bell end.”
“What? I like havin ye here. Have ye had any interest in the shop, then?”
Garrett took another sip of his latte, thinking. “I have. A few leads.”
They sat a moment in silence, letting the constant hum of people in Costas fill the empty space between them.
Finally, Barry set his headphones back on the table. “You’re really leavin, then?”
Garrett stared across at his oldest friend, and nodded.
Garrett’s mother – Frances Catherine Graham – beat breast cancer when she was in her thirties. When it returned halfway through her sixties, she was content to let it take her, despite leaving Garrett and his father, Greig MacCauley, behind.
“Dad’s down in London now. There’s no reason tae stay. Fer fuck’s sake, I only kept the shop runnin for her.”
“Thought ye loved the shop.”
“I do,” Garrett said. “Just not here. Time tae shake off the ghosts.”
The door to the coffee shop opened, blowing a gust of frigid air across Garrett’s back. He shivered, checking his phone. Half past twelve – Georgia would have another two or three hours before she’d arrive in Edinburgh.
And Fionnula would be livid.
Garrett jumped up from his seat. “Shite! It’s fucking half twelve.”
“Aye, ‘tis. Did ye not know that?”
“Was due at the shop half hour ago, wanker. Chat later, aye?”
With that Garrett waved Barry goodbye and hustled down the dozen yards to the book shop. Fionnula had opened the shop and set about the morning’s business, alone. That was something she was quite capable of doing. Still, she liked to know in advance when she would be doing it.
Garrett rushed into the shop, quickly settling behind the counter as he sloughed off his jacket. “I’m so bloody sorry, Fionn! Lost track -”
“It’s fine, dear. I know ye were here late, last night. Everything is taken care of; trash went out, mail’s brought in, last of the signed copies are put away -”
“Where’s the little notepad that was here?”
Garrett watched Fionnula putter about behind the bookshelves, putting away the morning’s new order arrivals.
She made her way over to glance at the counter beside the register. “Do ye mean the wee scraps of paper, there?”
“Aye, I do.”
“Well, they went in the bin this mornin.”
Garrett spun for the door, letting his jacket fall to the floor. He rounded the alley behind the shop and flung the cover to the bin open. There were three familiar plastic bundles resting atop the mounds of paper goods. He tore up the first bundle and began rifling through it.
Fionnula appeared at the end of the alley. “Garrett, what on earth are ye doin?”
“The pieces of paper. Do ye know which of these bundles they’re in?”
“They’re no in there,” she said, stuffing her hands into her coat pocket. She was watching him, warily.
“Well, where are they, then?” Garrett’s tone was growing agitated, and he had little concern for how she might feel about that.
“They’re in the big bin.”
“Well, why are they bloody in there?” He asked, flipping open the cover to the sour smelling waste from his shop and the unfortunate Dentist’s office that was nestled upstairs. He scanned the surface, searching for white to betray their presence. Before he could reach inside, Fionnula spoke.
“There were a few half empty coffees when I arrived. I spilled one of them. Didn’t know it wasn’t empty. The notepad was ruined, so I tossed it with the rubbish.”
Garrett ran his fingers into his hair, holding his breath. “Were there numbers on the paper?”
“Nae, no that I know of. Blank paper, looked like.”
Garrett spotted the corner of the scratchpad tucked along the edge of the bin. He snatched it up, holding the soggy object between thumb and forefinger. If there’d been writing on it once, it was gone now. Georgia’s number was gone.
Fionnula stood watching him as he languished a moment by the festering bin. He was searching for an idea of how to fix this clusterfuck. “Right.”
Garrett marched back into the store, followed closely by Fionnula. Her usual gruff demeanor was softened now, clearly aware that something was amiss in the world of Garrett MacCauley. Garrett marched behind the counter, giving a quick nod to a customer that had found his way into the shop while both employees were out inspecting the rubbish.
“Is there anything I can do, then?” Fionnula asked, folding her sweater over her arm.
Garrett stared down at the counter and the empty space where Georgia wrote her number for him the night before. “No. Not at the moment. Though, if a Georgia ever calls in to the shop, get her number for me, ae?”
“Georgia? Of course. Will do.”
With that, Fionnula went to help the browsing customer, and Garrett began searching his address book for his contact at Georgia’s publisher. Even Georgia’s assistant’s number was gone – lost to Fionnula’s determined cleanliness.
Garrett found the number and turned for the phone. He met with the exact message he expected. “Sorry, sir. We don’t give out that information, but I can pass along your contact information.”
God damn it, why hadn’t he called on his cell?
“Fionn, I need to do something in the back. You alright?”
She waved him away, and Garrett flew into the back room, settling in front of the computer in his office to pull up Georgia’s web site.
International Bestselling Author Victoria Mason shot him that familiar grin and he startled at the sudden butterflies it gave him. She’d just left, but the image still riled him. He skimmed the page for contact info – Agency, Booking, Interviews and Press. There was no Cassandra listed anywhere. Garrett pulled up the Agent’s contact info and sent Sarah Elise Mayweather a quick email.
They’re not going to answer you, he thought. You look like a bunny boiling lunatic to these people. Christ on a bike.
The phone burst to life on the desk beside him and he lunged for it. “Burns Book Shop, how can I help you?”
“Is this Mr. MacCauley?”
Garrett slumped back into his chair. It wasn’t her. “Aye, it is.”
“This is Martin Greer. Have a bit of good news for ye.”
“Is that so?”
Garrett stared at the face of Victoria Mason, still smiling from his ancient computer’s screen. He searched her expression, wishing he could celebrate in whatever secret joy she was reveling in. He listened to Martin Greer prattling in excitement, taking in the news that he found strangely disconcerting. He wanted to feel joy. He couldn’t find it.
“Are ye there, Mr. MacCauley? Hello?”
“Aye, I’m here. That’s grand, Martin. Really grand.”
Martin continued, but Garrett couldn’t hear a word of it. His brain was shutting down to the world, overwhelmed by this sudden upending news. He wanted Georgia at that moment for reasons he couldn’t convey in words - and he had no way to reach her.
“Can ye come by this afternoon to go over the paperwork?” Martin asked.
“Sure. Absolutely. I’ll be there.”
Garrett hung up the phone and slumped back into his office chair, searching every detail of the open wood beams of the ceiling and the ancient bookshelves.
They’d sold the shop. It was done.
Garrett took a deep breath. “Fionnula. Can ye come back here a minute?”
CHAPTER SIX
The first call came on a Sunday night as she lay awake in bed at the Four Seasons in Chicago.
“Is this that slut, Victoria?”
“What?” She’d said, waiting on a second longer to hear the man’s deep voice break into new and elaborate insults.
The second call never came, because there was no counting after the first call came through. They came from all over the world – voicemails, text messages, incessant call. Some asked for money, some proclaimed her damned in the eyes of God, and others fangirling all over her voicemail, squealing their love and affection. All this because someone had successfully hacked her phone and posted her private phone number to the internet.
One Twitter retweet turned into hundreds, and she was getting crank calls from all over the globe. Georgia answered a few before realizing what was happening, and before Cassie signed into Twitter the next morning to discover the number plaster across the screen.
Writing Mr. Right Page 7
