Writing Mr. Right

by Wright, Michaela

  She closed her eyes and blew air out through pursed lips. “I didn’t.”

  Garrett rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the day’s stubble scratching at his fingers. “That’s all in your books?”

  She nodded.

  “But ye wrote them before ye met me.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him, giving him a sad smile. “I know.”

  He swallowed. It felt as though someone had walked over his grave. “Well, that’s a mad coincidence, ae?”

  She turned from him, heading further up the street. “I never used to believe in coincidence.”

  Garrett made to go after her, but something pulled at his feet, holding him to that spot. He didn’t know what it was about Georgia’s confession that unsettled him so – was it the notion that she might only want him because he reminded her of a character in her books? Was it that he feared he couldn’t live up to her expectations? He wasn’t perfect. He couldn’t be further from perfect if he’d been shot out of trebuchet from it.

  Christ, she’s gonna realize how far from perfect ye are one day, and suddenly you’ll be sleeping in separate bedrooms, wondering what went wrong, he thought.

  He wasn’t a perfect man. He would never be a perfect man.

  He watched her walking away slowly, a strange pressure in his chest.

  A short bald man with a beer in his hand appeared just outside the nearby pub, brandishing two pieces of paper in his hand. “Ye two interested in the tattoo, then? Got two tickets. Dinnae want anything for em, cannae go.”

  Before Garrett could answer, Georgia beamed at the man. “Is the tattoo still going on?”

  “Aye, tonight is the last night. Ye want em, they’re yours.”

  Georgia turned to Garrett, a look of hopeful expectation on her face. Her expression fell instantly.

  “Nae, I’ve nae interest,” Garrett said, without pause.

  The man pressed the tickets into Georgia’s hand and was gone, grumbling in a half inebriated stupor of displeasure and impatience. He was back in the pub before Georgia said a word.

  She turned to Garrett, tentatively. “I’d really like to go. It’s starting in a little bit, we could just make our way up.”

  “Ye can go if ye like. I meant it, I’ve nae interest.”

  Georgia looked up at him. “What do you mean? Go without you?”

  “Aye, if ye like.”

  She frowned at him, her brow furrowed. “Well, I don’t like. I want to go with you.”

  Garrett scoffed. “Good luck with that. Ye couldn’t pay me to go to that bloody event. I fuckin hate the whole notion.”

  “How can you hate the ta -”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter, Georgie. If ye want tae go, go. I’ll nae stop ye.”

  She frowned with such intention, he feared she’d burn a whole in the sidewalk with her eyes.

  “Come now, ye want tae go. Don’t be sour about it.”

  Her expression changed, as though she meant to scold him.

  She stood there a moment, fondling the tickets in her hand. She took a breath as if to speak, then paused. “I’ve only been here six hours and already you don’t want to spend time with me?”

  “What? Christ no, woman. It’s no like that. Ye want to do anythin else – literally, any bloody thing else, and I’ll do it. I’d love tae. No that. I fuckin hate the bloody tattoo.”

  “Why?”

  “It disnae matter.”

  “It does matter!”

  Garrett threw up his hands, sighing. “Why?”

  “Because if it was something you wanted to do and I didn’t want to, I would still go because I wanted to be with you.”

  “Aye, and if it were the other way around and ye didnae want tae go, I wouldn’t ask ye to.”

  The two of them stood in the middle of the Royal Mile, the sound of the crowds bustling up the hill as people filtered in to watch the grand display. Garrett watched her for response. She was angry, and he knew it, but he would not go to the bloody tattoo. Not for anyone, not even for her.

  “Is this what the week is going to be like?”

  Garrett furrowed his brow. “What’s that, now?”

  “I’m good company in the bedroom, but once that wears off, you’ll leave me to my own devices? Pretend you have to work, or you’re too busy, or you just don’t fucking want to?”

  “Georgia, you’re overreacting. This isnae some pattern or god awful shite like that. Christ, if ye wanted tae do anything else -”

  “I’m going to the tattoo. I’ll see you later.”

  With that, she turned up the Royal Mile and marched away.

  See, Georgia, he thought. I’m no bloody perfect.

  “Fine,” he said, watching her go. He thought to follow her, thought to try to explain himself, but his reasons were his, and he felt hurt that she would try to ignore that in favor of her own touristy desires. He turned in the opposite direction and sauntered away, making a point to look as unaffected as possible. He passed by his book shop, passed by the bridge and the tourist shop with its blaring bagpipes, closing up their doors for the evening. Garrett had no destination, he simply had to find something to do while Georgia crammed herself into a crowd of tourists and Scots to watch a bunch of kilted idiots play the bagpipes and prance around. Fuck that, he thought. He could live a happy life never hearing a single word about the bloody tattoo, again.

  He turned the corner and pushed his way into a nearby pub, ignoring the small Celtic band playing in the corner. He headed straight for the bar. He settled in for a pint, and fumed.

  Twenty minutes later, his phone chimed in his pocket.

  Had she come to her bloody senses?

  The text notification appeared and he tapped the button. The delayed message popped up in bright, unaffected language, thirty minutes late.

  A baby me in Scotland when I was eight years old.

  It was the picture from her sister. He pulled up the picture as he took a long swig on his beer. Baby Georgia appeared before him, long braids hanging down over her purple collared shirt. Garrett swallowed so hard, his throat burned.

  Dear God, what had he done?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The fireworks blazed across the sky in purples and greens, and dozens upon dozens of proud Scots marched across the concrete outside Edinburgh Castle, piping until their lips were numb, she was sure. Yet, Georgia couldn’t rejoice in the spectacle. All she could think about was Garrett.

  He hadn’t come to the tattoo – to the bloody tattoo. It was the first night they would spend together; their first day as willing companions, two people who claimed to want to spend time with each other, yet here she was watching the tattoo, alone.

  Who doesn’t he want to go to the bloody tattoo? He’s Scottish, isn’t he?

  Samantha texted back, quickly. I think you’re getting yourself worked up over nothing, sweetheart.

  It wasn’t nothing. Not wanting to spend time with her wasn’t nothing. Not wanting her as badly as she wanted him wasn’t nothing. It felt like Walter all over again. Drawn in by the promise of something more, only to be cast off the moment he wasn’t feeling ‘up for it.’

  What kind of man asks someone to come across the world if he doesn’t want to spend time with her? It’s like I fell for it again.

  Georgia, chill out for me, alright? Just talk to him after it’s over, Sam texted back.

  Georgia sat in her seat, the second ticketed seat empty beside her, and fought the urge to weep. She’d longed for him for so long only to arrive and be disappointed. She’d scolded herself for it over the months, working hard to forget him, pretend he didn’t exist, that he didn’t haunt her dreams. Every time he looked at her, she was battling with the urge to pour her heart out and declare herself. Because, if she did that, he would run away. She’d only met him once when she’d started dreaming about him – falling asleep with a smile on her face just thinking about him. What kind of person fall
s in love with someone after one night?

  And she didn’t even want to think about his ‘just a coincidence’ comment.

  Because talking about it only reminded her of Walter. Garrett wasn’t the first dark haired, green eyed man to cross her path and make her believe for the first time in her life, the words she wrote might bring her some joy. Not like writing her sister a quick note, declaring her the brightest star at her new law firm, nor like jotting down one line on a post-it for Cassie when she was stressing over a date. Both notes had come to be, exactly as she’d written them, but no matter how many times she wrote her own wishes on paper – for love, for a family, for a person, not a place to call home – none of them ever worked. Not for her. Not for this.

  She could write books, sell millions of copies, travel the world on seemingly unending book tours – those dreams came true without a second glance. Yet, she give all that success up in a heartbeat to know what it felt like to be truly loved.

  Why she’d thought for a second she could have something feel this good for more than a second, she’d never understand.

  I am going to talk to him. I’ll get a room at the Hyatt again or something and just fly home tomorrow.

  She knew she was upset, maybe even overreacting, but overreacting now felt like a far safer choice to waiting until he broke her heart a week, a month - a year from now.

  A crescendo of fireworks exploded over head and the crowd cheered, madly. She couldn’t celebrate with the proud Scots. She had to get out of the crowd, back into the open air – she had to tell Garrett she was leaving.

  Just the thought of saying those words made her eyes well with tears.

  What?! Gigi, calm the fuck down.

  She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to go anywhere, but home with him. She wanted to see his face, see his smile, hear his voice, and instantly forget how rotten it made her feel to go to the tattoo alone. And she would forget. She made a habit of forgetting all the hurts of the men she let close to her. If they put her down, if they overlooked her, if they disappointed her, criticized her, ignored her, and even abandoned her – none of it mattered, as long as they would apologize, as long as they showed her affection again.

  Walter was the last one – she’d vowed it. Never again would she let a man make her feel second best. Never again would she stand for negligence and disinterest in the guise of being busy – or just ‘being a man.’ A good man doesn’t mistreat a woman.

  She nodded to the guards as she hustled toward the exit, the pipes and drums blaring behind her.

  The road outside was busy with a few stragglers, people leaving as she was. Georgia made her way past the first few groups and started down the hill. She stopped dead by the armory.

  Across the cobblestone street, standing in the corner of a high stone building was Garrett, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hooded sweatshirt. Georgia stopped short, and just as always before, the sight of him stilled her heart.

  Don’t falter, Georgia. You can’t go through this again.

  Garrett looked up and spotted her, and his eyes went bright. Still, there was something heavy in the way he smiled at her. He glanced up toward Edinburgh Castle, the pipes blaring down the road at them. He shot her a look, and the hidden depths behind it startled her.

  Georgia swallowed and crossed the road to meet him. “I have to tell you something,” she said, and the words nearly caught in her throat.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Two Months Later

  “Sure, come on in here. She’s still on stage for another twenty minutes or so, but you can wait. Is she expecting you?”

  Garrett nodded. “She is.”

  It was a lie.

  The young man was named Jimmy, and he introduced himself in a thick California accent before leading Garrett down a long back hallway. The sound of the crowd laughing or hollering carried even through brick walls. Garrett had barreled through the convention center for over an hour trying to find Hall C, and once he found that, he spent another twenty minutes trying to find Cassie and declare his presence. Surely if he found Cassie, she’d let him in to see her. When Cassie didn’t appear, he went to the nearest headset wearing staff member and lied through his teeth.

  “I’m Steve Burgess. I’m her editor, I’m probably on the list.”

  He was indeed. Garrett remembered distinctly that Burgess was always on the list, and he was almost startled when Jimmy bought his atrocious American accent and checked his name off the list. They finally reached the room at the end of the hall, and the headset fellow waved Garrett past, showing him into the small back room.

  There was a table along one end of the room with catered cheese plates and the like, and there were at least a dozen folding chairs around the parameters. Garrett glanced in the corner, spotting a dark haired man in one of those seats, fidgeting quietly. Garrett felt like he’d snuck backstage at a U2 concert.

  “Just have a seat, she’ll come directly back here after the panel is done.”

  “Cheers,” he said. Shit! That didn’t sound American at all.

  Yet, Jimmy seemed oblivious and was gone without another word.

  I can’t believe you’re in town! A night on the pish is in order, lad! Will I get to meet Georgia?

  Garrett glanced at his phone, smiling to see Barry’s text.

  We’ll see. She doesn’t even know I’m here. Not sure what she’ll say.

  Garrett listened a moment, hearing the tinny echo of Georgia’s familiar voice over the speakers in the hall next door.

  Barry shot him three texts of blind motivation, but Garrett tucked the phone in his pocket and slumped down into the nearest seat, giving the other man a quick nod. The two of them sat in silence a moment, listening.

  “This is one of the most surreal experiences of my life.”

  Garrett glanced at the fellow across the room. “Why so?”

  He shrugged. “She and I go a ways back. Waiting backstage at a convention center for her wasn’t something I’d have ever seen coming.”

  Garrett listened to the crowd laughing and couldn’t help but think of the last time he’d hunted her down like this, back in Edinburgh. “I imagine she’s as surprised by all this as you are.”

  “Sure, sure. So, you friends with Victoria?”

  Garrett’s eyebrows went up as he turned to face the other man. “I am. You?”

  The man shrugged. “Haven’t seen her in a good while. We used to date, actually.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You’ve come a long way, huh?”

  Garrett hadn’t bothered hiding his accent once Jimmy was out of sight. He nodded. “I have, indeed.”

  “Must be good friends then, yeah?” The man seemed nervous, intertwining his fingers in his lap as his right knee bounced.

  “I’d like tae think so, aye.” Garrett studied the man a moment, catching sight of him fidgeting with a wedding ring on his left hand. He felt a tinge of relief to think the man wasn’t there for the same reason he was.

  “Yeah, she invited me to come by. The spectacle of it all threw me.”

  The release of the third book wasn’t for another two months, but this event wasn’t for the books. Producer David Mallory was officially announcing the early stages of the Woman In White film production, introducing hundreds of rabid fans to Germaine Ross – their beloved Douglas MacCready in the flesh. Now, Georgia was sitting on a stage with a panel of directors, producers, and several well-known British actors all fielding questions about a movie that hadn’t even started filming yet.

  “Everythin with Georgia is a huge spectacle.”

  The man perked up at the mention of her real name. “Oh, so you do really know her?”

  “Aye, I do. So the two of ye dated, then?”

  The man nodded. “We did. Few years back.”

  “Lucky you’re still friendly. I’d rather pour fairy liquid in my eye than spend time with my ex.”

 
; The man laughed. “I have no idea what fairy liquid is.”

  “I assure ye, ye don’t want it in your eye.”

  The sat a moment in silence. Then the man began to speak. “I haven’t actually seen her in a long time. We haven’t spoken since we were together, but – I don’t know. Always wondered how she was doing.”

  “I see you’re married.”

  The man glanced down at his ring. He snorted softly. “I am. Old ball and chain. She’d kill me if she knew I was here.”

  “Is that so?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, not exactly the most understanding of women.”

  “Ah, well that’s karma for ye.”

  The man glanced at Garrett, his brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

  Garrett leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You ever hear the sayin about the man who cut down the most glorious tree in his forest?”

  The man shook his head. “I can’t say that I have.”

  Garrett inhaled through his nose. “Well, it goes somat like – there was a man who owned a great piece of land, covered in beautiful trees. One day he decided tae cut down the greatest, most magnificent tree he had. He thought, ‘this one is great now, but soon all of my trees will be this magnificent.’ So he cuts down the tree and sells the wood tae a matchstick company.”

  “Matchstick company?”

  “Aye, and they pay him well, using the wood to make a million matches.”

  Garrett paused.

  “Well, what happened then?”

  “One day, some old dodger decided to sit a spell under a tree on the man’s land. Lit his pipe with a match, and tossed it into the forest. Burned the whole forest to the ground.”

  “That’s a grim story.”

  “Aye, it is, but I think it applies here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Garrett watched the man trying to still his shaking leg. “Yer name’s Walter, right?”

  The man’s brows shot up. “It is. God, how do you know that?”

  “Because you’re the one who cut down the best tree in your forest to make a million matches. Tell me, is yer forest burning yet?”

  He snorted in a confused half laugh. “I don’t get your meaning, buddy.”