She'd hated cauliflower.
But he wondered if maybe he could get away with a cauliflower pizza crust. Covered in pasta sauce, cheese, and veggies, she likely wouldn't even notice it.
Maybe he'd keep it a secret until she devoured it, though he knew she wasn't a fan of being deceived, even in small ways.
So he would tell her after the first bite.
She'd forgive him that.
And then she'd be proud to admit there was yet another vegetable she enjoyed.
It was an odd little mission of his, to get her to like as many as possible. To get her into healthier eating without feeling like she'd been deprived of something.
He wasn't expecting her to show up early, she'd been a bit busy the past few days. He found himself missing having her there in the shop, scoffing or laughing or sighing while she read, pulling out little color-coated tabs to mark her favorite passages, favorite quotes.
She'd said the other day that she had a wall in her office covered in all her favorite pages or passages of books because she found them inspiring, motivating.
Motivating for what, he wasn't sure.
She still evaded when talking about her job, something that he was growing impatient with.
He couldn't imagine why she would feel she needed to keep that a secret.
What could she possibly do that could require so much secrecy?
Especially when she said she worked with books in some way.
What could she do?
Have a webcam show half-naked while she read aloud or some shit?
Even that, he wouldn't be upset about per se.
Maybe it would bring out a bit of jealousy he wasn't sure until the thought struck that he was capable of.
But, hey, people needed to pay bills.
He couldn't begrudge her a living.
But he did want some truth from her, whatever it was.
Maybe he didn't have the right to demand that.
He wasn't her boyfriend, not technically.
They'd never had any kind of talk about the situation, about the possible future.
Because maybe there was no future.
His gut knotted whenever he thought that, thought that she was going to eventually want to leave, go back to her own life, forget all about him, that small-town fling she once had while getting away from the big, bad city for a while. He'd become a tale to tell over drinks to new friends.
His spit went bitter at the very idea.
She seemed to like Stars Landing. She talked about Dev and Meggie and Em all the time, laughed about how Dane was acting weird about the new designer, even if he wouldn't admit it. She raved about the market when she had happened in to stock up on junk food. She loved the bar, the diner, the general small-town ambiance. She said it with surprise in her voice, like she had never expected to like a place with no takeaway where all the stores closed early, where everyone knew everyone else's business.
She'd never imagined herself in a place like this. She never knew that she could feel like she possibly belonged.
But the town had embraced her, had opened their arms, welcomed her within.
They had made her feel at home.
And he was glad for that, appreciative even. Because, while he didn't feel ready to admit it yet, he was holding out hope that she would feel that way, that she would begin to think of this place as her home, these people as her people, her giant extended family.
He didn't know how long he had left to tell her that he, well, wasn't ready to let her go. He wasn't even sure how to broach a topic like that. He'd imagined it as many different ways as he could, each time giving a different reaction to her since, as a whole, the woman was unpredictable, you never knew what you were going to get from her.
But none of the approaches he imagined felt right.
He would have to feel her out over dinner, get an idea of her mood, go from there.
The door opened and closed quietly, signaling it was most likely not Riley who had a tendency to announce her presence even just by moving around a bit more loudly than others.
He tried to shake his wayward thoughts, brewing a new pot of coffee for whoever was browsing the stacks, grabbing his book, trying to keep his mind occupied. There would be time to think about all this stuff later. After he had sussed out her mood.
It would do no good to be overly prepared. It would only make him come off rehearsed. Which would seem ingenuine.
She deserved better than that.
Then the door flew open and Riley was storming in.
He scanned his mind, trying to think of any possible way he might have pissed her off - from disliking her new favorite book to her finding out he had put his own color-coded tabs in one of her books to indicate his favorite parts.
But he came up blank.
But there was no denying she was angry.
No.
Not just angry.
Angry was a weak synonym.
It didn't come close to describing the towering inferno of rage that used to be Riley.
And, what's more, it wasn't just the anger.
Oh, no.
There was no mistaken the swollen eyelids, the red eyes, the streaks down her cheeks.
She'd been crying.
And while Riley was comfortable with all her range of varied and passionate emotions, he got the feeling that sadness, and especially tears, were not something she felt or showed often.
So if something had gotten her crying, it had to be big.
And, he realized as she started tossing books, whacking him in the head once, her sadness, her crying, clearly had a lot to do with him.
She stormed out, leaving him stunned in place.
What the hell do you want, Riley?
What the hell was that?
He should have tried to console her or something.
He just... he wasn't used to women being emotional or enraged around him.
He had no idea how to react. He thought maybe by being cool it would bank her fire.
He had clearly misjudged.
After dealing with the woman in the store who had witnessed it all - Cordelia, the woman redecorating the inn that he had heard Riley speak of a few times in passing - he left the store, left it open, left it unattended.
First, because no one in town would steal from him.
Second, because even if some passer-through got the idea, someone in town would notice someone hauling out with a stack of books or his coffee machine. You couldn't spit in a small town without everyone knowing about it.
So he tore down the road toward the inn, almost colliding with Devon's body as he moved out from behind the desk in a flash, blocking the staircase.
"No."
"Not this again," he growled.
"It's one thing for you to have a tiff. It's another for her to come in here hysterical. No."
"You have no idea what is going on. Hell, I have no idea what is going on. So get the fuck out of my way so I can see about fixing it."
Devon looked like he was weighing the options, unsure which way to go.
"Hey, she doesn't have to let him in," Meggie's voice reasoned, carrying a coffee cup in her hands. "Let her make the decision, Dev. This is her place."
The air whooshed out of Devon's chest as he took a step to the side. "Fine, but if you hurt her, I will beat your ass myself."
"Listen to him," Em's voice broke in. "He's scrappy," she added which made all of them chuckle with some kind of inside joke he wasn't privy to and didn't give a fuck about since all he knew was that the to-go cup in Meggie's hands was likely for Riley. And he needed to try to defuse the bomb that was her mood before she left the explosion of it blast her right back to the city.
As soon as Devon was out of the way completely, he tore up the stairs two at a time, his stomach in a knot, his chest thrumming with an unhealthy heartbeat.
He moved in front of her door just as it was opening, making her rear back with a shriek, not expecting him there.
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But of course he was there.
Where the hell else would he be?
"What is going on?"
"Go," she demanded, voice soft, but firm at the same time, a mix of defeated but steadfast.
Defeated.
Even as the word settled like a stone in his stomach, he realized that was how she looked too.
Her eyes were twice the size they had been when she was in the store, bloodshot, her cheeks tear-stained. Her clothes were the ultimate of 'fuck-it,' oversized and comfortable. Her wet hair was left down to dry.
And there were bags in her hands, on her shoulders.
"Don't run away," he demanded in a tone laced with worry and longing. He wondered if she could even hear it over her obvious resoluteness.
"It's not running away when I don't live here."
He didn't say what he wanted to say to that. But you could live here. With me.
Instead, his hand reached out, lifting the too-heavy bag from her arm, full of books, making the muscles in her bicep shake.
"Why are you pissed at me? What did I do?"
"You hate my books," she told him in a voice crushed small by emotion.
"You're seriously still on this? What does it matter if I think The Perks of Being A Wallflower is overrated?"
"No, not those books," she said, tone frustrated like he was supposed to understand something that he clearly didn't. "My books."
"Okay," he agreed, sensing this was important though he still didn't understand. "I don't know what books you're talking about, Riley."
"Anais and Me, The Light that Breaks, and To Kill a Queen."
He knew those books.
Of course he did.
He had eviscerated them in reviews, though he was clearly in the minority with his opinions, something that never really bothered him. Everyone liked their cups of tea in different ways.
But Riley had never even talked about those books.
Then just like that, an image flashed through his mind, fresh as the night it had taken place.
Riley in his bed, drunk, fast asleep, mumbling while she dreamed.
About killing a queen.
R. A. Barry.
Riley Anne - which she had told him was her middle name several nights before - Barry.
Riley wrote the books he had hated.
And not just hated in silence.
No, he had let the whole world know.
He had let her know.
There was a distinct sensation of getting kicked in his stomach, knocking out his air.
Maybe that was why when he spoke his voice was breathless. "Riley..."
"You hate my books. And I hated you. But more than that, I hated myself because of you," she snapped, whirling away, throwing her purse at the wall. She was trying, he thought, not to cry by pretending to hold onto her anger instead.
"Okay," Liam said quietly, moving into the room, closing the door with a quiet click, settle her bag of books on the floor. "Let's talk about this," he suggested
"What is there to talk about? You hate my books. You think every word I have written has made you dumber. That was the phrase, right?" she asked, tossing the other bags off her shoulders. "And anyone who told me to write needs to have their jaw wired shut."
He felt the sting of those words then, having never considered them before, having no attachment to the person he wrote them about.
Would he ever be able to tell Riley, his Riley, to her face that she had no talent, that anyone who told her so was an idiot, that she should reconsider her career choices.
No.
In fact, he wasn't sure he could say that to anyone's face in person.
But he'd said it about her.
He'd made her doubt herself.
"Are you going to try to tell me you didn't mean what you said?" she shot at him, frustrated by his silence, by his inability to give her something to rage about. "Because you meant it. You meant it three books in a row."
His head ducked, his hand raising to rub the back of his neck, unsure how to navigate this. For a woman who valued honesty, he knew lying wasn't a path he could take. Not if he ever wanted her to trust him again.
"Does it matter that I don't like your books? I don't like a lot of books. I don't like some of your favorite books."
"Sure, but I'm not Gillian Flynn or Stephen Chbosky. My identity isn't wrapped up in those books. It is wrapped up in the ones I wrote though."
"Why?"
"What do you mean Why? Because all I have ever wanted to do, wanted to be since I was a little girl was an author. It is... it's everything."
"I didn't mean why did you want to be an author, Riley. I mean why are you writing historical fiction."
"I love historical fiction."
"That's not an answer," he insisted, moving over to sit off the end of her bed, trying not to get distracted by the way he could smell her everywhere in this room. "Do you write it because you love writing historical fiction, or because you think it is what you're supposed to be writing? Because, if you want honest, you want to hash this out, what I felt the most in your books was you trying too hard, pandering to tropes because that is what is expected, borrowing from Gregory and Follett and Gabaldon."
"You're saying I'm a copycat?" she seethed, turning to glare at me, her back pressed against the wall across from me.
"I'm saying you are mashing their styles instead of finding your own. And, to be fair, Ry, I don't think I would feel the same way about your books if you wrote something else, wrote anything else. Wrote what set you on fire, not what you thought was high-brow enough, what the market may want. If you didn't give a fuck about what anyone thought about you for what you chose to write, what would you write?"
"Space opera," she admitted automatically, shaking her head at herself, not able even to make eye contact after the admission.
"And what's wrong with space opera? You love space opera. What does it matter what you write so long as you enjoy it?" he asked, watching as some of the anger fell from her body, washing through and out her feet like flood waters.
"Who's to say you would think any different of my work if it was a space opera instead of a historical fiction?"
"Why does my opinion matter so much?" To that, she scoffed, her cheeks heating a little. "Not now," he clarified. "Then. Back then. Why did my one review matter so much when so many others - most of the others - loved your stories?"
"You picked dozens of passages and told me what was wrong with them. You went into painstaking detail about why I sucked, Liam. Not everyone is going to love my work. I get that. That comes with the territory. Yours are not the only one-star reviews I have gotten. But yours were the cruelest."
Cruel.
That word stabbed through his chest.
Because she wasn't exactly wrong.
He had been cruel, cutthroat, unnecessarily brutal in his reviews.
Why?
He wasn't even sure.
He'd read worse books, had simply marked them as DNF or read-but-wish-I-hadn't and moved on. No written review. No mean-spirited put-downs.
"I think it's because there... there's talent there, Riley. You just... stifle it by writing the wrong things."
"Don't try to placate me just because you like sleeping with me," she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. "Nothing, not one single line in any of your reviews said that you thought I had potential."
"I think I said something about a unique voice."
"That should be stifled!"
Shit.
She knew every word.
"And then something about until it stops copying others," he said.
"I didn't copy anyone!"
"You know what I meant, Riley. If you read too much of one author, or too much of one genre, your voice becomes a mash-up of those authors voices. That was what happened with you with historical fiction."
"Your logic is flawed. I read everything."
"Compared to historical fiction, how many space operas ha
ve you read? A third? A fifth?"
"A tenth," she estimated.
"You could try it," he suggested.
"To please you?" she shot back, tone snippy.
"To please yourself. You get to build a world from the ground up. I think you'd be good at that. You have a great brain, Riley. Too good to be using someone else's world." She said nothing to that, looking down at the tips of her shoes. "That's why you came to Stars Landing, right? To track me down."
"I thought you were a crotchety old lady with milky eyes."
"Imagine your disappointment," he drawled with a smile.
"I shouldn't have gotten involved with you," she mumbled, shaking her head at herself, at her lack of self-control.
"You don't mean that."
"What idiot gets involved with someone who made her want to give up her dream?"
"You gave me too much power, Ry," he said, catching her eyes when her head shot up, eyes sparking.
"Gee, I'm sorry if I am a little sensitive to someone tearing apart my passion. How silly of me to have a heart that got stomped on."
"Ego."
"Excuse me?"
"You had an ego that got stomped on," he corrected her. "You know, back in the day, it was said that artists had a genius. Not that they were a genius. So when their work wasn't perfect, they blamed their genius, this external force that gave them the ideas, that showed them how to execute them. Only when we started changing the vernacular by saying an artist is a genius did we start having issues with them drinking and drugging themselves to death over their work. And the responses toward their work."
"Thanks for the history lesson. But we, unfortunately, don't live in that time."
"When you get an idea, what does it feel like? Does it feel like you are sitting there making it all up?"
"No," she objected immediately. "It's like.. it's like it..."
"Comes to you," he finished for her.
"Yes."
"Would it be so wrong to say that is your genius? Maybe if you learned to externalize it, you wouldn't be so impacted by things - like people not liking it. Because it isn't that they aren't liking you. They are not liking it." He paused, let that sink in. "Maybe your genius will tell you a space opera next." When she still had no response, just a ducked head, eyes avoiding his. "Riley, I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
"I'm not sorry for not liking your books," he agreed. "But I'm sorry that by not liking it, I hurt you. That was never my intention."
What The Heart Learns Page 17
