“So get an apartment.”
“I was thinking about it,” he said. “But I don’t want a long lease.”
“Write in your tent, then. Close to the inspiration.”
“Where do you think I just was? I had a solar generator and told myself I’d starve or finish.” He rubbed his stomach. “I did neither. My campsite was just close enough to a Jack in the Box that I could hike out, drive down for a burger, and get back just in time to crawl into my sleeping bag.”
“Maybe you don’t want to write the book.”
“You think?” His eyes twinkled.
“So why do it?” she asked.
He stared back at her. “That’s a reasonable question. I can’t explain it if you don’t already understand.”
“Fine. You’re a special snowflake. I’m only an accountant.”
“Do you like your job? Love what you do?”
She lifted her chin. “Yes, I do, actually.”
“So do I.”
“But you don’t,” she said. “According to you.”
“Lately it’s been a struggle, but I just have to push through it.” He pointed at the entrance to the front room. “There. I can do it in that room. I can feel it.”
Jane wasn’t the touchy-feely, creative type and was skeptical of people who were. “How do you know you’re not just engaging in another elaborate delaying tactic?”
His gaze fixed on hers. “That is an excellent question. I don’t know. But I have to try.”
Every instinct in Jane’s body was shouting no. Something about him made her nervous. What if he couldn’t write here either and took off next week? What if he used his family ties to her job to pressure her for free meals, annoying conversations, no-strings sexual pleasure?
Would that really be so bad? a tiny voice asked in a corner of her brain. Well, not her brain.
She swatted those thoughts away. Jane was practical above all else.
She turned away from him to collect her thoughts. Her career was more important to her than anything except family. To make partner, she’d need a lot more money in the bank than she had at the moment. Just a few more years climbing the same mountain she’d been climbing and her plans would be in reach.
And she had a foothold at Whitman. The firm was small enough that she hadn’t needed to specialize too soon. Of course, tax season was crazy, and she had to deal with Nicole, but summer wasn’t bad.
If she did have to find a new job, having a solid pile of cash in the bank would make the process less stressful.
Either way, having a tenant move in now, paying up front, would give her breathing room. She wouldn’t have to change her plans if she got fired. Grant would be helping her meet her long-term goals. And what could be more important than that?
She turned. “All right. But don’t be offended when I have the door put in.”
“I’m never offended,” he said. “Can I move in tomorrow?”
5
Some people found comfort in foods other than cheese. Jane didn’t understand those people. If she ever went vegan, she’d have to make an exception for cheese. But then what would be the point? People would see her eating cheese and think her whole life was a lie. Which it would be, because she really, really loved cheese and would never give it up. Cream cheese in particular. She bought the big blocks at Costco and hauled them home in her minivan. By spoon or by knife, plain or mounded on a cracker, the creamy goodness made its way into her mouth.
Especially when she was stressed.
As she listened to Grant hauling in another box from his SUV out front, Jane peeled open a fresh tub—she switched to whipped cream cheese like a cigar smoker switching to vaping—and thrust the spoon into its beautifully smooth-yet-swirly surface.
She was trying to wipe out the memory of how she’d thought he was the gardener. When she’d backed up into him, she’d seen the dirt and the beard and the flannel, completely missing the high-tech GPS watch on his wrist. Not to mention the strong resemblance to his brother. The gray eyes were the same color, the same shape. The calm, laid-back expression was his alone, however.
Shadow kept prowling back and forth between the kitchen and the front door, watching the intruder for signs of danger, food, or lap opportunities.
Jane scraped the surface of the cream cheese, watching it mound like snow on her spoon. She would forgive herself for being distracted that day. She had just rammed into the man at her employer’s party. Financial matters affected her more deeply than other people.
“Jane?”
She pulled the spoon out of her mouth and stood up just as Grant peeked his head around the doorway.
She gulped the mass of cream cheese like a rattlesnake with a chicken egg. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you.”
“It’s all right,” she said, making another mental note to install a door.
Grant smiled faintly, creasing laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. For the first time, she noticed how deep the lines were, as if he spent a lot of time laughing. A vivid image popped into her head of him laughing as he jumped naked into a mountain stream.
Oh God. Not again.
“I was wondering if you could help me,” he said.
She walked over, glad he wasn’t, in fact, naked but instead wearing an outfit like the one he’d been wearing when they’d met: stained button-down shirt, faded khakis, dusty boots. “Of course. What do you need?”
With a frown, he glanced down at her body. “I was going to ask you to help me carry something.”
Years of diligent trips to the gym had given her strength she was proud of. She’d never be thin, but she could kick ass. Or at least kick the empty air during cardio classes, which was a lot harder than it looked. “Sure,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Is it outside?”
“Are you sure?” He rubbed his chin, casting a skeptical gaze over her again.
“Of course. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean—”
“It’s not that. I knew you were a woman before I— Well, obviously I did. It’s your clothes.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” She wasn’t wearing anything unusual.
“Nothing. That’s the problem,” he said. “They’re pretty.”
Just like that, she felt her face set on fire. “Thanks,” she said, unable to stop herself from grinning like an idiot for a second. “But they’re nothing special.” She’d always liked to dress up a little more than was necessary. Ironed jeans just looked so much better than wrinkled ones, especially if you used a little starch. And why wear a cheap, see-through, clingy T-shirt when a nice button-down top was so much more comfortable and flattering? It didn’t have to be tailored, but she did like fabric that held its shape.
“The TV’s dusty. You’ll get dirty,” he said.
She was halfway down the hall to go out to his SUV when she realized what he’d said. She turned. “You brought a TV?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Don’t you spend most of your time backpacking in the wilderness?” she asked.
“If I can,” he said. “Why?”
“I just— I thought—” With Grizzly Adams moving in, she’d thought she was off the hook about buying expensive electronics. “I’m sorry. I should’ve bought one. I didn’t think you’d use it.”
“Why not?”
“Aren’t you like Grizzly Adams?” she asked because, honestly, wasn’t that exactly what he was like?
“No.” His laugh lines were nowhere to be seen as he turned and walked to the front door. “The TV’s in the Rover.”
She jogged after him, regretting her joke that wasn’t really a joke, which only made it worse. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” What had come over her?
He stood at the back of the SUV, the hatch hanging over his head. Other than a pair of bright yellow hiking sandals and a wrinkled tarp, only a large rectangular box remained inside. One end jutted out the back several inches. It was a very large TV. “It’s
not your fault. I’ll kick Troy’s ass later.”
“No, please. This isn’t Troy’s fault. He never called you Grizzly Adams.” Not even noon yet and she was already tempting fate with her boss.
“He’s definitely called me Grizzly Adams,” Grant said. “But maybe not to you.”
“Definitely not to me. Please believe me.”
“You came up with it all by yourself?” Leaning against the box, he crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her under a raised eyebrow.
Now what could she say? Either she got in trouble with her (she hoped he continued to be) employer or with her tenant.
Not a fair contest.
“I did,” she said. “Because of the flannel and the beard and the living-in-the-woods thing.”
“I hardly ever wear flannel,” he said. “And half the men on this block probably have a beard.”
Given the current fashion for facial hair, she thought he might be underestimating. “You’re right. I apologize. Let’s get the TV inside.”
With a grunt, he turned away and slid the box out the rest of the way, taking the far end for himself. Only as she lifted her end did she notice the box had never been opened. She herself kept the original packaging for most of her valuable electronics for moves just like this one, but this TV was brand new.
“Did you get this at the store?” she asked.
“No, I made it out of bark and deer pellets.” He moved past her until he was the one in front, walking backward up the path to the house.
“You’re going to be difficult about the Grizzly Adams thing, aren’t you?”
“It might come up now and again.”
“Watch your step,” she said. “They aren’t completely even.”
His eyes met hers. He flashed a one-sided grin. “Thanks.”
“I don’t have cable.”
“Dish?”
“No.”
“Shit, really?”
“Sorry,” she said.
“Mind if I set it up? I’ll pay all the fees and costs and whatever.”
“You’re only going to be here a few months,” she said, although he’d paid her for six. And twice the amount she’d stated. “Aren’t you used to living without it?”
He walked into the house, maneuvering through doorways, and carried his end over to the only empty space in the room—where the desk used to be. They set it down at the same time, straightened, and stared at each other.
“If you have some kind of moral problem with me watching TV,” he said, “maybe we should rethink this arrangement.”
“I don’t have—” She wiped her hands together. The box, new or not, had been dusty, just as he’d warned. “Watch whatever you want. But if you set up cable or a dish, don’t get me locked into a long-term contract or anything. I’m on a budget. Try streaming over the internet like I do. The Wi-Fi password is in the little binder on the dresser.” She’d filled it with all kinds of useful information, even street-cleaning days, when she’d been anticipating Airbnb guests.
“Sports are on cable. The Whitmans don’t pay you enough to cover cable?”
“Don’t bring your brother into this.”
“I’m not.” He began opening the box. “I was bringing my grandfather into this. The old cheapskate.”
“The firm pays me plenty.” Again, she hoped they would continue to do so. “I’d love a raise, of course, but I’m very happy there.” She pointed at him. “Very. Happy.”
“But you’d love a raise.”
“Maybe we should rethink this arrangement,” she said grimly.
He burst out laughing. “Are you kidding? I haven’t had this much fun in months.” Still chuckling, he pulled out a block of foam packaging, then caressed the shiny black plastic of his consumer electronic device. “Maybe we should agree to keep everything between us. Not a word to my brothers.”
“I only know one of your brothers, and I never talk to Troy about anything except work.”
“That’s really sad. Never?”
“Why is it sad?”
“Troy’s pretty cool. You should talk to him sometime.”
“You were just saying not to talk to him.”
“About me. But you should talk to him about England. He’s really into English shit.”
“Like Miss Marple?”
He gave her a withering look. “Like William the Conqueror and Vikings and Saxons and what have you,” he said. “Caught the virus from my grandfather. Didn’t you see the suits of armor at the house?”
“I was too busy getting fired.”
Grant frowned. “Hopefully that’ll get cleared up.”
“Hopefully,” she said feelingly. “I think we’d better stick to work talk.”
“Suit yourself. Just don’t talk about me,” he said.
“Of course not,” she said. Getting personal would only make her job situation more complicated.
“Absolutely. I’m glad we’re on the same page. So when Troy corners you near the watercooler and asks how my book’s going, you’re not going to say a word.”
“Unless my job gets reinstated, I won’t be anywhere near the watercooler.”
“Assuming it does.”
“Then I’ll be too busy working to chat at the watercooler with anyone,” she said. “How would I know how it’s going anyway?”
“You might see clues.”
“Clues?”
He licked his lips, looking around the room. “Maybe we don’t have to worry about that. I have a good feeling about this room. I’m going to be a writing machine.”
“I noticed you took out the desk. Where did you put it, by the way?”
“It’s under the bed. I took out the screws and the dowels. They’re around here somewhere.”
She stifled a groan. Particleboard furniture never reassembled well. “Before you flatten any of the other furnishings, will you let me know? I can move things to other rooms in the house.”
“Just kidding about the desk. It’s in the garage.”
“Why did you lie?”
“I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Something about you makes me want to ruffle your feathers.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re so…”
She crossed her arms over her chest and waited.
“Not Mary Poppins,” he continued, “but someone like that. Put together. Anal. Perfect.”
“You’re still hurting about the Grizzly Adams thing.”
“Maybe a little,” he admitted.
6
Grant waited until he heard her footsteps at the other end of the house before letting out his breath.
What was he doing? Not only was she not his type, she was a Whitman employee and his temporary landlord. And Troy would kill him. He was already annoyed.
Told you to TALK to her, not MOVE IN with her, Troy had texted an hour earlier, adding a screaming-guy emoticon and several totally extraneous exclamation marks.
Paid up front. Covers her mortgage and buys some time to wait for you to grow a pair.
Radio silence after that. Grant took that as tacit agreement that his plan was a good one. For everybody.
He looked at his laptop bag, wedged between the bed and a case of trail mix. It had been three days since he’d even glanced at his email. When he finally sat down and checked in with his editor and agent, the reunion wouldn’t be pretty.
Everything he did other than writing was an act of desperate, pathetic procrastination.
And that included a clean-cut babe with warm brown eyes. In fact, she was at the top of the list. It was a long list that included sports, politics, literature, technology, current events, friendship, family, exercise, sleep, eating, and breathing.
He had to write. All day, all the time, until it was done. His grandfather was just waiting to see him fail. Just as his father had failed, according to the old man.
Not according to Grant. His dad had lived life on his own terms, a creati
ve, loving life, and Grant wanted nothing more than to be just like him. Except for the part about dying in the prime of life in a car accident. He could do without that.
After he’d gone outside to lock up the Rover, he settled on the bed with his laptop, a bag of trail mix from the case, and a bottle of water he’d filled from the filtered water pitcher Jane had provided. The house was quiet, his room lit by the evening sun. Not very optimistically, he began to write.
And two hours later, he’d more than doubled the pages in his manuscript.
“Holy shit,” he said aloud, gaping at the word-count tally on his screen. The chapter that had bogged him down for months was now done. He wrote creative nonfiction, so it wasn’t just a matter of describing the road to the trailhead, the campsites, the geography. Other hikers, store clerks, park rangers, hunters, locals, and even friends populated his stories. Some chapters were told from a shy black bear’s point of view. Some were from his father’s. Some were even his own.
If he hadn’t been born into a wealthy family, it wouldn’t have been possible to create the life he had, and he was always reminding himself how lucky he was. Although he lived off his writing—and teaching writing—pure luck had made that first book such a best seller. He’d only been able to take the time to write it because of the money his father had given him.
Not his grandfather. He’d refused to take money from the man who’d disinherited his own son just because he hadn’t joined the family firm. Grant felt it was his responsibility not to go back to his grandfather and grovel for cash, which would prove that his father had made a mistake forty years ago in carving out his own life. Grant’s failure would reflect badly on his father’s memory. And Grant couldn’t live with himself if he let that happen.
But he was feeling pretty damn happy now. He couldn’t stop staring at the word-count window on the screen. The room had grown dark around him, lit only by his laptop and the streetlights outside. He could hear footsteps on the other side of the house, music, talking, maybe a TV. Except she didn’t have cable, so maybe she was watching a VHS tape from the late 1990s.
Going Wild Page 4
