Let him know when I’m ready?
My head is spinning with those words that I don’t understand.
I watch him walk away, and then he’s gone, but he’s made sure I will think about him. But will I be ready when I see him again?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The charity Drive Sober and Safely is run from a small office space next to a Starbucks. It doesn’t get much better than that.
I arrive to the meeting just in time, and I’m instantly greeted by a warm smile and a handshake from Millie Roberts, the charity’s president. Millie appears to be thirty-something, quite stylish in a cream-colored tailored dress, with a mass of red curls spiraling to her shoulders.
We quickly move from the lobby to her office, sitting at a small, round conference table, and her eagerness and relief over my involvement all but vibrates from her. “We’re really counting on this event for next year’s funding. Dash told me about your experience and position at Riptide. It’s such a relief to have you involved.”
“I’m glad I can help and motivate,” I say. “Honestly, it’s almost as if it was meant to be. I’m here for just the right amount of time to get this done. And I’m passionate about making a difference. Tell me what I need to know.”
“Absolutely,” she says. “We’re lucky to have you.” She then launches into a great deal of information about who they are and what they do, which helps me to help her. She finishes with, “This is personal to me. My sister died in a car accident. A drunk driver hit her head-on. She was coming over a hill. She never saw it coming. So tell me, please. What can I do for you?”
My heart squeezes and I, in turn, squeeze her hand. “I won’t say I’m sorry. I know you hear that all the time, but my mother just recovered from cancer. That’s why I’m here. In some way, I hope my fear of losing her helps me help the cause.”
Her eyes soften. “I do believe it will and I’m so thankful that she recovered.”
“Me, too,” I say, “but I don’t really feel like she has, and she needs me to see her as whole again. This project is going to help me do that.” I swallow the lump in my throat and say, “The biggest challenge right now is the fact that not much has been done, and time is crucial. If you can call your reliable donors and ask for support, that would help.”
“I have some high-profile donors,” she says. “Of course, we do, but I feel like they might open their wallets for you, with your Riptide association.”
“I don’t have a problem calling them,” I say, “and frankly, it could be good for Riptide to make that connection, but I need to know what you know about each of them first. Would you have time soon to go over that with me? Maybe we can do coffee tomorrow for just that purpose? There’s a little bookshop a few blocks down that has the best cupcakes ever.”
“Oh my God, yes. Cupcakes and Books. Such a simple name and such a sweet place. Can you do late afternoon, like three o’clock?”
“It’s a date,” I say. “Three o’clock.”
***
A few minutes later, I’m outside, in what is turning into a rather chilly day. I huddle into my jacket, and with lots of time before my meeting, I head toward one of my favorite places in the neighborhood: Cupcakes and Books. Only a short walk later, I enter the double wood and glass doors with bells chiming. I really love those bells—they remind me of home.
Nashville really is home. New York never became that to me.
With a smile, my eyes devour the rows of books, while my nose delights at the scent of cupcakes and coffee. Back in the day, when I’d dreamed of being an editor, I’d come here often. One of my favorite things had been to cozy up at a table with coffee, cupcakes, and my work. I’d break to wander around the book aisles and try to resist buying everything in sight.
Eager to feel that nostalgia to the fullest extent, today I will lunch on cupcakes, books, and coffee. I cut right, toward the bakery area, passing under the arched doorway, only to stop dead in my tracks at what I discover, my heart thundering in my chest.
Dash Black is here and he’s sitting at my favorite nook of a corner table.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dash’s MacBook is open in front of him. The best cupcake in the house, the chocolate on white, is sitting next to him. Beside the cupcake is a steaming cup of coffee in one of the large oval mugs that come in a variety of colors with just the right weight to the hand. His mug is white. I prefer the red. I ask for the red, as silly as that may sound to some, but it’s part of the experience of being here for me. His blazer is hanging on his chair, his navy sweater fitted snugly to what is most definitely now confirmed to be a perfect chest, the kind only achieved with hard work and good genetics.
And good Lord, I’m just standing here staring at him.
Like a fangirl stalker.
Appalled at myself, I back out of the bakery and quickly rush away, cutting down one of my favorite book aisles, and Lord help me yet again, I stop right in front of the Dash Black section. What would I be like if I really was stalking the man? I draw in a breath and will my heart to calm down.
“Why’d you run away?”
At the sound of Dash’s voice, I whirl around to find him standing right in front of me, so damn tall and perfect, so stylish, in a masculine perfection kind of way, that it’s really quite overwhelming. He’s overwhelming and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad right about now.
“Hi,” I say because apparently, that’s the only word I know right now. I’ve never been a pro at the whole man meets woman thing, as proven by my romantic history, but it’s just getting worse. So much worse.
“Why’d you run away, Allie?” he asks.
“I didn’t run away.”
He arches a brow and I hold up my hands and quickly add, “Okay. I saw you, but I didn’t want to intrude on your private space or creative time. If there’s one thing I can appreciate, it’s the need for quiet to concentrate on a book.”
He props a shoulder on the divider between two bookshelves. “You weren’t interrupting.”
“I wanted to respect your space.” I motion to the shelf to my right. “Somehow I ended up right next to your books.” I reach for a title and manage to grab the one I edited. “The whipped cream was hilarious, by the way.” It’s a reference to a scene where Ghost is about to assassinate someone and they shoot whipped cream in his face. It’s about the only thing that ever stopped the deadly killer and Dash executed Ghost’s reaction to perfection.
“That really happened,” he says. “Not to Ghost, but to me.”
“You’re kidding.” I’m smiling now and thrilled to have a little glimpse into his writing world. “It happened to you?”
“Yeah,” he confirms. “I went to arrest a woman and she sprayed me with whipped cream. I reacted about like Ghost. It was a ‘what the fuck?’ kind of moment.”
I laugh. “Definitely not what anyone would expect. And Ghost just licked the whipped cream and kept moving. Did you?”
Now he laughs. “No. Most definitely not. I was not as agile on my feet as Ghost. She got away and I looked foolish. But that’s the fun part of writing him. He can be everything I’m not.”
I’m charmed by his ability to laugh at himself, probably more so because I’ve worked with enough authors to know that many cannot. Especially those in the big league, as Dash most certainly is in his career.
“It was perfect,” I say. “It really was. And so many of the reviews talked about that scene. It made Ghost human. That’s where your talent is. You have a Dexter thing going on. You make us root for someone we probably shouldn’t root for, and as a former editor and reader, I respect that skill.” I hold my hands up again. “And I’m not just saying that. Believe me, I’ve had books I edited I didn’t truly love. And I certainly did ramble on about loving them.”
“Did you say you didn’t love them?”
“Not to the author, and that’s not out of a lack of courage. Editing isn’t always about the books you like as an editor. Sometimes it’s ab
out books that will speak to other people, like a different item on the dinner menu.”
He grimaces. “I don’t think anybody is going to like the book I’m working on now.”
“Said every author while writing their current work.”
“No,” he says. “I’m not normally this off when I’m writing.” He scrubs his jaw and then studies me. “I never let anyone read my work while I’m writing, but maybe you can do it? Just tell me what you think is off.”
“I’d be very intimidated to do that. And besides, I don’t think you should change your process. If you don’t let people read, don’t start now.” The seriousness of my advice is overshadowed by a loud grumble from my stomach.
Heat rushes to my cheeks and Dash laughs, motioning toward the bakery. “Sounds like you need a cupcake. Want to have it with me?”
“I would love to have a cupcake with you and a coffee in one of those mugs you have on your table. I love those mugs and everything about this place. I used to come here when I was in college to study.”
“I found it when I moved to the neighborhood a few years ago,” he says. “I’ve actually written a good part of several books sitting at the table I’m saving for us now.” He motions me forward. “Let’s go get you a cupcake and coffee,” he adds and there is warmth in his eyes, and a warmth between us that is as intriguing as the man.
I don’t know what this is between me and Dash Black, perhaps nothing but friendship, but whatever it is, cupcakes and him are too much to resist. Perhaps too much for my own good, but I can’t seem to care right now. Dash Black intrigues me, he excites me, and I haven’t felt those things in a very long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dash and I enter the bakery side by side to be greeted by Jackson Summer, the owner of the establishment. Jackson is fifty-something, a tall, distinguished-looking Black man with a neatly trimmed beard, and a friendly smile. His voice and eyes are warm as they land on me. “There’s my girl,” he greets, pulling me into a full-on bear hug. “How you been, babe?”
Jackson calls everyone babe, including men, but somehow it works for him and makes us all feel like his special guests.
“Good,” I say. “It feels good to be back here. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, it has,” he says, motioning to Dash. “You his editor or something?”
“More like he’s my cupcake companion for now,” I say. “Your cupcakes are yummy. Cupcakes and his books together are the best. I’m a lucky girl.”
“I’m working on getting her to read the piece of shit I’m writing right now,” Dash says grumpily. “It just won’t come together.”
Jackson offers a knowing look and leans in close to me with a conspiratorial, not-so-quiet whisper, “He thinks they’re all shit. I’ve never heard him say a book was good until after it releases. Even then,” he scratches his jaw, “I’m not sure he’s ever said his books are good.”
“That’s not true,” Dash argues. “I’m just trying to do Ghost justice.”
Jackson winks at me and pats Dash’s arm. “I love this guy. Ghost is as real as you and me to him. The way he frets, it’s almost as if he’s afraid Ghost is going to shoot him if he doesn’t write the book as he’d want it.” He glances at me. “You’d never know he’s a superstar, now would you?” He doesn’t wait for my reply, adding, “Black and white cupcake with a cinnamon dolce latte in a red cup?”
I pep up. “Yes, please.”
“Don’t tell me you’re doing that thing you do and skipping lunch to eat a cupcake?”
“It’s a trade-off,” I say. “And the cupcakes are worth it. So is the coffee.”
He scowls at me over his nose. “I’m bringing you a sandwich, too. On the house.” He hurries away.
“I think we’re both in trouble,” Dash laughs, doing a little head lean toward the table.
“I do believe we are,” I say, as the two of us claim our seats and I slide out of my coat.
It’s a small space and I’m right across from him, his computer between us.
He shuts the lid and sets it aside.
“See now,” I chide, “you’re not going to make your word count with your computer shut.”
“How did it go with Millie?”
“Excellent,” I say. “I like her. I want to help. She asked me to call some of the donors that have helped them out in the past. She thinks my connection to Riptide will help. I’m actually meeting her tomorrow to go through the list.”
“I’ll help,” he says. “I can split the list up with you.”
“You don’t have to do that, Dash.”
“I want this to go well, and you’ve been thrown into this with a limited amount of time to spare.”
“Well, that’s true,” I say, “but I’m not in panic mode. Katie is mine full time until the event is over. I have some help at Riptide. It’s all going to work out. And who knows, maybe the real Allison will show up and we can finish this together.”
“You think Allison is coming back?”
“You don’t?” I ask.
“I don’t really know. I barely know Allison, but from what my sister told me, she was here one day and gone the next. I’m surprised Tyler would let her come back.”
“Katie seems to think he was holding off on hiring for her return. It’s just lucky that our paths crossed when they did. It’s a little strange. You know I’m moving into the house she was living in?”
He arches a brow. “You’re moving into her house? How does that work?”
“I guess it’s a place Tyler owns and it has to be occupied to have insurance to cover the wine cellar. So when she left, she really left. She moved out.”
“And now you’re moving in,” he states and it’s not a question. There’s a sense of disapproval in his tone, a shuttering of his features.
“Don’t say it like that,” I push back.
“I don’t think I said much of anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” I say. “It’s in your eyes.” I lean in closer. “It’s not like Tyler is living there.”
“I didn’t say anything, Allison.”
Allison again. Not Allie. He’s unhappy and I’m confused. Illogically, I feel like I need to explain myself. I lean in closer. “My mom wants me to act like her cancer never existed. This is the best way for me to give her space and not leave town. I still have rent in New York City. This lets me leave her pool house with no expense. And as a bonus, I have this charity event to keep me busy and out of her business and my own fear. It’s all kind of perfect.” With that, I realize that I’ve bared my soul to this man more than any other person in a very long time, including the man I was engaged to. I don’t know what I’m doing. He probably thinks I’m a lunatic. I ease back into my chair. “Don’t judge me,” I say, and it’s rather defensive. God, I’m losing it.
His eyes—those crystal, intelligent blue eyes—study me for several long beats before he says, “I’m not judging you.” He leans in closer. “I’m glad you’re here, Allie.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I’ve never been to one of those striking ocean cities where you stare out at water of brilliant blues and greens, all the while wondering if there is another magical world beneath that beauty. But I suspect it’s a lot like looking into Dash Black’s eyes.
For long seconds, I’m just spellbound, lost in his gaze, awash in the richness of his presence, aware of him in ways I wasn’t sure I would ever be capable of with a man again. But I also admire him. His ease with himself, his air of confidence, of knowing who and what he is, and I envy that in him. I’m more a small little fish in the ocean he owns, swimming here and there, trying to find my own little pond. I’m not sure why I’m so lost, maybe because of my mother, or maybe it’s deeper, about me, but there is no denying, I am right now.
“I’m glad to be here,” I say softly and once again drive home where my heart is right now. “I meant it when I said, it feels meant to be, like I’m at the right time and the right place.�
�
A ham and cheese croissant and a soda are set in front of me and I glance up to find Jackson’s wife standing beside and above me. I beam and pop to my feet. “Adrianna!” I greet her, giving her a big hug. “So good to see you.” I give her boots, sweater, and jeans a once over—all worn with style to die for—and add, “You’re as gorgeous as ever.” Which is true. Adrianna is tall, which means she doesn’t have short legs like me, with striking model-worthy cheekbones, long full hair, and the most beautiful skin.
“Says the gorgeous girl herself,” she replies, “and thank you. I’m so happy you’re here. Your mom hasn’t been in forever. We have to lure her back to the sweet spot. Should I send her cupcakes?”
There’s a pinch in my chest at the mention of my mother, but I push past it and say, “She’d love that, but she’s off on a vacation with my step-father right now. When she gets back, I’ll bring her in.”
“Excellent,” she approves. “She and I need to catch up.” She waves at Dash.
“Hi, Adrianna,” he says warmly.
“Write that damn book,” she orders him, and then to me, she points at the table. “Eat. You’re skinny. I remember you having more meat on your bones. You have room to grow, I promise honey. I’ll bring your coffee and cupcake here in just a few minutes.” She starts to turn and I catch her arm. “I distracted Dash. I made his coffee get cold. Can you bring him another on me?”
She glances at him and then me. “It’s on the house.” She winks and rushes away.
I settle back down into my seat and say, “Write the damn book. I’ll eat in silence.”
“Read it and tell me what’s wrong.”
“No,” I say. “That’s a mistake. Follow your process. Why break it for me?”
“How many people could I ask, that have the skills and knowledge of the book, to be able to do this for me?”
I lean forward. “You know how to write a book. I can’t tell you that. If it’s not magic, go back to the beginning and start there. You’ll figure out what’s wrong.” I pick up my fork and cut a bite of the sandwich, “Have you tried these? They’re so good.”
What If I Never Page 8
